A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! Or, if you don't celebrate Christmas, happy holidays! I figured I'd post a Christmas-themed story for Throne of Glass, so here it is: three Yulemas stories, one feat. Lil' Aelin & Aedion™, one slightly-sad one feat. Samlaena, and one feat. Rowaelin. (Because, while I am a diehard Rowaelin shipper, I also love Sam to bits and pieces.) Anyway, enjoy, and happy holidays, whether you celebrate Kwanzaa or Winter Solstice! :)
"Chocolate Cake, a Book of Poetry, and a Promise"
Yulemas #1
Chocolate Cake
Aelin stared at the candle intently, brows furrowed, trying to snuff out the flame with her mind.
The candle flickered a bit, sputtering and gasping. She perked up, ears pricking, but it was nothing more than a wayward breeze, a bit of winter chill slipping in through the cracked window. She slumped in her chair, scowling.
She'd been sent to her room an hour before—she'd thrown a hissy fit in the dining hall. Stupid Ren Allsbrook had been teasing her all that morning, pulling her pigtails and poking her in the back while nobody was looking. Aelin had tried to keep it under control, to count to ten in her head like her mother told her to, but she couldn't help it. Ren was just being so awful.
The flame had leapt from the candle on the table, jumping up three feet in the air. It hadn't done so much as scorch Ren's doublet, and even his grandfather admitted that he deserved it, but Aelin's mother was furious. She'd dragged Aelin by her ear all the way to her rooms with a stern order to stay where you are put or gods help me, and stalked out of her room, still muttering beneath her breath.
It'd taken all of three minutes for Aelin to yank on the doorknob, but no luck: her mother had locked her in, at least for the time being. On Yulemas, no less.
So Aelin had taken up residence on the rug on the floor, staring hard at the candle and trying to convince it to go out. Her parents were always shouting at her about control, control, control. They didn't seem to understand that it wasn't that simple for Aelin. She tried, she really did, but it never seemed to work.
She was sorry about Ren, though. A little.
Snick.
The doorknob turned, somehow unlocked, and the door opened a crack. "Aelin?" a voice whispered. "Are you there?"
Her face almost split with delight. "Aedion!" she shrieked, scrambling to her feet, her lesson in control with the candle all but forgotten.
"Shh," he said, shuffling in through the door, but it was halfhearted. He was wearing his Yulemas present from his father—a wooden sword—pinned at his hip.
Aelin almost pouted at the sight of it. She hadn't been allowed to open her Yulemas gifts yet.
"I stole the key while Aunt Evie wasn't looking," Aedion said with a grin. "We have to go quick, though."
"Go where?"
"The ball, of course."
Aelin drooped a bit, shoulders slumping. "I can't go to the ball."
"Why not?"
"I'm not dressed right."
"Sure you are."
She shook her head. She was only seven, but even she understood that Aedion, at twelve, simply failed to grasp the ins-and-outs of dressing properly. She couldn't go to the ball without her nursemaid there to get her dressed and do her hair. With faint longing, she thought about the pearls that Marion had promised to weave into her golden curls. Her mother had even said that she'd let Aelin wear a little rouge on her cheeks for the special occasion.
She felt sad. Stupid Ren Allsbrook. It was all his fault.
"Who says we have to dance, anyway?" Aedion said. He went over to her vanity table and picked up a fistful of colorful satin ribbons. "Here. Put these in your hair, and you'll fit right in."
"Aedion…"
"I promise you'll have fun. Cross my heart and hope to die." He held his hand solemnly over his chest.
She thought about her options. She could stay here for the whole night, staring at a candle, or she could go with Aedion.
Well. In the end, it wasn't much of a decision. It didn't look like she was going to get to wear pearls in her hair now anyhow.
"Okay," she said.
Aedion let out a muted whoop and handed her the ribbons. "Come on, let's go before someone catches us."
She took the bits and pieces of fabric and stared at them stupidly. "I don't know how to put these in my hair."
"What?"
"Marion always does that," Aelin explained.
Aedion shrugged. "Maybe they don't have to go in your hair."
Aelin frowned at him. "Aedion."
He took one of the ribbons—colored a pale, bright orange—and wrapped it twice around her wrist. "There," he said, satisfied. "See?"
"Like a bracelet," Aelin said, a little in awe.
"Right. And this one"—he took a dull, wine-colored ribbon and tied it around her index finger—"can be like a ring."
That was all it took. They became a frenzy of ribbon-wrapping. She looped ribbons around her ankles, her calves, her arms; even one around her neck like a choker. When she was finished, she supposed that she looked rather odd, but she felt pretty.
She twirled, and her ribbons spun with her, a vision in blues and yellows and greens, enough colors to bleed a rainbow. "Come on," she said, grinning wide. "Let's go to the ball."
Aedion unpinned the wooden sword from his side and began galloping ahead, his sword outstretched as if he were charging into battle. Aelin followed him into the hallway, giggling, and they sprinted down the corridor, the soles of their shoes slapping against the stone floors. They followed the sound of music and the smell of spilled mulled wine, laughing and shushing each other.
Aedion peeked around a corner and ducked back, sheltering Aelin behind him. "There it is," he breathed.
Aelin came up beside him, ignoring his outstretched hand. Before them was the hallway leading into the ballroom, marble-floored and dome-ceilinged. Ladies and lords wrapped in velvet and furs strode into the ballroom, elegant and refined, though a few were red-cheeked and bumbling. Behind the shelter of the corner, Aedion mimicked one noble that was particularly deep in his cups, stumbling around with an expression of befuddled stupor, and Aelin snickered.
"What are you guys doing?"
Both of them started and whirled, Aedion instinctively jumping in front of Aelin. Elide stood before them, her head cocked. She wore a nice dress, thought Aelin spitefully, colored a deep green with silver trim. Elide's hair was wound up in thick dark curls, pushed back with a pewter headband.
Aelin was so jealous she could spit.
"Nothing," Aedion said.
"Yeah, nothing," Aelin echoed, kicking the floor with the toe of her shoe.
"I thought you're supposed to be in your room," Elide said uncertainly.
"I am," Aelin said at the time Aedion said, "She isn't."
The three of them stared at each other for a long time, the details of the situation rapidly becoming more and more apparent by the second.
After a moment, Elide smiled shyly, putting her hands behind her back. "Don't worry. I won't tell."
Aelin and Aedion both blinked. They liked Elide, but she was quiet, and she was always a goody-two-shoes.
Aelin and Aedion were not goody-two-shoes. The two of them delighted in raising hell, not settling it.
"Promise," said Elide quickly. "Honest. I won't tell."
Aelin beamed. Maybe she'd underestimated the girl. She shot Aedion a look, and he knitted his brow, but Aelin had made up her mind.
"Hey, Elide," Aelin said. "Do you want to play with us tonight?"
"What?" Aedion said, but now it was Elide's turn to blink. She was clearly startled.
"Really?" Elide said. She looked so hopeful—her warm brown eyes had widened.
"I mean, only if you want to," Aelin said.
Elide's shy smile grew. "Thank you."
Aelin skipped forward and looped her arm around Elide's. Aedion was scowling a bit, but Aelin just stuck her tongue out at him. Elide had given them her silence, after all. She couldn't be completely horrid.
"Actually," Elide said tentatively, "I know a place where we could watch all the dancing. A secret place."
Aelin and Aedion exchanged glances, their attention snagged at the word secret. "Where?" they said in unison.
Elide led them up a flight of stairs, around a few twists and turns in the corridor, and to an abandoned hallway, a plain stone wall before them. The music was so loud that Aelin could almost hear every note perfectly, and she closed her eyes, swaying a bit. She adored music.
"How can we watch the dancing from in here?" Aedion asked.
"You'll see," said Elide mysteriously. She scooted over to the middle of the wall, her hands skimming over the stones. They were small and delicate, her hands; white and fair, unmarred by a life of hard work and grit.
Suddenly, without warning, she tugged a stone loose from the wall. The stone fell with a clatter at her feet. "See?" she said, her cheeks tinged with a proud blush. "A window." It was true: the wall opened up directly into the upper part of the ballroom.
Aedion and Aelin oohed and aahed appreciatively, coming to frame Elide's shoulders. They were high above most of the celebrations, and the dancers were nothing more than whirls of glimmering color below. Aelin could pick out her mother and father dancing, her mother resting her head on her father's shoulder.
The music filtered up, vibrant and lovely, and without warning, Aelin grabbed Aedion's hands. "Dance with me," she said.
Aedion didn't protest or question. He just swept her up in his arms, rather dramatically, sticking his sword back in his scabbard, and began to twirl about the deserted corridor with her. He picked her up off her feet, already at least a foot taller than she was, and swung her around in circles, both of them laughing.
Elide let out a wistful sigh and sat by the makeshift window, propping her chin in her hand and watching the Yulemas ball below.
Aelin and Aedion danced for a long while, and then Aelin extended a hand to Elide, pulling the smaller girl to her feet as well, and they swung in circles, the ribbons tied to Aelin's every orifice a deluge of color.
They danced all night, and when Aelin's feet hurt too much to stand on any more, they all slumped together beneath the window, curling up on the floor as if it were made of satin and not of stone.
At some point, as Aelin was about to nod off, Elide's head in her lap, Aelin's own head on her cousin's shoulder, Aedion dug something out of his pocket. "I almost forgot," he whispered.
Even the dance below had begun to wind down, and the music had stopped. Aelin's eyes fluttered open weakly. "What?" she croaked.
Aedion offered her a pastry, somewhat smushed. "I managed to get it from the kitchens before," he said.
Aelin took it and smiled, slowly. "Chocolate cake," she said. "My favorite."
"Sorry I sat on it."
"Doesn't matter," she said, unwrapping it. She popped a piece of cake into her mouth and offered a bit to Aedion, who swallowed it without even bothering to chew.
"Happy Yulemas, Aelin," Aedion said.
"Happy Yulemas, Aedion."
They were found like that in the morning by Rhoe and Evalin, who were unsurprised but concerned to hear about their daughter's disappearance from her rooms near the beginning of the ball. Evalin had intended to fetch Aelin after about an hour, figuring that a delayed celebration was punishment enough.
Aelin, it seemed, had other ideas.
"She's going to be a terror when she gets older," Evalin sighed, leaning back into Rhoe's familiar warmth. She shook her head at the picture: Aedion, Aelin, and Cal and Marion's daughter, who she'd half-hoped had more sense.
"Just like you were," Rhoe said, smiling as he kissed his wife's cheek.
"You were the terror," said Evalin, mildly indignant. "You were a bad influence on me." She shivered with pleasant warmth as Rhoe kissed her neck, his lips skimming her jaw.
"Don't pretend that you didn't like it," Rhoe rumbled.
Evalin half-laughed, half-groaned. "Can you imagine what she's going to be like when she gets older? She and Aedion might actually burn Orynth to the ground."
"We'll weather it together, you and me," Rhoe said, unconcerned. "Just like we always have."
"She'll need help," Evalin said, shaking her head.
"Lucky she has us, then," Rhoe murmured, wrapping his arms around Evalin's waist and pressing her closer to him. "I love you, Ev."
She smiled as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He was right. They would be there for her; they would help her. They would weather it the best they could, just as they always had.
"I love you too, Rhoe."
—
Yulemas #2
A Book of Poetry
Celaena gazed into the mirror and smiled with wicked delight. Her body had finally started to develop over the summer, and her breasts were showing promise at last. She wasn't curvy yet, but Celaena had hopes.
The dress that she'd gotten for Arobynn's Yulemas party was stunning: slimming and liquid silver, emphasizing and deemphasizing as needed. Growing up definitely had its perks, and fifteen would be a very good year for her, she could tell already. She adjusted the winking diamond pendant that fell in the slight hollow at her neck. It had been a Yulemas present from Arobynn. Celaena couldn't help but feel smug; Lysandra hadn't gotten a diamond pendant.
She dabbed her red lipstick slightly and bared her teeth, checking to make sure there were no flecks of maroon on her incisors. Perfect. Perfect, and ready.
The party had already started downstairs, the murmurs of assassins and thieves and courtiers drifting up through the floorboards. She was fifteen minutes late, but that was no fault of hers. One of her nails had broken. That had been a real crisis.
She stepped out of her bathroom, sauntering through her room and slipping her heels on her feet. For one of the first times in her life, Celaena felt… Grownup. Dangerous. Intoxicating.
She pulled open the door, shutting it with a soft click behind her. She swayed her hips, if only to test them out. Celaena loved that she was the kind of girl that had hips now.
A muffled cough sounded from behind her, and Celaena swiveled, hand already reaching for the daggers hidden in her sleeves.
But her apprehension faded as quickly as it had mounted. It was just Sam, buttoning up his doublet, probably on his way downstairs just like her. Of course she'd run into him here; of course she couldn't avoid him.
He was looking at her strangely, his cheeks dusted a faint pink. Celaena plopped her hand on her waist. "Something to say, Cortland?"
"Uh—no," he stammered. "No. I didn't say anything."
"That's what I thought." She snorted and adjusted her hair. "Why the hell are you up here, anyway? Don't you have anything better to do than lurk around?"
Some of the same arrogance seemed to snap back into him. "What are you doing up here?"
"Getting ready, of course."
"Well, so was I."
"But I'm a girl," Celaena said. "I have to shade my cleavage." Sam made a sound that might have been a sort of choke. Oh, yes. She liked this newfound curvy courage. "All you men have to do is rearrange your testicles."
"Rearrange our—Do you even know what you're talking about half the time, Sardothien?"
"Oh, that's right." Her lips pursed, and her gaze fell down to his crotch. "I forgot. Probably too small to bother rearranging. Well, there are pros to every situation."
Sam's cheeks were flaming. "Celaena, honestly."
"See you down at the party, Cortland," she said, sashaying down the steps and fluttering her fingers over her shoulder. "Ta-ta."
Behind her, Sam growled, but it was too late: she was already gone.
Celaena smiled. Tonight was going to be a good night; she could already tell.
She descended the staircase gracefully. The party was already in full swing; the string quartet and pianist in the corner were playing a waltz that fell on her ears like sugar on her tongue, and the guests were milling about, drinking champagne or dancing, slipping and sliding with fluid grace over the polished floor.
As soon as she stepped onto the plush red carpet, a familiar presence appeared by her elbow. "You look absolutely ravishing tonight, Celaena," Arobynn said into her ear, his arm linking with hers. "But you're late."
"I had a nail emergency," Celaena said, waving a hand. "I had to look my best."
He chuckled. "And you certainly do." His eyes slid up and down her form, and he smiled. He cocked his head toward the dance floor. "Go and play. There are some people here I'd like you to meet—I'll introduce you to them later." He moved away from Celaena, already going to greet new guests.
Her eyes flicked over the crowd as she surveyed it for possible opportunities. There was a dark-skinned boy over in the corner, in a gold doublet—he might do. And there was another, this one with sable hair. She accepted a glass of champagne from a silver tray and walked languidly to the side of a boy perhaps three or four years her senior with tawny eyes and a sleepy smile.
"Care to dance with me, darling?" she purred.
The boy glanced at her, did a double-take, and then grinned. "Don't mind if I do."
In the corner of her eye, Celaena was conscious of Sam taking up residence in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. Pompous prick—only he would linger at the sidelines during one of these parties.
She downed the rest of her champagne in one gulp, discarded it on a passing tray, and let the tawny-eyed boy lead her out to the dance floor.
—
Celaena downed one glass of champagne. Then another. Then another.
At some point, the party became a blur of dancing and shouting and laughing. Arobynn introduced her to prospective clients; she smiled and dazzled and charmed. Boys ran their hands up and down her waist, skimming her skin. She spun and twirled, and for a second, she almost—almost—remembered another Yulemas not so long ago, when it was not the skirt of her languid dress or her tumbling golden curls that trailed behind her, but ribbons.
She shut down that thought as soon as it surfaced.
The party began to wind down as dawn approached, and Celaena stumbled upstairs, in that uncomfortable place between drunk and hungover. Her hair, so carefully pinned hours before, now fell around her cheeks in matted tangles.
She leaned against the wall, pressing her cheek to the wallpaper. Gods, she was tired. She hadn't known it was possible to be this tired.
She slumped against the wall, half-sliding down. Maybe she'd just fall asleep on the floor. Sure, Tern and the rest would give her shit for it, but she was tired, dammit, and—
"Oh, gods."
Celaena closed her eyes and let out a feeble moan. "Go away, Sam."
There was no sound of receding footsteps. Sam sighed. "See, I can't do that. Not in good conscience. I can't just leave you here."
"Yes you can. Do it now."
"Ordinarily, I would, but I'm not about to abandon you to the lowlifes currently inhabiting this place. Even if it is in my best interest."
"See? Best interest. You admit it."
"Celaena."
"Leave me alone to die."
There was a sort of whooshing noise in her ears, and then she was flung over someone's shoulder. "Gods," Sam grunted. "You're heavier than you look."
"Flattering. Let me down, prick."
"Ah, such a lovely mouth on you."
"Fuck off. Let me down."
"I love how you swear even when you're seven sheets to the wind."
"I," Celaena said with great authority as Sam clambered up the stairs, "am not drunk."
He snorted.
"I'm serious!" she protested. "See how lucid and cher—cohi—coherent I am?"
"Oh, yes. You're very cherent."
"'S hard word to say. Don't judge."
"Me, judge? Never."
Celaena slumped against him. He was warm, anyway, and he was carrying her up flight after flight of stairs, even if he'd probably hold this over for as long as she lived. Whatever.
He finally came to her corridor and set her down before her door. She tripped over her own feet, almost faceplanting onto the floor. "You all right there?" he said, his lips quirking with something that might've been humor.
"You should've left me alone to die."
Sam's brows knit together. "Hey, where did that necklace you were wearing earlier go?"
Celaena's eyes flew open with clarity, and her hand connected with the bare skin of her throat. "Oh, shit," she said. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no."
Sam pressed a hand to his mouth. "I guess that's what happens when you keep the company of renowned jewel thieves."
"Not funny, Cortland." She let out a wail. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit."
"Hey, Celaena. It'll be alright."
"No, it won't," she said, something clotting in her throat. It wasn't that Arobynn would be angry—no, as much as she wished he'd care, he wouldn't.
That necklace was the only Yulemas present she'd gotten. Arobynn had been the only one to care enough to give her a gift.
Tears stung her eyes, and she turned away from Sam. "Just—go away, alright? It doesn't matter."
"Celaena. Arobynn will probably just laugh it off."
"It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
No. Drunk or not, Celaena was not about to expose her soul to Sam Cortland. No way in burning hell.
"Nothing. It's nothing."
"Oh, gods. Don't tell me you're a sad drunk."
"I told you, I'm not drunk."
Sam exhaled. "Look, Celaena—" He shuffled his feet. "I—"
"Spit it out, Cortland. Whatever insult you want to hurl my way, go ahead."
Something like hurt flashed across his features. "I wasn't about to insult you."
"Oh?" she said bitterly.
He reached inside his jacket—plain and black, predictably enough, but it suited him. Just as Sam had probably known it would. Prick prick prick.
But he didn't pull out a flask, and he didn't insult her. Instead, he pulled out a book.
It was small, weathered, and beaten, the pages yellowed and crinkled, the cover faded with time. Celaena stared at it uncertainly, silenced for once in her life.
"It's for you," he said, shuffling his feet. His cheeks had gone red. "Poetry. Because—well. You like that kind of thing, don't you? Books?"
Her eyes watered. "You got a present? For me?"
Sam offered her an uncertain smile. "Happy Yulemas."
She sniffled and took the book, crushing it to her chest. "I—Thank you. Really."
"Oh, no. You really are a sad drunk."
"Thank you, Sam," she whispered. "Happy Yulemas."
And then, without another word, she turned and went back into her room, an odd rhythm thumping in her chest. She was so tired—so tired, and she felt strange, as if her heart were in her throat. She barely made it to her bed before she collapsed.
When Celaena woke in the morning, she did not remember that Sam had carried her upstairs. She did not remember where the book of poetry had come from. She did not remember how her diamond pendant had gotten lost, and she continued to think that it was her only Yulemas present that year.
But she did read that book of poetry. Over and over and over again.
She especially liked one particular poem near the middle of the book. For some reason, it had been dogeared, as if the previous owner had liked it, too.
Sometimes I look at you and I think
today will be the day that I say
the words that are lingering on my tongue
and they fight to come out
they are restless birds whose wings
have been clipped, feathers plucked
they long to be freed and wild
and still I curb them, hold them tight
a little while longer
Because no matter how I wish and plead and beg
no matter how I want it to be true
their bent and broken wings will have to wait
because today is not that day
Sam never approached her about the book. He seemed to understand that whatever moment they had had was forgotten, faded into the faulty mists of memory. But he did see her reading the book sometimes, at dinner or at breakfast or at lunch. And every time he did, he smiled.
There was no rush. It could wait. After all, they had all the time in the world.
—
Yulemas #3
A Promise
Aelin never thought that she would spend a Yulemas like this. She never thought that she would spend the day of celebration not in dresses of jewels and gold but in a suit of armor, her hair not woven with pearls but with beads of sweat. She never thought that she would spend the holiday flitting from battle tent to battle tent, her face fierce and hard as stone.
But they were at war. Rowan, gods-damn him, had done what should have been impossible. He'd found her after Maeve had taken her, brought her back home, handed her a sword and kissed her so fiercely that Aelin had almost wept.
It just made it harder, in the end. She would still have to die. All Rowan did was make it more heartbreaking for him—for both of them.
Morath was not a pretty place to spend Yulemas. The mountains were black and harsh and unforgiving, snow-capped and lurking in the distance. The network of caves that Aedion had selected for their camp were moist and wet, slick with damp, slimy perspiration. They echoed with the moans of the wounded and dying, their cries lulling her to sleep every night.
She still felt shattered: broken. Destroyed, somehow, by all that Maeve and Cairn had done.
They had stuffed her into that iron coffin—stuffed her in and kept her there for days, no sound, no light. She was fed periodically, fed and watered as if she were a plant or a pet. She was whipped and sliced and opened like a science experiment. She could still feel Cairn's fingers dragging down her skin, his lascivious smile.
Thank gods… Thank gods it had never gotten that far.
Maybe she wouldn't have felt so broken if she hadn't expected to die. But she wasn't dead, and she should be. Instead, Aelin was here, fighting for what could very well be a lost cause, her inevitable death lingering over her head, a slate-gray storm cloud drifting on her heels.
At some point, she slipped away from the battle preparations and war conferences. She begged a moment—just a minute or two to sit alone for a while, to collect her thoughts, to breathe. Even if only for a little bit.
She found a rock in the back of the cave, and she lit her fingers with flickering flame. Shadows danced over the walls, leaping and jumping.
"Aelin?"
Rowan had found her. Of course he'd found her.
It hurt to look at him now—it hurt to look at him and know that in weeks, maybe months if they were lucky, she would die, because that was what she had to do.
Happy Yulemas.
Rowan sighed and came to her side, sitting down on the rock beside her. His silver hair glittered in the light from the flame. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, his familiar scent enveloping her—pine and snow. Conifers and frost.
And because she was a weak chickenshit, she leaned into him, accepted his warmth, even when she knew, knew, every moment she touched him or smiled at him or even looked at him would make it that much harder in the end.
"Tell me what you're thinking," Rowan said quietly, tracing circles on her arms.
"I'm thinking," Aelin said, "that today is Yulemas, and I almost forgot."
"Easy to do."
She laughed. "Isn't that depressing?"
He kissed the top of her head. "Worst Yulemas ever?"
"Nope. That one goes to Endovier."
He stiffened slightly. "This one's a second?"
"No," Aelin said, shaking her head. "The second-worst was the first I spent without my parents—without Aedion."
"You've got a whole slew of them, don't you?"
"Guilty as charged."
Rowan held her tighter, his arms circling around her waist. She felt tears burn in her eyes, and she swiped them away with the back of her hand.
"Stop it."
"Stop what?" she said, her voice uneven.
"Stop thinking about it."
She snorted. "Kind of hard not to."
"I won't let it happen," Rowan said. "There is no way in hell that I'm letting you go. Not again."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't have a choice, Rowan. We don't have a choice."
"Bullshit," he growled. "There's always a choice. And I'm telling you right now: We will find a way."
"Don't. Don't do that."
"What?"
"Don't give me hope."
"I will never stop giving you hope—not one gods-damned day of your life, Aelin Galathynius." Rowan drew back, meeting her gaze. His eyes were hard and bright; unforgiving. "If you give up hope, you stop fighting, and that is the one thing I will never let you do. You understand?"
Aelin let out a choked sound that might've been a whimper, or a sob. "Rowan…"
"I mean it. I'll find a way—we'll find a way. To whatever end, Aelin."
She wanted to say so many other things—she wanted to tell him that it was impossible, that years from now, he would look back on this moment when all he had to give was false promises and half-veiled visions of hope that would never be, but she didn't. She didn't, because it was Yulemas, because she was weak; because he was her husband and her mate, and she had yet to find a way to look at him and breathe at the same time.
Instead, she whispered, "Happy Yulemas, Rowan."
"Happy Yulemas, Aelin."
A/N: A bit sad, but, you know, I've been tossed into a bottomless pit by ToG, and it reflects.
Review and let me know what you thought! :)