Aelin Ashryver Galathynius squeezed her eyes shut, her ash stained tears falling down her face. They accumulated, forming a well of sorts, each drop a reminder of the pain and loss that she was experiencing.
She was numb, inside and out. Cold…empty. She ignored the tears, ignored the stinging from her wounds-raw and bloody-and ignored the wind and ice that coated her body, from inside and out. Her blood-her veins-was frozen, but she didn't care. Her nails-chipped and bloody-formed tiny crescent moons deep inside her palms.
She licked her lips, chapped and rough, tasting the metallic sweetness of blood. His blood.
And like a dagger through her heart, like a storm through a sunny day, like the calm before a killing field, Aelin began to remember.
...
"You don't have to go, if you don't want to," Aelin said, sinking into the soft merlot couch in her apartment, turning to face Chaol and Aedion. They sat together, the same expression painted on their faces.
Incredulity, disbelief, and a scattering of annoyance. It was strange, how couples grew to emulate one other. Personality was built over the course of a lifetime-every moment, every word, and every person important in shaping it-and yet…in the brief time that Chaol and Aedion had spent together as a couple, Aelin had begun to notice some changes in both of them.
It was in the way they spoke, the way their eyes sparkled, the way they would soften slightly-just slightly-when speaking to one another. It made her happy to see the two men that she loved-each in their own way-find happiness in each other.
"Aelin." She almost winced at the heavily accented annoyance that shone through Aedion's voice. "We are going. The only way that you will get us to stay is if you kill us first."
Obviously, they underestimated the lengths that Aelin would go through to keep them safe. She quirked a brow, smirking slightly at the soft growl that was emitted through Chaol's lips. He grasped Aedion's hands in his own, and their gazes met Aelin's, their eyes like daggers through flesh, piercing her soul, untying her hesitation.
"It's unnecessary," she said, but the intention wasn't in it. She knew, truthfully, that if it were reversed, she would have torn the entire town into shreds before she was left alone to rot. "And besides, don't you have more important things to do?"
This time it was Chaol who raised his brows. "Aelin. Dorian is out there, right now, killing people. He is powerless, and I will not sit here, godsdammit, while you and Hawkboy save the day. Again." Chaol was still bitter over the fact that he was on watch while Aelin rescued Aedion from the sea of deadly soldiers, it seemed. And despite loving Aedion with every inch of his mortal heart, it also seemed that Chaol still hated Rowan.
It didn't help that Rowan was his usual growly, icy and bitter self around Chaol. Lately, it seemed, they were all on edge, just waiting for the inferno to arrive-and burn them down into ashes. It wasn't a matter of if it would arrive, but when. And they had to be ready-and alive-when the time came.
"His name is Rowan, and you know it, Chaol." Aelin starred icy daggers into Chaol, but his chestnut ones didn't budge. They hardened, solidified. Aedion-the traitor-turned his eyes towards Aelin, the message exceptionally clear. Back off.
"Well maybe," he spat, the venom in his voice thickening, "maybe Hawkboy can put in the effort. Respect is two-sided. I'm not putting in the effort if he doesn't."
She rolled her eyes, trying to stifle the annoyance deep, deep inside. "What problem do you have with Rowan?"
"Nothing, except for the fact that he has been rude every single time I've tried to talk to him." Of course, tried was a relative term. The first time Chaol had laid eyes on Rowan-on his muscular, six foot and four inch form-and seen the way he had looked at Aelin, like he was familiar with her-like she was his friend and something more, Chaol had felt this burning fire grow from deep inside of him. He had no claim to her-and he knew it. But in those days before Aedion, Chaol had looked at Aelin with…regret? Longing? Nostalgia? He didn't know, and now he didn't care. But no matter how hard he tried-no matter how much he wanted to, Chaol couldn't get himself to like Rowan.
"Chaol." It was barely above a whisper. Yet the command in Aelin's voice gave Chaol pause. Because in that moment, it wasn't an assassin or a princess that spoke to him. No. It was the voice of a queen. His eyes met those of the queen's-so similar to those of Aedion's, and yet filled with an authority and power that Aedion had never been able to match.
Chaol's mouth opened, and closed, opened, then closed. His eyes liquefied, slowly returning to a more recognizable molten brown. "I won't bow down to him," he said, a pained expression in those eyes. "I want him to acknowledge me. See me as an equal."
Aelin wanted to scream, to shout, to grasp Chaol by the shoulders and shake some semblance of sense into him. But she couldn't. Because in a way...he was right. Rowan didn't like Chaol-well that was a strong word. He tolerated Chaol now that Chaol and Aedion had become lovers. She almost shuddered at the first time they met, when Rowan's eyes had latched onto Chaol's, and the growl that had erupted from his lips had silenced even the loudest of screams that had echoed throughout the apartment.
...
When Rowan had entered her apartment, his face covered in dirt and soot, his body smelling of the weeks of travel, her eyes had met his pine-green ones, and she had almost exploded from the weight of emotions that had crashed through her. She was a static puppet fluttering in the wind, a wild flame frozen in ice, because he was here. He was here, in her apartment, and suddenly she found herself running, running and running. Running into the arms of the fae prince, whose arms encapsulated her in his own, her face buried inside his chest.
They had stood there for a while, the rest of the world a blur because he was with her. And then footsteps, loud and heavy against the tiles. A voice, jarring against the stillness deep within her soul. And a glare that she felt regurgitate throughout her body, a glare that pierced through her heart, into the heart that was beating in time with hers. She felt it, even though she couldn't see it.
"Who the hell are you?" The voice was stiff, as if the words were forced through the tiny holes between gritted teeth.
Aelin could feel Rowan stiffen, could feel his muscles tense up. She stepped out of his grasp, and turned to face Chaol. He was alone, Aedion not in sight. Thank the gods for the small miracles, Aelin had thought.
Rowan's eyes took in the man standing before him. Dark chestnut hair, curled slightly around his ears. Golden brown eyes flashed with anger. A sword, ancient and priceless, sheathed at his hips. This was him, Rowan realised. Aelin's lover, the man that had hurt her so, so deeply. Rowan could feel ice slowly creep up his veins, slowly freezing his blood, but he ignored it. He forced a smirk onto his features, forced his eyes to give Chaol a dismissive once-over. "So, this is the boy. I can't really see the appeal."
Chaol could feel his blood boil beneath the surface of his skin. Who was this man-no, this was no man, not with those delicately pointed ears, and those sharp elongated canines. No...this was a Fae, a Fae that was holding Aelin as if he knew her. Who was this Fae, talking to Chaol as if he was a godsdamned child? "I'm not a boy, Fae," he spat, hoping the venom in his voice could sizzle the Fae alive. "And who are you to touch her like that?" To touch her, and have her hold you back, he silently added to himself.
...
This time the smirk was genuine. "Who am I? I am her carranam, and we are blood-bonded."
Carranam. It was a delicate word, rolling off the Fae's tongue like a soft lullaby. Somehow, that made Chaol hate the Fae even more. He didn't know what carranam meant, but he ignored the temptation to ask.
"Hush," Aelin said, placing a hand on Rowan's tattooed arm. Chaol's glare followed her movements, but Aelin ignored it. Rowan shot her a look that said, why are you protecting the boy that hurt you?
He's not a boy, she silently shot back, ignoring the accusation that Rowan directed towards her through his narrowed eyes. "Chaol...this is Rowan Whitethorn, Prince of House Whitethorn and the first member of my court. Rowan, this is Chaol Westfall, former Captain of the Guard, and a...friend." Her voice fell slightly at the word friend, as if she didn't completely mean it, but no-one noticed. Not when Rowan and Chaol were busy assessing each other, like enemies on a killing field.
"You may be first member of her court, but I am her lover. So stay away from her, Fae. You do not have the right to touch her like that."
Aelin let out an incredulous laugh-they were over eons ago, and they both had acknowledged it. They both had accepted it. So why was Chaol talking about their past as if it were now? Was it because-
Rowan growled, a vicious roaring avalanche, his pine-green eyes paling and freezing. His arms shot out, pinning Chaol against the wall, his mouth moving close to Chaol's ear, so, so close that Chaol could feel his icy breath on his ears when Rowan snarled, "you do not have the right to call yourself her lover, not after everything that you've done."
And Chaol would have been surprised that this Fae knew so much about him, when he knew nothing about the Fae, but he couldn't. The only thing that he could feel at that moment was fear-at this broad shouldered, silver haired Fae with the vicious tattoo running down his face. Fear and anger, and a desire to twist his neck off. And Chaol would have done so, if he could actually move.
...
No, Aelin realised. She couldn't expect Chaol to love Rowan, but after all that time, she had hoped that the animosity between them would have reduced. "You have to earn that respect," Aelin said eventually, letting her anger go, a breath of hot fire, evaporating into the air. "But you both can come. I dread the aftermath if I left you both here to fend for yourselves."
Slowly, ever so slowly, Chaol's shoulders relaxed. A small unsure smile formed on his lips, but a larger one was mirrored in Aedion's. "We will fight with you, Aelin," Aedion said, rising from his spot beside Chaol. "I swear to the gods, if that means going to Wendlyn and meeting the Fae that abandoned us all those years ago, I will do it. I will do so using every trick I have to convince them to our side."
And that was it. She couldn't hold in the smile any longer-couldn't hold in the love that had just entered her soul like a wave of stars in the midnight violet sky. She pulled Chaol and Aedion towards her, moulding herself between them.
They stayed like that for a while-the single peaceful silence before the world was fed to hell.
...
Fawn slipped on his silk white gloves, clipping the solid gold chain to the cuff of his coat. He straightened the black coat, embroidered with golden thread, and sprayed two squirts of perfume towards his neck. He sniffed, and smirked at the scent. He was...perfection.
"Philippe," he called, his voice a sugary sweet dagger. "Are you ready yet, darling? We really need to go."
Silence. Suspicious, suspicious silence.
And then the sound of boxes falling over, the sound of feet tripping over one another, and the sound of cake being stuffed quickly into a mouth. "Yes," came the muffled, hurried reply, and Fawn groaned at the sight of his mate, mouth covered in pink frothing, and clothing still a dirty, worn mess.
Fawn pinned Philippe with a glare, picked up a white handkerchief from the table beside him, and began wiping Philippe's mouth with a heavy sigh. "What did I say, Philippe? Aelin Ashryver Galathynius is coming to the Ashryver ball, and we need to look awe striking." He didn't add why, for obvious reasons.
Philippe's smile fell, forming a pitiful pout. "Do we have to, Fawn? I want to stay here and sleep."
Fawn raised a brow, a fingernail running across Philippe's stubbly chin. "Philippe, Philippe, Philippe," he said with a tsk. "Do you remember who's in charge here? You will go. Because I say so. Is that clear enough for you?"
Philippe tried to look away, but Fawn pinned him with his stare. Philippe's shoulder's slumped and Fawn's grin widened. "That's the right response, darling. Now, let me dress you up. You wouldn't want to embarrass me in front of the rightful Queen of Terrasen, now would you?"
"No, I wouldn't," Philippe whispered, as Fawn brushed a soft kiss against his lips.
...
Rowan Whitethorn watched as Aelin stepped off the ship, Aedion and Chaol in tow. Her blue dress was worn from the travel, her cheeks faintly tinged with ash, her hair slightly greasy and dulled, but to Rowan, she was the most beautiful thing that he had seen in weeks.
When her gold-rimmed turquoise eyes met his, they brightened, like the sun piercing through the rainy clouds. Her lips parted slightly, and Rowan found himself running. Running, and running, and running. He ignored the strange looks from the other people around him, as he and the other half of his soul were reunited once more. His arms went around her body as if they were made to fit, her face rested against his chest as if it were a sanctuary. "I've missed you," he whispered into her hair. "Gods, Aelin. It was only three weeks, but it might was well have been an eternity."
Aelin smirked, enjoying the uncomfortable glances that Chaol and Aedion shot her way. "I never knew you were this sentimental, Rowan. Shame on you."
He growled as she flicked his nose, and he might have opened his mouth and said more, but she continued, the familiarity in her voice a snare net, and he was the freely offered captive. "I missed you too, Rowan. The gods know that I've missed you so much."
And he would have said more, might have said things that he had never told her-or anyone else to empty the pile of secrets that he kept buried deep within his heart, but Aelin stepped away, and gave Rowan an accessing once-over. "You don't look ready for a ball tonight. And your hair! It's so short now."
Yes, he had cut his hair, the once shoulder length silver hair barely falling over his ears. "Yes, and your hair smells like shit. But you don't see me complaining."
Aelin snarled, her eyes narrowing on Rowan's. "I'm not complaining…it's just a shock, that's all. And I was stuck on a ship for two weeks! You can't expect me to smell like sunshine and rainbows, Rowan."
Aedion let out an incredulous laugh, and Aelin turned her eyes on him.
"I'm not complaining, Aelin," Aedion said, holding his hands out defensively. "I just never thought I'd see the day when Rowan would make a joke."
Aelin rolled her eyes, and Chaol gave Rowan a slight smile. All in all, it was a pleasant afternoon.
...
Aelin Ashryver Galathynius lifted her emerald green skirts, and stepped out of her carriage, Rowan in tow. The floor was paved in marble, each block delicate and creamy, and Aelin could hear the echoes of her footsteps as her heels clipped against the marble. The nightly breeze was a delicate caress against her skin, blowing a few strands of her hair out of place. She scowled as Rowan pinned them back behind her ears, his fingers grazing slightly against her cheek. They lingered there for a while, hovering in the space between touching and not.
"Gods, I hope Aedion and Chaol are all right," Aelin said, to fill in the silence between them. "I mean...they are on guard duty when we are having all the fun."
He shot her a glare that said, you call this fun?
She smiled at him then, a secret, private smile filled with eternal promises. Trust me, Rowan. Balls are always fun.
Oh, how wrong they would be.
...
Fawn stood by the staircase, his pine-green eyes watching as the countless men and women in their extravagant costumes descended the staircase. None of them were amazing, because none of them were her. Her-Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, the Queen of Terrasen. He had dreamed of her so many times, had dreamed of them meeting so many times, had dreamed of other things too. He had never seen her in person, but he knew. When she stepped through those gold and white doors, her eyes would meet his, and then she would know too.
...
Rosamine Whitethorn pulled her beige coloured coat closer to herself, scowling at the sight of Philippe moving from plate to plate, and filling his bowl to the top with chocolates, pastries and cupcakes. His mouth was, of course, stained with crumbs and frothing, and he was making some incoherent sounds that vaguely resembled, "yum, oh so yummy, oh you are so delicious chocolate, yes, yes." How in the world had they come from the same mother?
She walked up to him, a lithe body between the overwhelming colour and pretentious conversations and expressions. "Philippe," she scolded, her thin, arrow-like brows furrowing. "You are a prince of Wendlyn. You should be setting an example."
Philippe looked up at his sister, with her thin black hair, and unsmiling lips and quickly stuffed the rest of the chocolate into his mouth. He almost choked on it all, but it was so worth it. Nobody, least of all his sister, would take his chocolate away from him. "Sister," he exclaimed through a mouth full of chocolate and pastries. "I thought that you weren't coming. I'm so happy to see you!"
Rosamine rolled her eyes at Philippe's dramatics, and lifted a hand to cuff him at the temples. "Stop acting like a godsdamned child, Philippe. You are four hundred and fifty years old. Act your age."
Philippe gave her a look that said, who me?
Rosamine sighed, taking Philippe by the arm and pulling him away from the table. "Now have you seen that child of mine? I swear, she has been gone for a while…"
...
Launa sat in the middle of the ballroom, actively trying to avoid anyone who was attempting to talk to her. With her long auburn hair, and delicate pine-green eyes, she always stood out. Exotic. Beautiful. Royal. She always ignored the admirers, of course. It was vain to acknowledge compliments, and Launa was trying so, so hard not to appear vain.
Be polite. Check.
Speak softly. Check.
Smile graciously. Check.
She was the perfect royal Fae lady. Who could resist that?
...
Aelin smiled at Rowan as they entered through the gold and white doors, the sea of colours and people instantly blinding. She met his eyes one final time, as if to say we can do this, Rowan.
If he noticed the words in her eyes, he didn't say anything. In fact, he had been abnormally silent since they had entered the Ashryver Mansion.
The entire ballroom quieted as soon as they stepped out, like a mystical wind had consumed them, leaving them breathless and weak. She tightened her grip on Rowan's arm, and they began the decent down the stairs.
...
Fawn's eyes instantly latched onto the woman with the golden hair as she descended the staircase, her arm on that of a silver haired male. Fawn bit down on his teeth hard, trying to squeeze out every grain of frustration that had suddenly built up inside of him. The Fae was Rowan, Fawn's cousin. How in the world had his useless cousin snatched up the Queen of Terrasen? Rowan was supposed to be a dull headed warrior, one who blindly followed Queen Maeve. He was no politician, was no king. Fawn smirked to himself. Yes, this was all pretend. As soon as Aelin Ashryver Galathynius saw Fawn, saw his smooth chiselled jaw, and smelt his floral intoxicating scent, she would be his. There was no other option.
They say that a Fae could only have one mate, that once a soul was joined to another, no-one else could ever compare. And they were right. Philippe belonged to Fawn, every inch of his skin, every single strand of hair, every last echo of a smile. But that did not mean that Fawn could not love another Fae, especially if that Fae was the Queen of Terrasen. After all, Fawn was made to be king.
...
Aelin stopped at the base of the staircase as a thin, tall man dressed in a ridiculous black and gold coat approached them. His eyes were lined heavily in Kohl, his body smelling nauseating and over-perfumed. She had to consciously swallow the bile that threatened to rise up her throat as soon as she the scent hit her. She could feel Rowan tense up beneath her, but she pasted on a smile as the man took her hand and kissed it.
And kissed it.
And kissed it.
And kissed it.
Aelin snatched her hand back, resisting the urge to wipe his saliva against her dress. "Aelin Ashryver Galathynius," she said by way of greeting. "And this is Prince Rowan Whitethorn."
"Oh I know," the man purred, his eyes latching onto Rowan's. They were the same pine-green shade. "Prince Rowan is my dear cousin, after all."
Rowan's jaw tensed and she could feel the eyes of the entire ballroom on them. As if on cue, the musicians began playing again, a delicate soft lullaby that cut the tight vibrating sting of tension in half, and the people returned to their dancing.
"Fawn," Rowan growled, moving to step between him and Aelin, as if to protect her. As if the man standing in front of them now was more dangerous than a skinwalker, a Valg and Queen Maeve put together. "We aren't related."
Fawn just rolled his eyes, waving a hand dismissively in Rowan's direction. "Semantics, semantics. I am Prince Fawn Whitethorn, and I am so, so happy to finally see you in person, my queen. You are just as beautiful as I imagined, and perhaps even more. Tell me, how did you meet my darling cousin?"
Rowan's eyes darted to hers, the message in them clear. You don't need to tell him anything, Aelin.
She ignored him, stepping back up, so that they were standing side by side once more. "I broke his blood-bond to Maeve. Rowan and I are carranam and now blood-bonded."
Fawn however, only smirked at Aelin. "Are you now? Tell me, Rowan. What does it feel like to have to be rescued by someone? The gods know, I've never experienced something that vulnerable before."
"Probably because no-body wants to rescue you," Aelin muttered under her breath, and ignored Fawn's protests as she grasped onto Rowan's hands tightly and manoeuvre them away from Fawn.
Fawn was left standing alone, surrounded by a dozen smiling couples, his face a vicious, uncontrollable storm.
The last, coherent thought in his head was, I will have you, Aelin. I don't know how, and I don't really care. But you will be mine, and I will be the King of Terrasen.
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