Hey! Happy (nearly) Halloween!
This story idea was suggested by a guest on my other story, hope it lives up to expectations! It was pretty fun yet challenging to write. Do you people know how difficult it is to write Maeve? Honestly, in all self- belittling, I really have not mastered her yet. Her speech sounds like a two-year-old trying to command teddy bears around. Alas, it is something I have written, and I therefore wish to share.
Well, there's always something to work on.
DISCLAIMER: There's like, two speech lines that have been taken from the book. Otherwise, all the characters and settings belong the wonderful mastermind Sarah J Maas who continues to screw with all of our minds with each and every new book she writes.
Time is irrelevant. Days continue, the world continues, whether you live to the next day or the next century. Whether you breathe or suffocate, whether you are slaughtered or torn apart, it will continue to thrive. No matter the beasts that dwell on the land, or the wars that drown fields in the blood of the many. No matter the many attempts of the world to rid itself of these beasts, with tremors in the ground or with huge waves that crash into the land; it will continue to mature and develop. The whole thought was truly self-deprecating. What could you have possibly done, in the past years of life, to deserve to be in the world? How could you have done anything of importance? Could you rid the world of dangers, or create perilous designs to screw with everyone other than yourself?
Rowan lifted stale eyes to the scene in front of him. The council had adjourned, leaving an empty room with rows of seats. Everything were facing the stone throne, the main piece of the room. Despite his unwillingness to appreciate beauty, the structure was… impressive. It was designed to threaten and intimidate, loom over those who were underneath it. He supposed it succeeded, considering he was bound to the queen who ruled on it.
His mind went blank as the door behind him opened and closed, and the rush of air from the movement came rushing towards him. He took that wind and killed it. Suffocated it.
"Brother, Maeve wants us in the council room," Gavriel, behind him, said. Rowan turned to see the Lion with a firm line for a mouth and dead eyes, much like his. His wrath had been used these past days, with Maeve's permission, to do her bidding. The aftereffects of her orders on them were… not considered or cared about by their queen. It wasn't her job to take concern for their wellbeing. It was Maeve's job to command them. She was not a mother with her children. She was a queen to her servants, and they dutifully carried out her work, be it dirty or clean.
And she always got what she wanted, no matter the fallout. Maeve was ruthless and severe, unforgiving in her way of rule. If one was not of use to her, she did not bother with them.
Rowan was of use to her. She had foreseen that and had hunted him down after his mate, nameless lest the dark beasts in the far corners of his mind pop up again, had been slaughtered, child in her womb. The child was unnamed as well. In Rowan's mind, at least when he was awake, there were no names but one. There was the Hawk, the Mate, the Child, and Maeve. During sleep, his consciousness wore other colors and possessed many more, far too many, demons to taunt him with.
The battle to push his own monsters into the darkness where he dared not wander had been too easy. A few simple days of grieving in his fae form, then the Hawk took over and told him when to eat, when to sleep, when to hunt, and when to kill. Yet the monsters still tortured him. They laughed as he fell to his knees and saw the blood-sprayed cabin walls and the body, flayed on the bed with legs spread with a belly cut open. They cackled and sat, drinking his grief and becoming so drunk that they induced him with more pain, so much that scene would change and he would wander too close to the dark, calling the Mate's name.
Lyria. Lyria. Lyria. Lyria. Lyr-
"Rowan," Gavriel barked at him and jerked his head towards the door. "Maeve requested us in the council room. Now." Rowan shook himself out of his self-induced stupor and followed Gavriel's long blonde hair past the stone walls and through grand archways to the metal door with words of the old language, warnings and threats to those who dare sneak about. He lifted his tattooed hand, once again relapsing the collapse and demise of him when his eyes read the words automatically, even though he had already memorized them. Brand and stark, it had been given to him by one of his old commanders, a man who had written stories of war and death and names into his flesh. He pushed the door open and took in a long, oak table with a raven-haired queen that sat at the head of it.
He truly hated the council room. When he had been a youth, running rampage among the war camps, he had sat around great campfires and heard stories of walls lined with scrolls made from the skin of traitors and maps with an overwhelming number of forts and territories. Hearing of the stories and seeing the truth was… different. The map did not have an overwhelming number, it had an uncontrollable, intense, and forever growing number of lands. The walls were lined, not with scrolls, but with bright torches that lit up the room, each designed to look like the eye of a blind man, whether it looked gutted or bruised or bland. It was the sign of covert secrets and that no man should see or hear. The things told in this room were… private. Though why they still bothered with it, considering no truly revolting conflicts were taking place at the moment, was beyond him. He supposed the room gave Maeve the air of importance, that everything she said was law. She could see each of her blood bound and soak up their reactions at her words. In the beginning, they had all winced at the carnage she sent them off to. Each would return with blood on their hands and nightmares to await them. However, as the days continued and the years grew shorter, the blood became invisible to all but them and their perception of death became more acquitted. To Maeve, they were but pawns in her game.
Though Rowan didn't mind. He had had enough of consciousness and blame and guilt and willingly put his skillset at her feet for use.
Once they entered, Maeve all but dismissed their bow with a wave of her hand and indicated towards the last two positions at the table. She quickly glanced Rowan's way once before turning back to Lorcan's detailed new report of an overpowering force to a fort with nothing but a whispered rumor of magical jewelry that could rip wholes in dimensions. They never bothered with chairs, though Maeve sat on her dais on raised platform, above them.
None of them were smiling except Fenrys who sat superciliously, both his feet on the table as he slouched in his chair, the only one in the room besides Maeve's.
"So glad the two of you could join us, ready to accede yet another woeful tale of love and loss?" A small smirk formed both in his onyx eyes and on his mouth. He cocked his head at Lorcan. "He's already buttering her up for us."
Fenrys had openly expressed his dislike of both the blood oath and the queen they were bound to. The White Wolf of Doranelle warmed her bed, taking his brother's place as to shift her interest. Connall had accepted the blood oath to step out of Fenrys' shadow, jealous of his brother's fortune and fame. Fenrys had followed him in his actions, and was begrudgingly complying with the blood oath as he protected his twin brother.
"Only the Gods know what form of hell you will rain down upon all of us," Gavriel replied, his eyes glued to Lorcan and Maeve's conversation. The Lion listened intently before engaging Rowan in their own quiet, one-sided conversation while they waited. He only received, short, gruff answers.
When Maeve and Lorcan finally deterred from their exchange, Lorcan strode over to his place at the table and they all turned their heads to Maeve.
"It has come to my attention that the lost heir of Terrasen has decided to grace Wendlyn with her presence. Being… refused contact by her mother, I wish to test this lost princess. She is, after all, family to Brannon and should therefore have a taste for fire. I would like to use her." She waited for them to soak in the information.
"I want to send one of you to oversee her training. I want her proficient and disciplined for further use. Her powers could be of use to me."
"I volunteer, for whatever this is," Fenrys quickly leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. "I believe that my skillset would be very useful in her so called training." His cocky lopsided grin told them enough of which skillset he meant. Maeve gave him an uninterested glance. She opened her mouth once more but instead paused, scrunched her eyebrows, and told them that she would be back within the hour. She had other business to attend to.
"Remarkable," Connel drawled when Maeve was out of the room. "You don't even know what this is about and all you think of is sex. You could be having to brush her hair and console while she's sprawled out weeping about some Adarlan fool who slept with another."
"Ah, but then she'd take comfort in my looks and we would have the rest of the night to do what we please."
"What you please. How do you know she would take part?" Gavriel joined in on their banter.
"Have you seen me? All royals are the same. They all want a bite of the dangerous fae warrior to see what he's made out of," He chuckled darkly. "But more to the point, who else would she send? Whitethorn? I doubt he'd last a few seconds before her head would be on the floor." All heads directed to Rowan and he levelled his gaze at Fenrys. Rowan offered him a small, impassive smile.
"Watch your tounge, boyo. Who knows who might cut it off." Fenrys lifted his eyebrows at Rowan's threat.
"You wouldn't be doing the princess any favors if my tounge is removed from the process."
"Yes, because everything else would be a disappointment to her," Connel mocked. Fenrys grimaced and gave him a pointed look before Maeve reentered the room. Her dark hair swished around her as she walked, an embodiment of pure, merciless power. She twisted around to face them and lowered herself into her stone seat, crossing one leg over the other. Rowan met her eyes, and he knew what was to come. He was, after all, the opposite of fire. Cold, unrelenting, and bitter.
"Rowan. You'll be the princess' mentor." Rowan nodded and lowered his eyes from his queen's. Shit. That was all that was going through his mind. He was expected to tutor a spoiled brat with no love for anyone but herself. She expected answers, and she would have to be patient if she wanted to play Maeve's game. She would back out before they were done, and most likely try to find answers anywhere else but Maeve. Perhaps she would begin to take up with a foreign dignitary who babbled too much for his own good. Fenrys gave a brash groan and stood up, his chair scraping against the floor and he pushed it back with his calves.
"My queen, I believe that I should prove more proficient then-" Maeve lifted a hand to stop him, her eyes on Rowan. That quickly, Fenrys' mouth closed but his eyes filled with discreet ire. He slammed the stone slab with his fist and slumped down in his chair, a child denied of his will. Rowan had fought with the male enough to know exactly what he was thinking and why he was thinking it. Maeve paid no heed.
Fenrys, much to his own annoyance, had not been let out on a mission for Maeve beyond the confines of her bedroom. He would usually slide into the weapons room wincing and limping some days only to be told that he had to return to her chambers the next night. Maeve, according to Fenrys on one of his drunken, pitiful nights of self-loathing, had an insatiable hunger and she took and took. It helped, Rowan supposed, to know that one was doing it for kin.
Yet, it must be hard to fuck a beast older than his grandmother.
No, not a beast. A queen. His queen.
Lorcan turned his dark eyes towards Rowan and twitched his eyebrow up, then signaled for the rest of them to leave the room. Fenrys, once again the restless, naïve child, stomped out. Most presumably to wait in front of Maeve's bedroom door to beg her to let him out of his cage. She would not heed his cravings, his needs, but only satisfy her own.
Rowan stood in front of her dais, eyes focused on the map behind Maeve. Discreetly thorough, it held knowledge of every fortress and every ground she'd ever conquered. Maeve placed her long-nailed hands on the armrests, clearly enjoying the controlling effect she had placed on every single one of her warriors. She seemed to revel in it, despite her being used to the power.
"The girl is untrained. Cocky. Arrogant," Maeve said, her eyes flicking to Rowan's white hair before settling on his face, on the tattoo that obscured half of his face. "My… resources in Adarlan tell me that she was quite the little minx. She is a trained assassin; however, she is said to have an… ever-growing consciousness. You're aware of her bloodline. You're aware of her power. You will train her until she is deemed acceptable to come here to Doranelle so I may use her as I see fit. You have a day before we leave. You will be stationed at Mistward. Dismissed."
He knew better than to ask why. Why she would bother with this girl, this lost heir of Terrasen. But the questions in his mind were battered down into nothing and he simply nodded, bowed, and left the room, leaving Maeve smiling enigmatically and with intent at her sharp marron nails.
**Rowan**
The girl stuck her tounge out at him in the most childlike manner she could while at the same time being half drunk and smelling like a vagrant. Her hair, no doubt once the talk of unwed nobles, had been turned into a grimy, oily mess that coiled freely down her back. Her skin was dirty and tan in some places, no doubt from lazing about on rooftops for the past weeks, and burgundy with dried blood in others. Her clothes were soiled, ragged, and caked in blood. The only variation between her and the common beggar was the two daggers that hung low on her hips.
But her eyes were what caught him. Even the Hawk sharpened his gaze to look directly at her.
They were… well, they had no doubt once been hypnotizing and entrancing, with the flecks of gold surrounded by turquoise, the kind of turquoise that reminded him of the seas, but he had never seen eyes so empty. This woman in front of him was nothing but a shadow, a wisp of whatever turmoil she'd gone through. It was obvious that she wanted to forget something. She drank and fought like a half-mad cow who didn't know up or down. There was skill, raw skill, but she wasn't using it. She was blocked. The coward. The cocky princess didn't know real pain, hadn't felt the brash whips of pure agony. She was but a youth, a juvenile in his eyes. She had many scars, yes, that he could see, but that was expected in her line of work. You couldn't get away without a few scratches. She had no doubt been coddled by her former master. Despite everything, the hollowness in her eyes did little to lessen the overall swagger she carried. She took up room when she walked into a bar, if she wanted to. But he knew perfectly well that she was good at hiding in the shadows and going undetected as well, as the stolen bottles of wine and teggya – the local flatbread – exhibited. In all honesty, he didn't know why he sent a cool breeze her way. She seemed to be the type that was used to getting her way. And this was her, grouchy and complaining because this wasn't her getting her way.
But the cool breeze swept past her anyway. And she breathed it in deeply, most likely inhaling the scents of spices and food from the vendors on the streets below her. Then she sighed and scrambled on to her feet, taking it all slowly as if she really was piss-drunk.
When she slumped down from at her spot on one of the many sunbaked rooves of Varese and silently swore when she landed on her feet, he followed her, opting to stay in the darkness. She placed her hand on the wall, steadying herself. She blinked a few times, most likely adjusting to the darkness before sluggishly twisting around and pushing away an aggressive aged woman with venom and possessiveness in her voice.
"Slattern! Don't let me catch you in front of my door again!" The girl put her hands up in defeat and whispered a 'sorry' through parched and cracked lips. The woman had mistaken her for the common scrounger, fighting for a place to sleep at night.
Rowan chuckled before stepping out of the shadows. When he stepped into the light, the entire alley grew silent. He knew they were silently taking him in, the body dedicated to warfare and violence. The girl twisted around to face him and the blood left her face as she took in his pointed ears and his white hair. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened slightly in both wonder and shock. Had this not been what she had wanted? A free pass to Maeve?
He had little knowledge of Terrasen beyond the quick history he had received from Gavriel who seemed wistful with speaking of the kingdom again, her place of birth, but he knew that in Adarlan and in the rest of the continent to the west, magic was outlawed, banned. Fae, both predatory and those temperate and benevolent, had been hunted like the plague, snuffed out wherever they were to be found. He had heard of whole fae settlements being burned to ashes and its inhabitants slaughtered in massacres orchestrated by Adarlan's king.
He removed all traces of emotion from his face, and not an inkling of surprise leaked out as she quickly mastered her own stance, debating what she would do. He had the power of her name. He, therefore, had the definite upper hand. He could make her sing and dance for him, should he wish it. These people, these people who worshipped their little princeling Galan Ashryver, would be shocked to know that little Aelin Ashryver Galathynius had showed up in the midst of Varese, smelling and looking like a mendicant.
Those dull, empty eyes of hers met his own and he could see that she knew that Maeve had summoned her. She gulped imperceptibly and Rowan breathed in a scent, covered under the reeking odor of filth and alcohol, of burning spices. It was a strange, yet somehow ingratiating at the same time, making his blood run cold and hot.
He still kept his face void of any emotion when she seemed to make a quick, most likely brash decision and sauntered up to him, her arrogant smile covering her face.
"Well met, my friend," she purred, positively brimming with haughtiness. She acted as though she had expected him. "Well met, indeed."
And quickly, quietly, he was falsely named friend.