Chaol's torch sputtered, then went out.

He swallowed his nervousness, and gritted his teeth. The passage ahead was dark and cold - much more so than it had been when he was with the others. And the walls. . . He resisted the urge to touch them, as he had an instinct to do, due to that precise instinct. It was something otherworldly, something that did not belong in his city, no matter how far buried it was.

It felt like the clock tower, with the eight gargoyles on top.

As he kept walking - cautiously, slowly; he wasn't a fool - he debated his decision on telling Aelin how to bring magic back. He'd heard the stories of what she'd done to General Narrok's army in Wendlyn; he'd seen her cleave the earth in two protecting him and Fleetfoot from that. . . thing, in the alternate realm. What if she lost control of that fathomless flame and burned his capital to nothing but ashes and dust? Or worse, what if she did it voluntarily, decided that the city was no more than a den of debauchery and sin, and that it and its inhabitants deserved to burn?

Would she let him live, or what she torch him as well, for what had happened to Nehemia on his watch?

He swallowed again, then stopped walking suddenly. His breathing became very light, and he clutched the pommel of his sword, hardly daring to move.

There was something in the dark with him.

Something that did not feel friendly.

"Such fools," hissed a voice, and it was a voice that was dry and cracked from disuse, like it had remained unused since it was created at the dawn of time. It was a voice that sent shudders quaking up and down Chaol's spine, until he didn't want to turn around and behold whatever ghastly creature was capable of making such a noise. "Such fools to choose to wander down here today, to wander down here at all. And to split up whist doing it?" It chuckled, and it sounded like the dagger he'd scraped against the marble floor of the library so log ago to see just how jumpy Aelin - no, she'd been Celaena then - was. Only this time, he understood the level of fear she might have been feeling.

The voice came again, only this time it was softer, more of a smooth lull. It seemed to wrap around his mind and gently reel him in, like a fish on a hook.

"It would be a mercy," the voice purred. "To kill you now. Because if this is the best court that Aelin Galathynius can rally, then she will suffer dearly by the time this war is over." He jumped as he felt one cold finger - a man's finger - trail down the back of his neck in a cold parody of a caress. "I wonder what your agony will taste like, as I suck you dry," it mused and Chaol had had enough. He tried to move, to fight, to do anything, but the Valg creature instantly caught him in its thrall, and he was frozen.

He scrunched his eyes tight in a child's fantasy: that it was a dream, and everything would be okay, if only he could wake up.

He opened his eyes, but it was the safety of his chambers in the castle that he saw. Nor was it his bedroll in the sewer chamber that the rebels had staked a hideout in that awaited his sight as he looked.

It was Dorian and Aelin, standing on one of the bridges that spanned the glass castle.

Aelin stood there, shoulder to shoulder with his King, feet planted on the ground, and did not look afraid. So this wasn't a precise reflection of reality then, if Aelin was perfectly at ease on the glass, which she had once refused to venture out onto.

Her turquoise eyes sparked with some anger that he'd beheld in her eyes the night Nehemia died: an anger so profound it was barely there at all. She took a step forward, with that inherent predatory grace there was to all her movements, one that always made him want to turn tail and flee like a frightened animal. "Oath breaker." She spat. The three syllables of the title snapped audibly, like the crack of a whip.

Dorian was next, the black collar around his neck an incriminating sign. You did this. It's your fault. Coward. He met Chaol's gaze with the same sapphire eyes he always had - the eyes that dated back in the Havilliard bloodline right to the first king, Gavin. But they were shadowed with something else, and darkness stirred in them like the cruel, emotionless creature that was currently residing in his king's body. He purred, as though the word tasted delicious on his tongue, "Traitor."

And then Aelin - no; this was Celaena. Was it? - stepped forward again. It was a tiny step, a slight move of her booted foot, but it still shocked Chaol into backing away as well. It was pointless. She was somehow standing so close to him, close enough that she could reach out and touch him with her hand - that hand that dripped blood. He couldn't tell if it was hers - or her victim's.

She was wearing the suit she'd always worn when she was the King's Champion, he noted. The one she always wore when she'd stalked into the throne room and thrown a half-rotted head at the King of Adarlan's feet.

It had always turned his stomach.

And now Celaena lifted her hand, stained scarlet, and he noticed that her fingers were dotted with rings: the seal rings she'd always stolen from the lords and royals she'd been ordered to assassinate. He swallowed, and despite the fresh blood, her hand was cold and clammy like a dead woman's as she caressed his cheek with a fondness that he missed fiercely.

He almost laughed. He'd always been frantic whenever she left, dreading her death. Of course this was what the Valg would show him.

Her thumb, which had been rubbing small circles on his jaw, froze. She retracted the hand, and narrowed her eyes at him, until the turquoise was gone, and only the gold remained. The gold of Mala's heir, extracting justice. "Liar," she hissed finally. her hand came up in a white flash, and his head snapped to the side in a flinch as he felt her nails rake across his cheek. Flood flowed down the side of his face, and a single line burned, right along the scar.

"Stop!" He cried hoarsely, and lifted his hands to shove Celaena by the shoulders. She tumbled back and tripped over her own feet until she was sprawled over the floor. He barely had time to wonder why her flawless sense of balance was out, before bars snapped into place between them, and the ground solidified into the floor of a cell, and her eyes were looking at him with a terrifying emptiness. It was a perfect replication of the night Nehemia had died, and everything had gone to shit.

Unable to bear it anymore he squeezed his eyes shut and yanked his head away from where he was fixated on the sight. He turned his attention to Dorian.

But what he saw there wasn't any better.

Dorian was kneeling again, and he was begging, crying. Unintelligible words spilled out of his mouth, and tears spilled out of his eyes, and then he released the most gut wrenching scream - the likes of which Chaol had not heard since Sorscha had died.

"You did this," Dorian said suddenly, still not facing him. Chaol couldn't see his friend's face, but he watched as his shoulders didn't seize their shaking. He could faintly hear Dorian mutter, "Sorscha, Sorscha, Sorscha," but the voice that overrode the sobs was clear and hate driven. "You did this. If you'd only stayed, if only you hadn't run, like those cowards you've always condemned, she might still be alive." Dorian rose, and turned to face him. Out of the corner of his eye, Chaol saw Celaena rise in sync with him. "If you hadn't run, I might still be here."

"Oath breaker," Celaena repeated. "You told me you loved me. Did you lie? Can something as worthless as your love be broken so easily?"

His heart stuttered. "Celaena-"

"My name is Aelin." She seethed. "This is who I am, Chaol. Do you not love me? Or did you give away those words like they were nothing? I have always been Aelin. Were you too blind to see? You cannot pick and choose which parts of us to love." Dorian was nodding along. "Our magic is a part of us. So what's your decision, Captain?" She sneered. "Is the talent that could win the war repulsive enough to drive you away, like the traitor you are?"

"You left me," Dorian said. "Fifteen years of friendship, Chaol. Did it all mean nothing to you? You swore that your loyalty was to me. You swore you wouldn't abandon me." Chaol flinched at every word. "And then you turn tail and run, like a traitor, like a coward, leaving Sorscha and I to work out how to survive. Did you care so little about me?"

"We're done, Captain," the chorused in unison. "What is your loyalty worth? You gave up everything for a person you'd already betrayed. You broke your oath to become the Lord of Anielle. All you do is lie, out of blind loyalty, out of submission. Your father wants you because you are a warrior, like him. But you have your mother's spirit." They leaned forward, these magical, unbelievably powerful kings and queens passing eternal judgement on him, and damning him for it. "You are weak, Chaol Westfall. If you cannot keep something as simple as your word, how can we trust you to help us keep a continent?"

Chaol's knees buckled beneath him and he hit the ground on all fours. The bone mosaics dug into his hands and he almost retched at the death beneath his hands, his very being trying to recoil from it.

"I. Am. Not. Weak." He said slowly to himself. Tears blurred his vision. "I. Am. Not. Worthless." He looked up to fling the words at dream-Celaena and dream-Dorian, but when he looked up, they weren't there.

Instead there was Aelin, holding Goldryn out, black blood splattered on his face, lips curled into a feral snarl, and Rowan, standing next to her.

Chaol was a bit harder to write than Aedion, but I think I did alright.

I've made a Community on the best Throne of Glass fanfics, btw. If anyone has any suggestions, or would like to be added in as a staff, PM me, or say so in the reviews. Follows are always appreciated!

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