He'd meant it as a comfort, as encouragement, but Aelin just nodded and left the clearing.
So much for progress.
Rowan's POV:
A week passed without any more bodies being found, and Rowan did his best to convince himself it was a good thing. Obviously he didn't want anymore Fae to suffer, but without any new evidence they were no closer to finding the wretched creature.
It grated on his nerves, the instinctual urge to protect those who were vulnerable from any threats urging him to tear the creature limb from limb. He'd resorted to studying maps and reports in his room for hours, though they didn't yield any results.
The inescapable idleness that came with training Aelin wasn't helping matters. He spent hours with the princess at the temple ruins, waiting for her to light the candles he placed in front of her. Since she had finally managed to master shifting, this was her next task. To light a candle without destroying everything in sight. So far, it wasn't going well. As the days went on and her attempts worsened, Aelin's only grew more irritable. Rowan had a feeling if he didn't stop making her stare at candles soon, they wouldn't be the only thing exploding into flames.
A side effect of Aelin's new form was that her appetite had increased tenfold, and Rowan found himself keeping a constant supply of food. If only the princesses enthusiasm for devouring the snacks he provided transferred over to her desire to control her magic.
Nevertheless, it had become a comfortable enough routine. Each morning they made the trek to the temple ruins, their visit entailing a few hours of Aelin whining and grumbling and staring at candles until he allowed them to return to the fortress.
Spring had come, and with it rain. The days and nights blended together in the downpour, prompting the return of Emrys's fireside stories each evening in the mess hall. After his dinner, Rowan would often perch by the door in his hawk form and listen to the stories himself. Some he'd heard, some he hadn't. It didn't matter. It was really only useful as a distraction.
When she finished the dishes with time to spare, Aelin would join him in his silent vigil. She'd sit below him, leaning against a wall or curled up in a chair. They never spoke, but the lack of tension was almost unsettling. He hadn't realized how comfortable he'd become with her, how natural it felt to have her near.
It was on one of these nights, Rowan in his hawk form and Aelin scrubbing dishes at the sink as they listened to Emrys's soothing baritone blending with the rain pounding on the roof when she asked the question.
"Do you know any stories about Queen Maeve?"
Aelin's question was followed by a beat of silence and more than a few glances towards where Rowan was perched by the door. Emrys, to his credit, only allowed his surprise to show for a moment before his mouth spread into a tentative smile.
"Lots," he said, and the murmuring crowd quieted. "Which one would you like to hear?"
"The earliest one that you know," Aelin said. She paused. "All of them."
Aelin moved to stand by him as Emrys began his story, but she ignored Rowan's stare and the pointed click of his beak he gave her, far too focused on the loaf of bread she was eating. Rowan didn't comment, instead turning his attention to the tale of Maeve and her sisters Emrys was spinning. The room went quiet again when Aelin interrupted to ask if Maeve had ever mated. Rowan resisted the urge to fly down and peck her. Emrys didn't miss a beat, though, telling her of the warrior who had once held Maeve's heart before his untimely death. He went on to mention the powerful bond Maeve had with the male warriors she now kept by her side, and for the first time since he'd began speaking Aelin looked at Rowan.
He considered asking why she was so interested in his queen, but thought better of it. The stories Emrys was telling were all common knowledge, no harm could come from Aelin knowing them. Perhaps she was just curious— Maeve was her distant relative, after all.
Emrys has just finished another story, the soft lull of conversation that usually followed filling the mess hall, when Rowan felt it. Him.
Gavriel.
He sensed him before he saw him, their bond signaling his brother was close even before he slipped from the trees, his sleek, rain-soaked coat gleaming in the moonlight. He moved with ease through the long grass, muscles rippling with that immortal, unrelenting power of his. Still, there was a slight slope to his shoulders, a dead look in his eyes that told Rowan everything he needed to know.
In a flash of light, he shifted, and a tall, broad-shouldered male stood where the mountain cat had been moments before. Even halfway across the clearing, Rowan could sense the pain radiating off of him. It pulled him from his perch, and he shifted to stand beside Gavriel and reached out to grasp his brothers arm. Gavriel clapped Rowan on the back in return. No words were needed. He could read the grief on every line of the male's body well enough.
Gavriel wiped the water from his brow. "I've been looking for you for six weeks," he said, his voice hollow and cold. "Vaughan said you were at the eastern border, but Lorcan said you were on the coast, inspecting the fleet. Then the twins told me that the queen had been all the way out here with you and returned alone, so I came on a hunch…"
Rowan placed a hand on Gavriel's shoulder to silence him. "I heard what happened, Gavriel."
Gavriel took a deep, shuddering breath. "I know you probably don't want to—"
"Just tell me what you want and it will be done."
The strength seemed to leave Gavriel's body at that, and Rowan turned to lead him back to his rooms. He could feel Aelin watching him from the shadows, could sense her questioning stare.
He ignored it. The princess wasn't his priority at the moment.
•••
The following hours were a blur of silence and needles and ink, accompanied by the steady thrum of Gavriel's voice as he spoke of his fallen men. It was painful, a ritual meant to cleanse the soul of grief while also leaving a permanent reminder of what had been lost. Intimate, private, sacred.
So when someone knocked at the door, Rowan didn't hesitate to let his irritation at being interrupted show. "What?" He snapped, not looking away from his work.
When her voice filtered into the room, soft and unsure, Rowan froze. "I thought you might want some stew and—"
She stopped speaking mid-sentence, and Rowan slowly lifted his head to see Aelin standing in the doorway, a tray of food balanced on a hip and a shocked expression on her face as she took in the scene before her. Gavriel, half-naked and lying on Rowan's worktable, Rowan seated beside him, and then the needles and pot of ink on the table's surface.
She met Rowan's gaze, and he knew she could see the white-hot rage burning in his eyes as she went silent and still. "Get out," he said, his voice flat and cold. A clear message, a line drawn in the sand. You shouldn't have come here.
Gavriel lifted his head, his eyes glazed with pain, and Rowan fought the urge to growl. Why wasn't Aelin moving?
"Do you want the stew?" she asked, still staring at the markings being painstakingly etched into Gavriel's skin.
"Leave it," Rowan snarled, his control beginning to fracture. If Aelin wasn't gone within the next twenty seconds, he was throwing her out himself.
Silently, Aelin set the tray on the bed and headed for the door. "Sorry to interrupt," she murmured, casting a final look over her shoulder at him and Gavriel before mumbling another apology and slipping out into the hallway.
The door didn't slam, but the soft click echoed in the silence. And with it, Rowan's control snapped.
He forced himself to count to ten before he followed her. Then, he sprung to his feet and flung open the door, slamming it behind him as he stormed down the hall. The rage was burning a hole in his chest, molten and untempered, and Rowan realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this angry. But the look on Gavriel's face... when he found Aelin, he was going to murder her.
He didn't have to look far.
She was only a few feet away from his rooms, leaning against the wall with her head in her hands. When he approached, she turned to face him, and for a moment, his unrelenting wrath faltered at the emptiness in her gaze. A fleeting moment of shame and sorrow before her face was once again arranged in a mask of arrogance and boredom. Perhaps he'd imagined it.
Rowan opened his mouth to do... what? Reprimand her? Punish her? Beat her into oblivion? He realized he hadn't even thought of what he'd do to Aelin once he found her, every logical thought eclipsed by that blinding rage.
But then— "Do you do it for money?"
It was honestly a shock when Aelin spat the words at him, and it took a moment for the insult to register. But when it did, Rowan didn't even try to stop himself from snarling, the wrath that coursed through him a hundred times worse than moments before. He had every right to be furious with her. What had she thought coming to his rooms would accomplish? They weren't friends, they barely tolerated each other, it was no business of hers what he did outside of training. And to even insinuate that he did it for money...
"One, it's none of your business," he said, doing his best to keep his anger under control. The last thing Gavriel needed was Rowan starting a brawl with the princess. Still... "And two, I would never stoop so low."
He gave her a look then, one that told her exactly what he thought of her profession.
For a moment, Aelin just stared at him, and Rowan almost thought that might be the end of it. She'd let the taunt slide, leave him be, and they could work out whatever this was tomorrow. But then...
Aelin leveled a look at him, cold and hard and spiked with just enough snark to make his blood boil. "You know, it might be better if you just slapped me instead."
"Instead of what?" Rowan hissed. He could sense the fire burning beneath her skin, waiting to be unleashed.
Good. He was done waiting for the princess to break. Might as well get it over with.
"Instead of reminding me again and again how rutting worthless and awful and cowardly I am. Believe me, I can do the job well enough on my own. So just hit me, because I'm damned tired of trading insults. And you know what? You didn't even bother to tell me you'd be unavailable. If you'd said something, I never would have come."
Aelin's words came out in a rush, pained and desperate and angry, and Rowan could feel his own anger fading, replaced with something else entirely. Until...
"I'm sorry I did," Aelin said, her gaze burning not with flames but unshed tears. This wasn't the kind of breaking he'd wanted. "But you just left me downstairs."
Aelin's voice broke then, but all Rowan could hear were her final words playing on a loop in his head.
You just left me downstairs.
No. That wasn't fair. He had no obligation to her, no claim, not like he'd had with... Lyria. He didn't care about what else she'd said, all that pain and grief and loneliness. Those words, the accusation that'd he'd abandoned her, it erased everything until all Rowan could see was a burning cottage on a mountain and ashes floating in the wind.
He didn't hear her next words, didn't care to, not when her previous ones had cracked the wall of ice he'd encased his heart with to prevent exactly this— to prevent all those memories from breaking through.
Rowan felt it then. A rage so hot and molten it itched and burned beneath his skin.
Perhaps that was why he said his next words, why he chose them purposefully to ensure they would hit Aelin where he knew it would hurt. Or perhaps it was to distract himself from the storm of loss and pain and grief ripping a hole in his chest.
"There is nothing that I can give you," he said, each word an individual cut of a knife. "Nothing I want to give you. You are not owed an explanation for what I do outside of training. I don't care what you have been through or what you want to do with your life. The sooner you can sort out your whining and self-pity, the sooner I can be rid of you. You are nothing to me, and I do not care."
Following those words, there was only silence. Rowan could distantly, as if through a haze, hear his own ragged breathing. The rage and anguish were fading, and in their place was a familiar hollowness. He didn't know if he was grateful for it.
Aelin was standing utterly still. He waited for the explosion, for the flames and fire and heat, but nothing came.
Instead, Rowan stood there and watched as the last ember in Aelin's gaze flickered and died.
•••
This time when Aelin walked away, Rowan didn't follow.
Instead, he returned to his rooms, ignored the questioning look he received from Gavriel and returning to his place at the male's side. He'd remained there until sunrise, until his joints were aching and sore and the tattoo that snaked its way along Gavriel's side, telling the tale of his fallen men and his failure to protect them, was complete. Then, he said his goodbyes, once again refused his friend's attempts at talking, and watched Gavriel shift and disappear into the woods.
After he was gone, the silence became unbearable.
He should apologize.
It wasn't a debate. There would be no more training, no harsh words or baiting. He'd overstepped, he would find Aelin and make amends for what he'd said last night.
So why wasn't he moving?
Rowan knew. It was because after what he'd said... would Aelin even accept his apology? Was she even here to hear it? She could have left last night, could be halfway back to Varese by now.
Even thinking it, Rowan knew it wasn't true. He could sense her, and maybe it was just his imagination, but he felt like he could feel her pain and anguish as well.
She was still here.
Eventually, he forced himself to go to the kitchens and ask Emrys and Luca if they'd seen her. When he arrived, he found it empty except for the old man, who was sitting by the fire, his eyes burning with quiet pain.
For a moment, Rowan found himself hoping Aelin had already left, that she'd said her goodbyes to Emrys and Luca and that was the reason for the cook's grief, but then he saw the kitchen doors had been thrown open and smelled the lingering scent of jasmine and crackling embers that clung to them. Aelin.
He offered Emrys a nod, heading for the doors, but was stopped by the cook calling after him. "What are you doing?"
"What?" Rowan said, more confused than irritated. It wasn't like Emrys to question him.
"To that girl. What are you doing that makes her come in here with such emptiness in her eyes?"
It took Rowan a moment to gather himself, to ensure there was enough authority in his voice when he said, "That's none of your concern."
There was some unknown emotion lining Emrys's face. Disapproval? Condemnation? Concern? Rowan couldn't tell.
"What do you see when you look at her, Prince?"
Rowan didn't know. These days, he didn't know a damn thing. Especially when it came to Aelin. "That's none of your concern, either."
"I see her slipping away, bit by bit, because you shove her down when she so desperately needs someone to help her back up," Emrys said, his eyes imploring Rowan to do... what? He didn't know what the old man wanted from him.
"I don't see why I would be of any use to—"
Emrys didn't bother waiting for Rowan to finish. "Did you know that Evalin Ashryver was my friend?" he asked. "She spent almost a year working in this kitchen— living here with us, fighting to convince your queen that demi-Fae have a place in your realm. She fought for our rights until the very day she departed this kingdom—and the many years after, until she was murdered by those monsters across the sea. So I knew. I knew who her daughter was the moment you brought her into this kitchen. All of us who were here twenty-five years ago recognized her for what she is."
Rowan hadn't known. Nowhere in Maeve's reports had there ever been a mention of Evalin Ashryver fighting for demi-Fae rights. It had been years since Rowan had truly been shocked, since he'd been caught unawares, but this...
"She has no hope, Prince," Emrys murmured, his eyes burning. "She has no hope left in her heart. Help her. If not for her sake, then at least for what she represents— what she could offer all of us, you included."
"And what is that?" Rowan knew how cold and uncaring his voice sounded, but Emrys seemed to see right through it.
Emrys eyes met his, unflinching and unafraid in the face of a Fae warrior who could kill him twenty times over, and said, "A better world."
•••
When Rowan found Aelin, she was miles from the fortress, sitting by a lake with her arms wrapped around herself and her head buried between her knees. The despair radiating off of her was overwhelming, and for a moment Rowan considered turning around.
Could he really do this?
If he approached her, if he assigned himself the task of healing whatever had broken between them, then there would be no more distance or insults or silence. He'd be tearing down whatever barriers they'd placed between themselves.
But then Aelin whimpered, a small, pitiful sound and Rowan couldn't help but coax a warm breeze into being to brush against her.
Aelin didn't look up when Rowan sat down beside her, stretching out his legs and bracing his hands against the damp, mossy earth. After a moment, she raised her head, but still didn't meet his gaze as she looked out at the lake, it's surface glittering in the afternoon sun. Her cheeks were stained with tears, but Rowan ignored it.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. His voice was quiet, but it still felt intrusive in the silence.
"No," Aelin said, her voice even fainter than Rowan's. For a moment, he thought she might tell him to leave. He'd do it— one word from her and he'd be gone. He wasn't going to force this on her.
But Aelin took a slow, shuttering breath and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to blow her nose, wiping the tears from her face with her sleeve. Then, they sat there in the silence, listening to the waves lapping against the shore and the wind rustling in the trees. Rowan could feel it calling to him, a soft murmur in his blood.
Maybe Rowan had said what he'd said not out of anger, but out of fear. It had been so long since he'd seen someone who carried pain like he did. Aelin's self-loathing and despair had only served to remind him of his own these past weeks, and he'd punished her for it. Either way, he's finally started to understand her, and with that had come an idea.
So, Rowan said, "Good. Because we're going."
"Bastard," Aelin muttered, shooting him a vicious glare. "Going where?"
Rowan met her stare with a grim smile. "I think I've started to figure you out, Aelin Galathynius."
UPDATED: 08/29/19