Thank you to my beta, lou77 for correcting this chapter! Much appreciated!
Maybe it was the ancient world that called out to me. Maybe it was the darkness, pooling around the mountains and colliding in the passes of the forests of Illyria that struck a chord within me. Maybe it was the mountains itself, old and rough and unyielding, a stronghold for the Illyrian forces for several centuries that had and would come.
I didn't know what exactly, but it was something about the Illyrian Steppes that made me call them home. They were a prominent part of my long, tumultuous history within the Night Court, and although I was proud and loyal to my court, Illyria was more home for me than anything else.
Never mind that I had buried too many souls in their peaks to even count.
"Aria!" The sound of my name from behind me brought me back to my surroundings. I brushed a stray tear off my cheek as I turned to look at the source of the noise, my best friend and companion, Elara. Her fiery red hair was tied in a tight updo in honour of the occasion, while her leathers had clearly seen better days. Nevertheless, despite her poor status amongst the locals for evading her clipping and marriage by joining one of the many training camps for women that had sprung up in the past few years, the one we resided in; she was highly respected within our camp, serving as the leader for one of the High Lord's many aerial forces.
I shook my head as she opened her mouth, no doubt to alert me of the time and her schedule. "I know I only have a few minutes, but can you please give me a moment? Please?"
She shut her mouth, nodding her head in vain. "I'll leave you to it, Aria. Please no more than five minutes." The twin swords strapped to her back glinted in one of the sharper rays of sunlight as she made her way back down the mountain to our meeting place, her membranous wings flaring behind her.
I knew she wasn't being cruel by giving me a time limit, rather she was being kind. I hadn't visited this spot in ages, and when I did, I spent too much time mourning and grieving over something that wasn't my fault. Elara knew how much I'd blamed myself for it, despite the fact that countless times I'd realised I wasn't the one to blame all along.
I knelt beside the forlorn headstone erected in memory of our friend and fellow soldier, apologising silently with my bouquet of lilies for not visiting often in the past few weeks. Despite Marc being a hardened Illyrian warrior, he'd also had a soft and gentle side, with a penchant for admiring and identifying things of delicate beauty. Unlike most of his fellow soldiers, he'd had a favourite flower - the sweet, gentle white tiger lilies, "formidable by reputation", as he'd so often claimed - something he was ridiculed for quite frequently amongst his brethren.
"Why do you stomach their bullshit?" I'd asked him once.
"Aria - it's because they don't understand. Those who don't care to try and understand and accept will forever be laughing on the side-lines. They don't merit my explanation, nor are they worth my time. But someday, should they decide to open their eyes and see the light clearly - I'll be more than happy to show them the wonders they've been missing out on."
That was Marc for you. Always thoughtful, always caring, always compassionate. Yet he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Having fought in both wars, his history was vast and rich, full of entertaining stories he'd tell Elara and I time after time, each tale never getting old.
But just like the several other souls the mountain peaks and passes had claimed, Marc had met his demise in them, just as his birth. He was gone too soon, an unremarkable ending to a remarkable life - leaving behind nothing but a timeless legacy and broken hearts - especially that of his wife, Akila, who had carried their son in her womb right up until the day he died, receiving the news of his death a few minutes after holding her new-born in her arms.
She'd shoved the child away from her, refusing to rejoice in how little Avel looked like his father anymore. His bronze eyes and honey-coloured hair did nothing but remind her of the husband she'd lost in such carelessness.
Indeed, I'd been recently appointed guardian of the babe, and made sure to put his needs over mine in the past fortnight. Knowing that somehow, a piece of Marc had survived, that his legacy would live on, was enough for me - that his death hadn't been in vain. That he hadn't sacrificed himself to these mountains for nothing.
We'd been on high alert that day, flying high above the mountain tops in urgency to return to the Illyrian camp, as we'd just gotten the message that Akila was due to give birth. Out of nowhere, an ash arrow had come flying, embedding itself in Marc's chest. He'd looked in surprise at the weapon in his heart, glancing at it and then me, before dropping from the sky like a dead bird. I'd rushed after him, to try and save him - but by the time I'd reached the ground, he was already heaving, the ash having released its deadly toxins into his bloodstream.
"Promise me, Aria, you'll look after him?" Marc had coughed and spat out blood, his movements growing feeble by the minute. He'd uselessly tried to push away my hards that were yanking on the arrow, in a desperate attempt to save him. "I'm dying, Aria. That...that won't help."
"Please..." I'd begged of him, shoving my hand over the wound, trying to heal it. My killing power also held a small portion of healing magic that had come necessary during battle, for small injuries. There was no way I'd be able to heal a wound as large as Marc's without help. "Stay with me Marc, stay with me!" My cries had risen to screams by then, as I'd snapped the arrow in half and yanked it out of the wound - only to find that the head was still in his heart.
"You...you can't h... heal me, Ari...a," he'd choked out, his breaths becoming shallower. "W... watch Avel for me, won't you?" It was as if he'd used every ounce of his strength to say those last words. Because after I 'd nodded in desperation - his head tilted towards the sky as if in greeting to those he would soon meet...and his eyes went glassy.
Marc was no more.
I shook my head, siphoning myself out of the thoughts of that day. Marc's lifeless face haunted me day and night, as I imagined his ghost following me, seeking revenge for not saving his life.
To this day we still hadn't found out who'd shot him out of the sky. The archer and their bow had disappeared as quickly as we'd dispatched a search team around the area of forest Marc and I had crashed down in. Despite days of meticulous seeking, they'd found nothing. The entirety of the camp was on tenterhooks after his death, not just because we'd lost a noble and respected warrior, but because we'd lost a father. A son had lost his father - and there was no reckoning.
"Hello, Marc," I whispered to the snow-covered earth, skimming my fingers in the ice. "I'm sorry I haven't come in so long." My mind darted to that morning when I'd fed Avel his milk, nursing him quietly in my bedroom, his little form clutched to my chest. "Avel is okay," I choked out, not knowing what to say next. "As for Akila...I haven't seen her in a while."
The last time I'd seen Akila was the funeral day, weeks ago - simply because that was the day she'd decided to publicly accuse me of having an affair with her husband and being the cause of his death. Amidst some thousand Illyrians that had come to pay their respects to Marc, all of them had heard Akila's accusations, and watched her fling herself at me, hysterically beating at my chest. It had taken two warriors to pry her off me, and even after that, I couldn't bear to stay at the funeral with the looks of disgust and horror aimed at me. I took off into the skies, resigning myself to watch Marc's final resting from high above.
Despite all of that - the elders of the camp had ruled that the incident made Akila an unfavourable mother, and coupled with her unwillingness to even glance at Avel, let alone take care of him, I was appointed as his primary guardian, and Elara as his second, as per the instructions in Marc's will. They obviously couldn't verify my word that Marc's dying breath was to make sure I would be there for Avel, so the camp had no other choice but to tentatively accept me as his primary guardian.
Yet Akila remained quiet in the face of all this, not saying a word. Something seemed wrong about the whole situation.
And to think she was the same female who'd comforted me when my parents had died in the war against Hybern.
Sometimes I still thought back to them, my father and mother - my father with his warm smiles and gentle hands, my mother with her reassuring hugs and soft kisses planted to my brow. My features were the perfect mix of them, Marc had often commented - but my light blond hair, fair colouring and azure eyes seemed so out of place in an Illyrian camp of darker-skinned individuals, with their hazel eyes and dark hair. While both my parents were Illyrian, my mother's father wasn't - rather, he was a Peregryn soldier from Dawn Court, known for their large, feathery wings.
This was why my mother held white, iridescent wings, rather than the usual dark, membranous wings of the Illyrians. Having such unique wings had made her popular in camp - simply for scoffing and leering at. When I was born with 'normal' wings, only different from the other's in that they held the same sparkly sheen my mother's held, my parents were relieved that I wouldn't face the same discrimination my mother had faced for a hundred years.
In the three hundred years my parents had been mates, I'd been their only child. And when they'd perished in the war last year, leaving me with no family besides Elara and the house we'd lived in on the outskirts of the camp - I'd broken. Shattered into small pieces, broken beyond repair.
And when General Cassian had come to offer his condolences to me - I couldn't help myself. In a way now reminiscent of Akila, I'd launched myself at him, siphons flaring a bright purple, rallying my killing power for an aim at his heart. Luckily, Elara had been there to strike me down before I could do any damage. Whilst I'd sent an apology to the General for my insolence, he'd simply pushed it away as grief, and said that he understood.
Some part of me still blamed the Inner Circle for being careless with Illyrian lives in the war and supported the uprising that was steadily gaining attention in the mountains and camps. But my rationality kept me away from such things, knowing that the daughter of the head of the camp would be severely punished for such doings. It would be treason, not to mention I'd face the death penalty...
"Aria?" I broke out of my thoughts to find Elara shaking my shoulders. I glanced at her worried face, an urgent flicker in her jade eyes.
"What's wrong, Elara?" I asked, standing up whilst brushing snow off my leathers, trying not to show irritation at being interrupted.
"I just got a message from Windhaven. The High Lord, General and his Spymaster are all coming to our camp. Now."
"What? Why? Why today, of all days? Is it something urgent?"
She nodded her head grimly. "It's about Marc."
I stood at the back of the crowd, craning my neck over the sea of heads. Gatherings were rare for Illyrians, simply because we did not listen to orders. We fought according to our honour and judgement, determining where our help was needed the most.
Elara spotted me from somewhere in the middle and reached out a hand, helping me to push my way to the front, muttering half-hearted apologies as we went through.
That's when I felt it - a tug, pulling somewhere deep inside me. I ignored it, dismissing it as my powers - I hadn't used them a lot since Marc passed.
When I got to the front of the crowd, I saw the formidable and famous trio of the Inner Circle - High Lord Rhysand, General Cassian and the Spymaster/Shadowsinger, Azriel. The High Lord was spewing some nonsense about this being an unexpected inspection - since when did they ever have to inspect Illyrian camps? - whilst the General smirked dangerously at the crowd, the visible siphons on his leathers flaring to life in a bright, pulsating red; his mate, the infamous Nesta Archeron, standing next to him, looking as equally bored as the Spymaster standing next to her.
I glanced at him, the cool, calm look about him, his siphons as active as the General's, but swirling a deep shade of cobalt, a colour in sync with his icy personality and rage. Truth-teller, his well-known blade, was strapped to his hip, his wings flaring behind him, just as his brother's did on either side of him. With every passing second I looked at him, the nagging tug inside of me grew stronger. I tried to push it away in vain, and that's when...he glanced towards me, and I felt it snap into place.
Hazel eyes stared insistently into mine, as I felt my blood calling to me, murmuring what I'd only realised moments after I'd felt that bridge between our souls come together...Mate.
Azriel, Spymaster and Shadowsinger, was my goddamned mate. My mate.
I breathed in heavily as I watched his gaze examine me, and for a second, I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, before he resumed his impassive glare at the ground.
Somewhere deep inside me, I felt something crack. I may as well have heard my heart breaking.
Was I that damaged that even my own mate couldn't recognise me for who I was?
A small whimper escaped my throat. I had to get out of here, I had to leave before he could dismiss me like that again, so callously...
"Aria? Are you okay?" Elara whispered in my ear. I reached out to grasp her hand desperately, squeezing it in the process.
"I'm okay," I whispered back. She shook her head furiously as she pointed to my shaking body. "I'll tell you later, I promise?"
She nodded, appeased for the time being, turning her attention back to the High Lord.
Then, She appeared. Golden hair, sparkling like polished gold in the early sunlight. Leathers fitting her like a glove, whilst her brown eyes glowed with a ferocity I longed to muster. The Morrigan, the High Lord's third in command.
I watched how she stood next to Azriel, offering him a tentative smile. I saw the happiness etched in his face, the happiness he unknowingly sent down the bond - and I knew, somewhere deep in me, that he'd harboured a love for this female for centuries. Maybe his whole life.
And with that, went my chance of ever having him as my mate. He loved another, so deeply and passionately, so silently and greatly, that it was impossible that he'd ever love another like that in his lifetime.
I felt myself crumbling inwardly. Unable to stop feeling his affection for her down the bond, I tried to shut it down, to shove it away, but it remained, strong and cemented between us.
But he didn't feel it - because he loved another. Too much.
Unable to take it any longer, the effects of the bond heightened tenfold with being in such proximity with him, I winnowed - away from the crowd, and away from my mate - who's eyes were still fixated on another.