(Feyre)
I missed jumping out of the way in time as a tsunami of water full of bubbles and jasmine scented soap came crashing over the edge of the porcelain tub, soaking the entire front of my sweater and leggings.
"Ooops," a sweet, feather-light voice giggled.
I gaped down at the dripping fabric and pulled it free from where it clung to my stomach before looking up and locking gazes with my willful four-year-old, the sweet thing who had insisted on making waves in the bath.
I laughed.
"Ah," a blush raced up Celeste's face up to the tips of her delicately pointed ears as she sheepishly lowered her hands back into the water, her body barely visible behind the towers of bubbles around her. "You're clean now too, Mama?"
"I am." Smiling I subtly reached into the tub and flicked a smaller wave of my own onto Celeste, startling her and causing a high-pitched delighted squeal to escape her lips.
"MAMA!" Celeste giggled as she scooted away, swatting more water at me as she kicked and flailed her wings, sloshing even more sprays of water up the walls, her raven locks a black curtain swirling through the bath. She flicked her gaze up at me, her round, freckled cheeks splitting in a wide grin. "Do it again!"
"Do what again?" I inquired, grinning as I leaned against the tub's side, calling the water in the tub into my hand, summoning a flock of butterflies, their wings shimmering iridescent with soap. Celeste's eyes widened as she rose up and reached toward one of the fluttering water puppets, tentatively reaching out for it.
"Pretty," she said airlessly, her toothy grin wide, "Can you make fish?"
"Let me see." The water shifted to my will, the butterflies morphing into dainty fish, swimming through the air, long, elegant fins flashing in the sunlight streaming through the window. She reached up and tried to snag one. It splashed against her hand, reforming and flitting away a second later.
"I can't catch it!" She swatted at them, her giggles filling the room. "Mama, help me catch them!"
Joy filled me as I directed them to flit about my daughter's head, barely avoiding her grazing blows, her laughter growing louder and dancing through the room and my heart. As her squealing grew to a crescendo I stopped the fish midair and grinned mischievously at her before allowing the fish to dissolve, the resulting cascade of water drenching both of us.
Her exclamation of delight resounded through the entire house.
The dream had left me as hollow and cold as the Illyrian Steppes that I'd woken to as the rays of early morning light slipped through the windows of the small house. The memory turned dream had felt so real, as though I'd stepped through time and had relived that moment of peace and joy.
I wiped futilely at the tears that dripped down my cheeks.
These dreams, both lovely and terrible, had haunted me since her death, fading as the years began to slowly tick past. They had only come again as the Rite approached, as the danger my son would face grew more real.
Rhys had held me through the worst of them, when I'd bolted from the bed in panic. Reaching over, I felt the empty spot on the bed where I had pressed against him the night before, the sheets cold.
He must have already left hours before.
No doubt to help Cenric prepare for binding ceremony, for when his powers would be stripped from him by a spell-enchanted brew designed to leech every drop of magic from the consumer.
Rhys had no doubt gone alone because Cenric had refused to speak to me, had blown up so violently after I'd tried to protect him from the warrior who had charged him during the ceremony.
His words still stung. I flinched thinking back on them.
Never again, he'd roared at me, angrier than I'd ever seen him. Never do that again. I'd only stood there motionless, waiting for his fury to pass.
Rhys had snapped at him to check his temper, but the order had fallen on deaf ears. He'd felt I'd betrayed him, that I'd made an ass out of him in front of the warriors he was to face on Ramiel.
Deep down I knew he was right.
That realization had done nothing for me though as I'd begged him once again to reconsider, unable to stop the tears of frustration and fear as I'd tried to make him see reason.
He'd merely turned his back on me mid-sentence and stomped off through the snow, the thrum of his power silencing the life around us. He'd told me to go home, that if I couldn't control myself then perhaps I shouldn't be there at all.
Even Rhys had flinched at the accusation from where he had stood nearby, his wings flaring in agitation as our son's outburst. I knew he didn't blame him. The part of me that wasn't a mother didn't either.
All I could see was Celeste's torn wings, shredded to ribbons on the cold ground, her young blood seeping into the earth. Then and image of my son's broken body in the snow, the crows beginning to pick at him-
I threw the covers back from the bed and quickly rose, ignoring the piercing cold as my bare feet touched down on the floor.
Cenric may have not wanted me there but I would not abandon him, no matter his fury.
I watched the ceremony with bated breath as Cassian handed the chalice filled with the spell-enchanted draught to Cenric and nodded at him.
My son drank deeply from the brew, the stench of the mixture wafting to my nose even from a distance, the lingering buzz of magic following after. It took every ounce of control I possessed not to winnow and slap that cup from his hands.
My nails dug painfully into my palms as I watched him gulp down the last of the concoction, grimacing in disgust as he pulled the goblet from his lips.
Cassian nodded gravely at his nephew before holding his hand out to collect the cup.
Each warrior was to drink before the assembly, for honor and to ensure that no one cheated.
Passing the chalice back to Cassian, Cenric nodded his confirmation, then turned and walked toward me, at the back of the tent. He strode proudly past the other warriors who had also consumed the power-leeching spell, all sitting pale as death on the icy ground as the brew worked its magic, draining their power from them. They shuddered in place, their wings bound, tight leathers crossed in a fashion that rendered them useless.
None had been able to make it further than the tent when the potion had hit. Each had slumped down in a different spot, bodies spasming as the magic that was as part of them as their blood vanished, pain wracking their forms.
It didn't stop the hatred in their eyes as they watched Cenric pass, some curling their lips back in snarls as he walked by.
He didn't even acknowledge their presence.
My throat constricted as I sensed the first flicker of a vacuum where the thrum of Cenric's magic had always been a steady presence.
I had dreaded what the brew would do to my son, whose power far surpassed anyone in these mountains.
I had forgotten how bad it was.
It was the jolt and shudder that passed through Cenric's shoulders first that had my heart bleating in panic as he let out a pained moan, nearly stumbling as he drew closer.
He did not fall, however, did not stop moving even as his skin grew as pale as milk and his lips thinned frighteningly.
Rhys's arms wrapped around me tightly from behind.
He'd warned me of the effects the potion would have, the effect it'd had on him when he'd consumed it so long ago. That it would wreak havoc on Cenric's body, bring it near the point of collapse in the first hours after consuming it. I remembered how it'd torn through Nesta, her scream as the spell the draught was enchanted with ripped her magic from her.
It would take a day before the effects waned enough that he could fight. Before any of them could.
The "time of contemplation" Cassian had called it, a tradition as old as the Illyrians and the Rite were. A day of preparation when the warriors allowed the magic in their bodies to be snuffed out and prepared themselves physically and mentally for the trials ahead.
Rhys had called it "the time of trying to stay conscious and not hurl up your guts." He'd said it had been one of the most agonizing days of his younger self but that the pain had subsided a few hours after. Azriel and Cassian had fared no better then.
It was known that the tonic itself was enough to kill a warrior before the Rite even began, that if the killing power ran too freely or was controlled too poorly that they would crumple beneath the spell's grasp. It would not only steal their power but their life.
Though Rhys had assured me Cenric's hold on his power was more than strong enough to resist, it gave me no comfort.
I felt the power within my son began to dwindle, felt it fade into a wisp of shadow on a chill wind in the night. He staggered, nearly hitting his knees by the time he reached me, but somehow remained upright, contempt still burning in his gaze for intervening earlier.
I did not reach out, knew after the stern exchange we'd had earlier that he did not want it.
I felt Mor's shoulders tighten beside me on my left, saw her lips turn down as she watched.
Nesta's face remained stone on my right, her sharp, unmoving gaze following my son's retreating form.
I could have clawed her eyes out for it.
I barely felt the comforting graze of my mate's power against my mind, soft and tentative. I ignored it as Cenric finally reached me and abruptly shoved past, his breath a rasp in his throat.
He wouldn't look at me.
I watched him stagger stiffly through the flap of the large tent, the snow now blinding and billowing as he stepped out into the frost and disappeared into the night. He was the first to exit the ceremonial tent standing.
Pride and blind terror raced through me as I heard the growls of the fallen warriors as they all watched my son walk out first.
I couldn't let him do this.
Cenric's head hurt like the seven circles hell as he struggled through the frozen wasteland that had formed in the hours of the Rite's ceremonies and monotonous vows. The pomp and circumstance of masculine bullshit that made even his male ego cringe.
He couldn't understand what his uncle and father saw in these people. Couldn't fathom how such wonderful males could ever have any respect for such a bigoted culture.
He thought of Nesta and her steely gaze, how'd she'd beaten the hell out of any of them that had stood in her way. How she'd told him to do the same and had implied that under no circumstances was he allowed to show any weakness. Even with the potion swirling through his veins.
They'd all warned it would be terrible, he just hadn't expected how terrible.
He'd nearly blacked out the second the first of it slipped into his system.
He tried to ignore the intense pain as his body absorbed the brew, breathing through his nose as he felt a part of himself ripped free.
Poison, it had tasted like burning poison.
He would have thought it lucky had it indeed been poison, in that it would have those bastards dropping like flies, but he wanted to savor their deaths. Wanted them to fall beneath his own blade as he watched the life drain from their eyes.
The ice tore at his face as he made his way towards the tents that had been erected for each participant to reside in during the week-long ceremony. He'd been the only warrior thus far that had made it out of the tent without having to sit.
She would have been 23.
The thought had tears welling in his eyes.
He wouldn't stop till he made it to his cot, even if the dizziness was blinding and he swore he heard the lapping of waves and the call of gulls overhead, a trickle of moonlight seeping through the clouds above a dark ocean. Could've sworn the vision of a boat with a mermaid at the bow danced in his mind and an overwhelming sense of relief over came him.
She's safe, were the words that danced through his mind, she's safe.
Horseshit.
Only her memory was safe in his heart, in that small stony grave in that lily-covered meadow.
There was no relief to be felt for him, not until this was finished.
His father had warned him of hallucinations as well. Had told him that he would see things that seemed so real, if he gave them proper attention they would drive him to madness.
He focused on the biting cold instead. On the burning of his muscles and the drip of cold sweat that ran down his brow.
Ramiel would be covered in a blizzard by the time they got to that mountainside, likely packed with at least a foot of dense snow, so thick they wouldn't be able to see in front of them.
He couldn't bring himself to give a damn.
The weather was odd for the season, colder and harsher than previous years. But bad weather meant excellent cover and he'd always been faster than the other warriors anyway, more cunning too.
A muscle contracted painfully in his back and he couldn't help the groan that tore from him as he stumbled forward, fighting the hold the brew had on him and the agony that raged as it snuffed out every ounce of magic that bled through his veins.
He was almost to his assigned tent.
He pushed through the pain, growling. The first step of the Rite, surviving your essence being ripped from you. He'd be damned if he lost to any of them.
His heart thundered in his chest as he finally pushed back the canvas tent flap as if it would explode from him. Good, he thought, let it burst. She'd taken the last of it away when she'd died that night.
Cenric hadn't registered the tears slipping down his face or the sobs that escaped him as he crawled the last few feet to the well-worn cot and collapsed upon it, welcoming sweet oblivion.
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
All of this was absolute bullshit. Valka let out a groan of agony as she writhed on the floor next to the few remaining Illyrians who hadn't risen yet. The last of the concoction had been dosed a few hours before and most of the warriors had already exited, whether by deaths hand or rising.
She, however, had not. She'd hit her knees the second that damned excuse for tea had slid down her throat, collapsing mere feet away from the front of the tent.
The first of the warriors had died within fifteen minutes, blood dripping from his nose as he slumped to the dirt floor with a solid thud. Only a few others had followed in the fool's footsteps. Of the two hundred in the Rite they'd lost eight.
She knew most of the males wished she would follow. She was the only female who had opted for the Rite this year and she knew that she'd had a target painted on her back from the moment she'd decided to serve Nesta.
The onlooking male warriors had all watched her with disdain and hollow eyes. Weak, they seemed to sing, weak female. It was only when their faces had shifted into his that'd she bit back against the tonic, damning it and all of its ancestors.
She would not give them the delight of watching her die here.
She dug her heels into the ground as she hissed in torture.
Two other warriors still sat on the ground next to her, struggling to rise. One, she noted distantly, was the particularly ugly bastard who had decided to rough up the Lord's pretty son.
She'd found herself surprisingly smug at Cenric's little show of strength when he'd nearly marched from the tent without collapsing, even as she'd felt the void of power being sucked away.
That had quickly to turned to rage when she hadn't been so lucky.
She punched the dirt as a fresh wave of molten fire shot through her body. She'd be damned if she was the last one to leave this tent standing.
Tearing past the pain, she thrust her feet beneath her, her bound wings heavy and clumsy, throwing off her balance instead of assisting with it as she was used to.
She seethed through her teeth as she slumped back to the ground.
Again, she thought, Do it again.
Bullshit.
Only Nesta, her smug-faced mate and a handful of lords remained to watch the remaining warriors rise. They would remain until all warriors exited the tent or until the last lives of the ritual were claimed.
Come on, she could hear his voice command, soft and deep like the brooks that carved through the mountain passes, You're stronger than that.
A shiver raced down her spine. She'd nearly forgotten that tone.
She didn't dare look at those around her for fear of seeing him, for fear of being foolish enough to believe he was there.
She'd sworn to him that she would not fail him. Had sworn with every ounce of her being that those bastards would pay for what they'd done.
No matter the cost to herself.
She only had to get to the Lord's pretty son, only had to get him alone long enough-
Working a foot under her, she once again pried herself upright, using a nearby tent pole as balance as she swayed dangerously. She glanced towards Nesta and could have sworn a flicker of something danced through her eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come.
She tried to ignore the hollow feeling that came to her in response. Her moment of self-reflection came to screeching halt as she saw who stood next to her.
The ugly bastard had also finally managed to rise, his looming form wavering as he leveled a glare at her. She gave it back to him tenfold.
She did not know how long she stood there willing her body to move when the scent of blood finally assaulted her nose. She didn't need to look to know the last warrior had died. The final count was nine.
The ugly bastard grinned at her, a self-righteous grin full of arrogance. He reached out as though he thought to push her down.
Like hell she'd leave the tent after that bastard.
Drawing on a strength she didn't even know she possessed she lashed out with one leg in a swift arc that had the brute tumbling over like a mountain, crying out in agony as he fell.
This time she caught the flicker of amusement from her captain as she turned and faced her, panting so hard she feared her lungs might burst.
She didn't have time to acknowledge that either.
Struggling not to lose her momentum, she dragged her lead-heavy legs across the expanse of the tent, the distance somehow so much longer and so much more perilous with each step she took. She ignored the growled barrage of insults from the final warrior, willing her feet to move faster.
She wasn't going to lose this one.
After what felt like an eternity the sweet bite of icy wind whipped across her face and she realized she'd won. Barely, but she'd done it.
The grounded warrior behind her bellowed like a tied hound, the word "whore" ringing free from his lips.
Unable to resist, she summoned her strength and turned back the tent's entrance one last time, flashing him a wide smile before flipping him the bird and making her way into the cold night.
(Feyre)
I sat beside Cenric's cot where he slept soundly, the howling winds of the pass tearing through the camp like wraiths. The color had returned to his cheeks a couple of hours before, the thundering of his heart easing in his chest as his breaths became soft and even.
He had survived the first trial of the Rite.
Unlike several of the other warriors.
There had been fewer deaths this time, more had died the year Nesta had taken the Rite. I had not forgotten the warrior novices beginning to fall, like toppling mountains, their breath sputtering as the magic tore the life from them.
The dying gasp of the first warrior had chilled me, the sound of his life fleeing him before Cenric had even come to the front of the line to ingest the draught.
I'd shaken the entire time he'd waited in that line.
Turning, I heard the soft whisper of fabric from where Azriel and Rhys stood watch outside the tent, as was tradition to ensure no foul play occurred before the rite. To make certain no one snuck off and slipped a knife through a male's ribs or dabbed poison across an already weakened warrior's lips.
No such thing would happen to Cenric.
My hand instinctually tightened around the bow I kept in my lap, an arrow loosely nocked. No one would touch my son tonight.
I chewed at my lip, no one would touch my son ever.
Easy, I heard his midnight voice call down the bond, he's already through one of the worst parts, he only needs to keep his wits about him and survive the week on the mountain.
A week that we cannot protect him.
Feyre, Rhys' voice was full of sorrow and worry, you can't take this from him.
A heavy sigh escaped me as I toyed with the fletching on the arrow, my hands growing numb in the plummeting temperatures of the Steppes.
I know, but please, let me protect him tonight, let us protect him tonight.
Rhys' response was a soft, tentative caress down the walls of my mind. We will, I promise.
I didn't bother wiping at the tears that slipped from my eyes.