A/N: One of my favorite things about Aretia is that there's CULTURE. Violet in IF: Part 2 mentions her surprise that one of the first things they rebuilt was a theater. Because at Basgiath, war IS the culture. And I hate that. So…I decided that there's one moment, once a year where Basgiath has some damn culture. Set sometime after they start talking into one another's minds and before the first battle of War Games.

I got the inspiration for this just by stumbling across this gorgeous rendition of Danny Boy by Malinda (YouTube), and it gave me feels (this song always does).

…

Battle Brief is a cacophony of chaos as usual before things are called to order, and we're all surprised to see a third-year Scribe Quadrant cadet join Devara on the other side of Markham. I don't recognize her, despite getting a good look, but of course I wouldn't. I never actually made it into the Scribe Quadrant.

"Settle down," Devara demands, and an impatient silence falls over the crowd.

I know that somewhere behind me sits Xaden, but don't turn to look. I have to stop looking, even though it's the farthest thing from my mind every time he's anywhere near me on the grounds. My eyes are just drawn to the man - like he's made of gravity and there's nowhere else my gaze could possibly fall.

"There is an unspoken rule here at Basgiath that once a cadet's name is read from the roll and their things are burned, we don't speak of them again. Once, before War Games start, we dedicate an honor to them. Only…once."

"Wait…Basgiath has culture? Since when?" Ridoc mumbles under his breath, and the rest of us grunt or nod in agreement.

Markham clears his throat, and an unusual look graces his old face - one I haven't seen in over a year.

Pride.

He used to look at me that way.

"Cadet Rose Bakar will have that honor this year. She is top of her class in the Scribe Quadrant, and one of my most favored pupils." His voice is softer than he ever uses with any of us in this room.

I'm not surprised when his eyes turn toward me, and that air of pride slips away to be back-filled by disappointment. It's been a while since I felt the weight of that particular disappointment, and I can't help but drop my face down the blank sheet of paper where it sits ready for notes once Battle Brief starts.

"Our tradition is a poem. There are hundreds to choose from, but this cadet has learned of a melody that was written to accompany one in particular, and today will be singing it for you. While I know that only a couple of us in this room speak Old Lucerish and will know the meaning of the words behind Broken Wing," another flicker my way, "bear with us as we honor those we've commended this year to Malek."

The moment the title was said aloud I couldn't stop the pulse of longing commingled with painful loss from blossoming in my chest, and my heart hurts. Catching me more off guard, however, is feeling the simultaneous spear of loneliness and anguish that floods into me. Those all too familiar emotions mix to twine and intermingle with my own, and it all nearly pulls the air from my chest as I realize those extra feelings didn't come from me. They came across the bond in my mind - the one made of dark swirling shadow.

Xaden.

"Are you okay?"

We ask the question simultaneously, my voice mixing with his as concern flows from both ends.

Silence reigns and I get the feeling that neither of us truly reacted fast enough to cover any feelings we wanted to cover, though it wasn't my first instinct anyway. Maybe it was that neither of us wanted to. I quietly break the silence.

"My father used to read me this poem. I…never knew it had a melody."

I expect nothing in return, but do attempt to digest the fact that Xaden and I share something in common other than hardship at Basgiath. I'm endlessly surprised that it's heartbreak over a damn poem of all things. The young woman on the stage steps forward and projects with lesser magic, and everything that was already quiet falls into near deathly silence.

His answer drips with sorrow.

"My mother used to sing it to me."

The desperate want to turn and put my eyes on him is overwhelming, but I keep myself from moving.

"I've never known the words."

I feel the bond go cold and know he's shielded me out. But I'd heard it - emotion in his voice is something I've never experienced from him. Well…this emotion was new. Anger? Plenty. Incredulity? Near constant. Frustration? Daily, if not hourly.

The moment the scribe opens her mouth and pours that crystal clear high voice into the ether, my quill moves in my hand. I know the words by heart, but I write at her pace anyway. Several lines through is when Rhiannon looks over as if suddenly sensing my movement in the still hall, shock on her face when she looks at my transcribing words. Our eyes meet and a soft smile drifts between us, both pairs turning watery.

"Of course you speak Old Lucerish," she whispers, and she follows my writing to take in the words along with the melody as it flows over the room and its occupants like a decadent wave.

The comfort of just hearing these lines again washes over my mind before settling into my heart to bloom like little flowers of painful nostalgia. The enchanting way the melody flows up and down and the way the cadence embraces the pentameter leaves me nearly breathless, and I can't help but wonder why I never knew it had one. Why I never knew that it was a song.

It was probably because Dad had a terrible singing voice, and I can't stop from thinking how Mom's cheeks would turn bright red when he would embarrass her with sung words croaking from his mouth. Another pang of hurt to join the fray. The General no longer blushes.

This new way to experience one of my favorite poems is spellbinding. For a moment, I long to have heard it the way Xaden had, sung by someone that cherished him. After now, hearing this piece of art without the melody might as well be blasphemy.

Gods, it makes me want to ask a million questions about the sadness he let flow into my mind for those short seconds, but I know I won't. We kissed. That was it.

"Twice," the intrusion of my black dragon is jarring, though his voice is a soft growl instead of the overbearing rumble that has the ability to rattle my teeth. I ignore him since Montserrat wasn't…it didn't count.

But on the wall, it was honestly our dragon's overwhelming emotions that made us do it. While I'm fairly sure this is just a convenient lie I'm still trying to convince myself of, Xaden and I don't owe each other anything remotely deeper than a blush after that whole thing.

Which I know will only come from me.

Yet…things were different between us now. Softer. I'm almost sure of it. He didn't need to tell me about his mother. He didn't need to let his emotions cloud our bond. I know he can shield better than that. But even if it was a slip, a mistake…

He chose to tell me. And that makes all the difference in the world.

The song was nearing its conclusion and as the final note rang out, a reverent silence kept all of us, even Ridoc, from uttering a sound. Bowing her head minutely, the scribe cadet walked from the stage, and out of Battle Brief.

There weren't many dry eyes in the seats, and sniffles became the first sound after her soft slippered feet had left and the heavy door had closed in her wake. My cheeks are wet as are Rhiannon's and just about everyone in Second Squad I can see from the corner of my eye, and despite my better judgment, I turn slightly in my seat to get a look up at where Xaden sits.

You'd think he was carved from stone, and there wasn't a hint of that emotion I'd heard in his voice on his face. His arms were folded across his chest, as they usually are, and his onyx eyes don't meet mine. I turn back around to focus on Devara as the teacher wipes at her face before demanding we all get back on track.

That's enough culture for one year, I guess.

The moment Battle Brief ends, I quickly fold the paper in half before scribbling something in the middle, folding it one more time and slipping it into my pocket. I stuff my things back into the pack and sling it over my shoulder, looking up to find that Xaden is already gone.

Of course he is.

It was a full four hours later, after squad sparring training, after lunch, after classes when I finally felt the barrier blocking me from accessing his strand in my Archives loosen up.

"Where are you?"

Silence. Was he going to ice me out some more? Probably. I'm not exactly his confidant. So when he answers, I can't help but feel relieved.

"Why?"

By now, the eye roll is just a part of me when I'm dealing with him. An extension of my personality. "Because I have something for you."

"Why?"

"Xaden," I can't help the growl.

"I'm headed out to fly with Garrick for maneuvers. I'll find you later."

The bond goes cold again.

After weight training with Imogen, I'm trudging up the stairs toward my room accompanied by a sharp, consistent pain in my left knee that forces me to limp a bit to keep it from truly crumpling me to the steps.

"Gods. Imagine going through everything we've been through to fall down the stairs and end up on the death roll." Liam, my shadow, walks behind me in what I assume is prime position to catch me if I fall, and I don't stop the glare I toss over my shoulder.

"Really? Tempting fate here, don't you think?" I gesture at my…everything, and his laugh echoes against the stonework.

"Don't worry, I'll catch you."

"That sounds like when, not if."

"Well -" he leaves off, and as we hit the landing and he moves to my side, my fist collides with his muscled arm.

It wasn't until then that I felt the presence of his shadow at my shields, which weren't really up, and like a damn overwhelming bout of gravity, I take Xaden in with a quick sweep of my eyes. He's casually leaning against the wall next to my closed door on his shoulder, arms crossed at the top and ankles crossed at the bottom. Honestly? He's never looked better.

Which is probably a lie, but I don't have time right now to think about every single time I thought he looked amazing this last week, let alone since Parapet.

Liam pats him on the shoulder as he passes, says a quick goodnight to us both, then it's his his door opening - closing.

Silence.

Only when I look up at him expectantly does he speak.

"You said you wanted to see me?"

His voice was a near sensual purr, low and rumbled through his chest, and I feel the pinch of it in my stomach before lust shoots like adrenaline through my veins. Tamping it down as hard as possible, I nod silently and reach into a pocket of my leathers, coming up empty. The pocket on the other side? Also empty.

Only sparing a single glance but seeing the amusement that dances in his eyes, I grumble while checking and rechecking my pockets. Gods, I carried it all day, where the hell did I put it?

"In your bag which you dropped off earlier," Train grumbles, as if my inability to remember this simple moment of my day calls into question the veracity of his 'chose you for your intellect' thing.

I can feel Xaden right behind me, stepping after me once I push into the room. He's just past the threshold and, thankfully, doesn't close the door behind him. I'm not sure what all I'd read into that, but I don't want the opportunity to read anything into that. Heading straight for the pack which is indeed sitting on my desk, I find the folded piece of paper a bit rumpled, but otherwise unscathed from my long day.

Hobbling back I see that he's taken up his usual position - feet a shoulders-width apart and arms folded across his broad chest, his face conveying annoyance but eyes promising that he's not actually annoyed. At least…that's how I'm interpreting it.

"Don't read it here, wait until you get to your room," I suggest, coming up and holding the folded paper out to him.

He takes it after slowly unfurling his arms, and I'm tempted to retreat but don't. I hate to admit that my body aches for him - craves him to pull me against every hard line he's built, but it does and I do.

"Are we passing notes now, Violence?"

I scoff and hit him with another mind-reeling eye roll. "Sure."

His scarred brow cocks higher than the other side, and he ignores me. He uses those same thumbs that had brushed the angles of my jaw those weeks ago to unfold the parchment, the rustle the only sound in the room.

I catch him by surprise when I step closer and settle my hand over his. "You don't want to read it here."

An endless cascade of curiosity mixing with excitement fills those damn pools of his eyes. "Why?"

I take in the open door behind him knowing that anyone in the hallway could overhear, so I connect with his mind. 'Because I'm assuming you can't stand to be vulnerable in front of someone that you don't care about. Trust me. I know how reading it will feel because I wrote it, and I know I'd want to be alone."

The flecks of gold twinkle with challenge and…something else. Some other reaction to my statement that furrowed his brow. When he looks down I follow and take in my elegant, scribe-trained handwriting on top of the first fold.

Now you know is all that's written - and I see that curious glint again when our eyes meet. While mine ask for trust, his are filled with wonder.

I know the instant he chooses to ignore my warning. Arrogantly, he flips the top half up with his thumb and looks down. Two seconds later, it's easy to see the hard lines of his shoulders tense, hear the way his breath catches in his chest, and feel that he's gone as still as a statue. The emotion that I'd felt earlier is written on every inch of his face, and those typically icy onyx eyes soften and shine behind a shimmering layer of mist.

"You -" but his throat closes and he can't seem to get the rest out, and then I hear him in my mind. "You know Old Lucerish?"

It was a pained but incredulous whisper, and all I can do is nod and set my lips in a soft smile. Reaching out, I close it over his fingers and cut him off as he drinks in the words like a man greedy for water after crossing a desert - the words of the song his mother used to sing to him, that my father used to read to me.

"Now you know the words." Even my whisper seems too loud, and I'm thankful that he doesn't reopen it and start reading again. I'm a half step away from wrapping my arms around him anyway, and I know he'll hate that. Xaden Riorson isn't someone that wants comfort - though my heart begs me to argue that want and need are two very separate things.

As quick as emotion was attempting to bend his six-foot-something frame into submission, it disappeared, compartmentalized behind a partition so similar to my internal pain box that it made me drop my eyes and focus on our nearly touching boot-tips. I fidget my fingers together and bite at my lower lip.

He's going to bolt. I'm sure of it. The next sound will be his boots on the floor and into the hallway before silence reclaims everything in his wake, and I know I'll close the door and get ready for bed alone like every other night since he kissed me. That…stings. But that I was able to give him something from his past? From before everything in his life went to hell? That feels…appropriate.

That's not what happens. He doesn't bolt - doesn't leave. I can feel his eyes on me, two points of radiating heat that might actually rival the sun. I can almost feel them going straight through me to dive into the racing pulse of blood that leaves my heart before scattering to the far ends of my body.

Instead, he steps in and tips down his head, and my heart jumps to hammer against my sternum. There's no way he can't hear it, not with how damn quiet it is and how damn close he stands. The moment his lips brush the top of my cheekbone just below my temple, a path of heat as if I was struck by lightning spears down my body, and I only barely hold my breath to keep the shudder from running amok down my spine.

"Thank you." It's an emotional whisper against my skin that cools the sudden heat that's spread across my cheek.

I can't answer, verbally or mentally, so I just nod.

Then he was gone - his boots indeed echoing across the floor until the sound disappeared in the hallway.

I never had him, but I miss him all the same.

…