Chapter Text

Chapter 6

“I think you have five that look exactly like that.”

Mor held the earrings away from her pointed ears and back in front of her face. They were gold plated with large rubies embedded. “I wear them a lot, don’t I?” Arwen nodded with a lopsided smile. Mor’s lips widened. “Then I know I will wear these too.”

The darker haired female laughed and followed her to the store worker. The other three Illyrians that had been following them for some time, decided that a short stop for food was far more fulfilling than joining Mor and Arwen in one of their favourite jewellery stores. Pity, because there was a bracelet that she had been eyeing off and wanted to hint to her brother, so he’d have some idea for her birthday.

She preferred these things as gifts, rather than spoiling herself. It wasn’t that she was against the occasional splurge, but wearing them and knowing that they were from someone else just meant more. It was a reciprocal thing, too, for she always adored whenever she saw them with her own given gifts.

“So,” Arwen sang, hooking her arm around her cousin’s elbow, “any recent developments with the lovely occupants of our favourite pleasure hall?” Mor hissed through her teeth and turned her head away. Arwen chuckled, and said, “You can tell me. The others are still in that bloody shop no doubt.”

“Nothing…special,” Mor carefully divulged. “Just some alcohol-induced fun.”

“Isn’t that the best kind?” She tipped her head against the blonde’s shoulder as they laughed. “We should go tonight.” Dusk had just come, the paints of orange, blues and reds splattered across the horizon, casting the red mountain where the House of Wind stood into an even deeper hue.

“You won’t hear me arguing.”

They eventually found their companions who were stepping out onto the street just as they arrived. They smelt of savouries and pastries which began to bring a pout to her lips until Rhys tossed them both a package. Inside, Amren had a lemon tart, Mor a cream pastry. Through a large bite of the tangy treat, she managed to say something along the lines of, “We’re going to Rita’s.”

Cassian was the first to understand what she had said. He held his hands up and said, “I’ll go for the gambling and drinking.” Arwen rolled her eyes at him—that was only half the fun. But she didn’t argue, she’d drag him in one way or another. “Rhys?”

“I think I’ll retire for the night.”

Her jaw opened. “Why?” she whined. “It’s still early.”

He smiled knowingly down at her, hands deep in his pockets. “Because I know that you won’t go home until the rest of the city is asleep. And I want to be asleep with it.”

“You can go home early,” she bargained. “Just come for a drink. Or three. Five if you feel like it.” At his still apprehensive expression, she took a step forward, shooting a brow to her hairline and muttered, “Do you really trust us three to all get home safely? We’ll make it to the gutters without you.”

Rhys set his jaw to the side, laughing in both mirth at her attempt and disbelief that he knew the coercion was working on him. He also knew he could waste the next morning and a good night in town might be worth the headache. Though he never liked to, he used to be able to say no to her more often. Now every time that he intended to, a pang of fear struck through him like a plucked chord. She was still alive, and he couldn’t bring himself to deny her anything.

His lips pursed as he looked back down at her.  

Arwen bit her lip to smother her grin. “Hooked like a hungry trout,” she mused joyfully. Before he could change his mind, she grasped his arm and held it tightly in her own before turning to their final companion. “Az?”

Azriel stood stiffly. He had never been to Rita’s, nor did he have any intention to. It just did not seem like the type of place for him to enjoy, despite Mor’s continuous conviction that he would. It wasn’t the drinking or the company he was requested to go with that bothered him. It was everyone else. So many people lurking around, drinking and dancing, strangers grinding on strangers. It was hard to deny the longing in the call of his name from his mate’s lips, but he swallowed that innate instinct to please her and said, “Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Mor huffed in an echo. “Not last week either. And I’ll bet my entire jewellery collection—and Amren’s—that it won’t be next week that you deign to join.”

Arwen tilted her eyes in her cousin’s direction. “Don’t push him,” she said softly. “He doesn’t want to come, and fun cannot be forced.” Rhys gave a short grumble and jostled his trapped arm around. “You’re not coming for fun,” she told him. “You’re coming to wait drinks on me.”

“There it is,” her brother muttered.

Azriel shot her an appreciative smile and dip of his head. He knew that despite her brushing off Mor’s comment that she did want him there. He sensed her disappointment through the bond that eternally linked them. For a moment he regretted it so deeply that his mouth began to part, despising that he was the source of her discontent. But he forced his lips back together. He would brood the entire night instead of enjoying it and one of them would feel the need to keep him company, ruining their night as well.

The group of four left Azriel with kind goodbyes before he shot up into the sky, becoming the night itself. Arwen couldn’t help but peek over her brother’s shoulder, watching his dark silhouette morph with the growing darkness of the night bitten sky as they walked.  

As Cassian and Mor walked arm in arm just ahead, Rhysand leaned down to his sister’s ear. “I could command him to come,” he said quietly, a sly smirk forming as her eyes shot to him. “I am his High Lord after all.”

“I-I no. No.” Arwen set her head straight. “First of all, you would never pull rank on something like that, so I don’t believe you. And second… Just no. I don’t need him to come to have a good night and he doesn’t need to be forced to be around us if he doesn’t want to be.”

Rhysand sighed but covered it with a tight smile. He rarely got involved with whatever was happening between them. Both his spymaster and sister avoided the topic and he’s only made the mistake of prying with her too much once. Azriel he had pushed more, but he was always met with a withdrawn answer or a snarl. Neither was entirely unhappy, but it wasn’t exactly what the High Lord would call comfortable either.

Cassian of course had his own tactics of trying to retrieve answers. He’d push and taunt Azriel, making comments that even had Rhys glowering, but all in the name of making him speak rather than being the true spy he was with locked lips and composure. It was easy enough to say that the only answers the General Commander received were bruised eye sockets.

Arwen soon had a tall glass of amber coloured liquid near her lips, seated at a rather large booth against the back wall of Rita’s. Far enough away to talk and have space, but close enough that they did not feel cut off from the energy of the club. Once she had downed two, she had enough confidence to join Mor in dancing.

Her fingers latched with her cousin’s, heads tipped back in laughter that rang even over the music. Cassian and Rhys watched their females diligently, enjoying their drinks rather than having their toes stepped on.

“She had another nightmare,” the High Lord, murmured as quietly as he could to be heard.

Cassian frowned, looking between him and the two dancing girls. “Arwen? What about?”

Rhysand dropped his palm against the table, leaning back into his chair. “What do you think?” Guilt had seemed to find a nice little spot inside of him with no intention of ever leaving. Cassian sighed through flared nostrils and took a long swig from his strong scented glass. “That’s why she wanted to come out tonight,” he continued, “because she doesn’t like trying to fall asleep. Hopes the alcohol will make it easier.”

“She’s fine, Rhys.” Cassian sighed again at his own choice of words even before Rhysand sent him a glare. “I mean that she’s safe. Arwen is right here in Velaris. She’s got the time and space to heal, we just have to let her. You can’t rush that process.”

“I don’t want to rush it,” Rhysand contended in a muttering growl. “I want to reverse time. Meet them both like I was supposed to.”

“And then all three of you might have been dead.”

He refused to believe that. If Arwen had been strong enough to fight away from the group of Spring Court High Fae, then he could have fought back too. Maybe have been strong enough to still have his mother. Or at least saved his sister’s wings.

The Spring Court still had them. After feeling the weight of the High Lord title fall onto him at his father’s death, he had fled without them in mind. It was one of his darkest regrets, yet he couldn’t bring himself to go back to the Spring Court and demand them. He didn’t want to see them butchered and cut from her. Rhysand didn’t want her to see them.

He also feared slaughtering the new High Lord of the Spring Court on sight and he wasn’t ready for the political repercussions of that yet.

He forced the conversation to move on before he became a mirror of Azriel’s brooding form.

Arwen nearly fell against the table, resting her crossed elbows on it to balance where she stood at its end. “I’ve successfully out-danced Mor,” she declared as the blonde approached slower from behind.

“Well, you’re not convincing me to join you,” Cassian snorted, the sound reverberating into the glass as he sipped from it.

“I wasn’t going to ask you,” she drawled, narrowing her eyes mockingly. “I don’t want you to dance with me—you can’t dance.”

At that, the glass slammed against the table as the General stared at her. “You’re going to regret running your mouth.”

Arwen rose to the challenge, leaning further onto the table. “Doubt it. You’re not as scary as you look.”

“Training,” he declared. “Tomorrow morning at sunrise.” He smiled wickedly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Arwen’s mouth parted in disgust, violet eyes darting to her brother as though he might save her from the fate just bestowed to her. It was well into the night and even if she hadn’t been drinking, she’d be exhausted waking up so early.

Rhysand only tightened his lips in his way of telling her that he was staying out of it. Cassian, after all, oversaw her training. And since Cassian was the only one of the three males capable of remaining unaffected by her pout, it was always amusing to see that disgruntlement without the guilt.

Arwen lowered her chin to her palm. “Bastard,” she muttered. She drummed her other fingers along the table as Mor complained about needing another drink to regain her energy for the night was hardly over. Arwen’s fingers slowed though, as a shadow weaved between them. They were hard to see in the dark hall and for a moment she thought that they may belong to something moving around her.

But no. They were too distinct, too familiar and thick to be regular shadows. They were Azriel’s. Had he sent them here, or had they come on their own as they sometimes did? She had caught him glaring at them more than once before they recoiled to his body, surrounding and shrouding him against the light.

A sudden wash of dizziness washed over her. Arwen took a sharp breath through her nose, placing her hand flat against the table.

“Alright there?”

She nodded, staring at a spot on the table to centre her swaying vision. “Danced too much.”