Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Starfall was nearly here.

Arwen had been thinking about it for days on end. Her favourite celebration of all that were observed in Prythian. The years seemed to pass by in a blur, then slowed to the pace of a snail trekking a bridge in the days coming to the wondrous night. Each year, she would hunt down the perfect dress—the only new one she would buy all year round. A marking of another year, another year alive, another year in Velaris. Another year since she had been marked for death with the scars comprising what used to be the smooth skin of her back and a set of glorious wings. Another year since she escaped that fate. 

A fate that her mother did not.

It was Cassian this year that she swindled into wandering the Palace of Thread and Jewels since she had spent the night at the House of Wind, staying late to play cards with the same male. Arwen had woken him earlier than he would have liked, swatting her away and informing her that she should take the stairs down if she was that eager. She had no other options. She had not learned to winnow successfully. Rhysand had been down in the townhouse, Mor and Amren had no wings and they could not winnow in or out, and Azriel… Well, she didn’t bother asking him though she knew he would have said yes. And though Cassian gave the adamant impression he wouldn't acquiesce her request, after she shoved food in his face, he was more than content to wander behind her aimlessly.

Arwen forced Cassian to stand next to a dress that she held up. Pursing his lips, he looked between her and the fabric. “I don’t think it’s going to fit.”

It was almost humorous the comparison of the dress to his warrior’s build. “I’m seeing if it matches your hair,” she dismissed, though smiling at his jest. They had the same colour after all, though in the sun hers remained a few shades darker. But now she was being swayed by his deeper set tone of skin. The dress was a dark, royal blue that would fit her form, loosening around her thighs. Turning the dress around, she eyed the open back and pinched underneath her bottom lip with her teeth.

Years ago, that would have been the only type of dress she could have worn. Now not a single dress in her wardrobe would reveal her back.

Cassian yawned, eyes clenching shut and his head tipping back, hair falling away from the frame of his face. Arwen sent him a half-hearted glare and placed the dress away. “You can go,” she told him. “I’ll have Rhys take me back, or I might stay in the townhouse.”

Through another yawn, he said: “You’ve pulled me down here now. I’m not leaving until you buy me lunch.”  

“Fair enough,” she decided. It had been some time since she forced an apple between his teeth. “You could offer your opinion though.” Arwen picked up another dress. “It may make the decision faster.”

He pointed at the one she held. “That one. Absolutely that one.” She smacked his arm with the back of her hand and though he gave a whine of pain, she was sure it hurt her more than it hurt him. “Damn you, woman. It is a nice dress.”

Arwen examined the contents in her hand. It was a darker shade of blue. Midnight blue. With a satin bodice and skirt. But again, it fell into thin straps and an open back. “It is,” she agreed, then placed it back.

Cassian sighed. She didn’t know if he understood why, but he definitely understood that she had a reason. She guessed that he had an idea since he never actually asked and he was not the type to brush aside his curiosity in favour of privacy.

“I’m only partially saying this for myself, but let’s take a break. The dresses won’t leave but the bakery will throw out those cheese stuffed rolls or sell them.” He placed a hand on her back, guiding Arwen from the store. She deigned to his guidance and brought him two cheese scrolls.

“Satisfied?” she questioned, still munching on her first and only while he licked his fingers after his second. Part of her wishes she had brought Mor and just braved the stairs so she didn’t have to bribe the company.

“For now.”

They wandered some through the late morning-early afternoon gathering of the markets, neither making any sort of haste for action. Her dress was becoming a tad too warm under the spring sun; high collar and fully sleeved. But the material was too tight to fold up her arms and her other choices of clothing too far away to consider an option of changing to. She often wondered how her other Illyrian companions managed in their leathers when they trained with them. Not to mention they produce an exorbitant amount of heat on a normal day. Often Arwen sat near them rather than bothering to light the hearths.

Today though, the general had chosen a sensible shirt and black trousers. Though she was sure he had worn for them the past three days since she had seen him grab them from over the chair in his room before he kicked her out. No, that recollection was entirely wrong. He’d invited her to stay, but she let her cheeks flush and scampered out, hearing his soft laughter follow her until she reached the end of the hall. Going into his chambers was always a calculated risk. Arwen was lucky he wore anything to bed the night before.

“Are you ready to start training again?”

Arwen rolled her shoulder in a test. It had been a stupid accident, one that she should have predicted coming when she spent an entire day teasing her brother then asked to spar with him that same evening. He scarcely showed his remorse for knocking her shoulder out of place. “I think so. When were you thinking?”

“Mornings again,” Cassian offered. “We’ll give a lot of time to warming up and strengthening.”

She nodded. “As long as you don’t punch me in the shoulder, I should be fine. I know my brother isn’t technically a bastard, but I’m still calling him that.” Arwen had screamed murder when he landed on her, elbow driven into the soft pit just next to her collarbone.

“I would too,” he said mirthfully. “Looked pretty mangled.”

“He hasn’t even apologised. Except for that half-hearted splutter right before he laughed.” She certainly had not been laughing when Cassian popped her shoulder back into place. Rhysand had sat opposite her, holding her other arm and shoulder steady, barely suppressing the sound. That was a few weeks ago and he still eyeballed her whenever she was in a less than happy mood, expecting her vengeance to come at any time.

“You did insult his intelligence. And his pride. And his hair. I’m not sure there’s anything of him that you left un-insulted.”

Arwen held a hand to her chest. “The wounds I caused would have healed with a night of good sleep. This has kept me from good sleep for a month now.”

Though an apology hadn’t come her way, she knew Rhysand at least felt some guilt. He winced whenever she did, jostling it around too hard.

In the end, they never made it to another dress shop. Arwen had lost her sense of care for the day already and Cassian did not care to begin with. Where they found themselves, was outside of the townhouse. She did not bother to knock, turning the knob into her family’s home. It was brightly lit and warm, but not the uncomfortable warmth of the sun against her clothed neck.

Inside, Rhysand, Azriel and Amren were talking amongst themselves. The pair didn’t hide their entrance and drew their attention with heavy falls of their feet. Rhys grinned at the Illyrian behind her. “That time of year again?”

Cassian brushed past her. “Teach her to winnow, Rhys. I swear on the Cauldron.” He left the threat unfinished, already searching for someplace comfortable to sit in another room. Rhys watched him for a moment before shifting his eyes to Arwen who only smiled.

“I have tried,” he said, despite the general moving out of range. Arwen flashed him a scathing warning. Yes, he had tried. But her Illyrian side was stronger than her Fae and magic didn’t run in her blood that way it did with his. But with no wings, now she felt less… Anything, really.

Arwen avoided looking at the other winged male, instead glancing between her brother and Amren. “Important discussion?”

“No.” Rhys shook his head. “Nothing important.” She narrowed her violet eyes at him but believed his words for the time. Eyes shifted to her from the space she refused to look at. He nodded towards her side. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Nice of you to care.” He threatened a smile. Arwen matched it. “Watch yourself, brother. It’s easy to be too comfortable when you’re arrogant.”

“I’m not arrogant,” he corrected, trailing behind her as she wandered to the same room that Cassian now sat in, needing to always have the last word. “I’m simply entertained by your annoyance.”

“No. Definitely arrogant. And when someone threatens that arrogance, you dislocate their shoulder.”

“I—” He cut himself short, not even able to make an excuse. Arwen fell into the single chair, crossing her knees with an expectant look. Rhys stood just in front of her, arms folded and considering. “I’m sorry,” he eventually said.

“Buy me something for Starfall and I’ll forgive you.”

Behind her brother, Cassian huffed loud enough to acquire the attention of all. “Materialistic,” he accused.

Arwen tilted her head to look past the High Lord’s legs. “I bought you with food. He can buy me with whatever his imagination deems worthy of my forgiveness.” In truth, she didn’t care about him buying her anything. They shared the same wealth in any case, but she knew that he would think carefully and gifts were always tokens that she kept. The desire came from simply having something that he thought she would like.

Rhysand strode towards the chair, almost about to pass it but stopped as his shoulder lined with hers. He leaned down, pinching a few threads of her hair and tugged it back until she looked up at his looming figure. “Consider it done.” Arwen gave a loose roll of her eyes and swatted away his hand. “As long as it means I don’t have to sleep with an eye open.”

“Depends on how much I like it.”

Rhysand took her taunt for what it was, smiling overhead and placing a kiss on her hairline. Before he left, his hand slipped to her sore shoulder, squeezing in what would usually be a friendly manner but sent her into a shrivelled face of pain. Azriel, who had just drifted into the room, watched her as she rubbed her shoulder, sending a vulgar gesture over to her brother. She felt him—she always felt him, even when she didn’t want to.

That was what happened with mates. There was always a sense of their existence, pestering you at every hour of the day. They filled your mind even when they had no reason to. Even when Arwen scorned herself for it. She could feel the thread tied to her ribs, just next to her heart and every day she wanted to cut a knife through the area and slice that thread. And every day she picked up that knife, holding it until the thread was taut. But she couldn’t snap it. Once it did, it would never heal. She didn’t know whether that was a selfish desire of clinging to him even after her refusal to acknowledge it, or she was just sparing him the hurt of rejecting the connection. Rhysand had tried to pry the answer from her many years ago until she shoved him from her chamber, held her back against the door and cried for hours. She knew he waited on the other side because when she left, he was waiting for her with open arms. He hadn’t asked since

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Cassian sought out his revenge the very next morning. Arwen awoke with a grumble forming in her throat. The sun barely slitted through her window even on the mountain’s height overlooking the horizon. Not that she would have seen it anyway, as a great shadow loomed over her. He shook her when she clenched her eyes shut. Knowing that she had little choice, Arwen kicked her bedsheets away to free her legs, then nudged him away until she had room to rise.

“Out.”

“And miss the show?”

She paused her digging through a drawer where she searched for her training clothes. “The show will be your broken nose when I tell Rhys that you didn’t leave.” A true enough threat as one ever was, but not the most effective that was in her arsenal. But threatening with Azriel felt like hypocrisy that she did not want to play into.

Cassian, with the memory of how his friend and High Lord reacted to his overnight activity with Mor many years ago, backed away with his hands open to the world. “Be up there in ten minutes,” he warned her, even shutting the door behind him. Arwen smiled to herself, wiping the tire away from her eyes. Oh, Rhys had dislocated her shoulder alright, but he’d do far worse to anybody that violated his family.

The smile simmered. She hadn’t gone that day with her father and brother to the Spring Court. She was glad for it, but he’d returned covered in blood as she still was, the deaths of Tamlin’s brothers on his hands and a new power embodying him. He returned without their father and but with a new title. A mirror of how she found him, without her mother and with no wings.

For weeks after, she had struggled to walk, learning with her new balance as the centre of her gravity shifted, no longer compensating for wings. She had become lost during those days, spent the nights sobbing, cradled in her brother’s arms as he cried silently over her.

That is why she now trained.
Because she was given a fighting chance that disaster-stricken day and she had barely made it. Barely crawled her way into the camp where Rhysand trained a new legion, blood spewing down her back, her mother’s blood splayed across her cheek. She vowed never that she would ever feel that useless again. Arwen vowed that she would be strong enough to have saved the both of them.

Shutting the drawer, Arwen peeked a glance at the mirror hanging above her vanity. Tired, but she didn’t look it. Dressing in fitted black trousers and a loose shirt, she left and headed to the rooftop training rings, wrapping her hands with a cloth as she went.

Waiting for her, or rather just there for training as well, were all three Illyrians. “Morning weaklings,” she called, ready to rile them up and entertain herself.

“You won’t be saying that after we’re done today,” Rhysand taunted, pointing a wooden staff at her. She only perked a brow at him in challenge, leaving him to consider what it meant in favour of warming her muscles.

Azriel and Cassian spared lightly to the side, Rhysand returning to practising manoeuvres with the staff to the air. He swung with lethal precision and air-whistling speed. Arwen knelt against the ground and prepped her arms into a push-up position, testing how her shoulder took the weight. Tense, but nothing she couldn’t handle.

Even with only a month of rest she had fallen behind by a few repetitions from her usual goal but gave herself that space to have the strength return. Once her muscles felt warmed and her heart beating enough to get blood pumping, Arwen picked up another wooden staff and faced her brother.

“You're barely swatting flies away with that technique,” she mocked, twisting her staff to block his downward blow. Rhysand grinned at her and struck again. Not moving out of the way in time, the wooden staff whacked her calf, leaving a sting and red line forming. Her lips rounded, a silent show of pain. 

“No?”

He laughed as she led the offensive—or more so allowing her to. He dodged and parried almost all her strikes except for one good hit to his lower back that had him cradling the area as they took a break. Arwen sat next to him, guzzling down her water. “You never told me who won the snowball fight this year,” she mused, watching the other two Illyrians spar. Cassian was laughing, arm around the spymaster’s neck who twisted his way out of it with a good kick to the back of the general’s knee.

“I’m surprised Azriel didn’t announce his victory to the entirety of Velaris.”

Arwen raised her brows, shifting her gaze to focus on the spymaster. She too was surprised that he hadn’t revelled in the victory. It was quite the feat as each of them spent the coming days formulating plans. She had joined one year and after a snowball to the face that knocked her cold for a few seconds, she declined to remain. “Does the defeat hurt?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But it’s fuel for next year and if he uses similar tactics, I’m sure to beat him.” They watched the other pair for a little longer until Rhysand kneeled at her side. He placed a hand on her knee, prying her eyes towards him. Quietly, he asked, “Would you like to go flying tonight?”

Each time he asked, the question shot a different type of arrow through her. Some days it was a shot of exhilaration, the idea of wind streaming through her hair once more and to feel it rippling her clothes. Other days it was an arrow of mountain ash that crippled her. He always took her answer, for whatever it was. If she snapped at him, he nodded and left her be. If she agreed, he smiled and promised to find her that night.

It was a tradition that become when one day, young and restless, she found him sneaking from a balcony in the middle of the night. Arwen threatened tears and screams (very young, indeed) if he didn’t let her come.

“I think I’ll be exhausted after today,” she decided.

He smiled with a tipped head. “You know I do all the work.”

Arwen laughed but nodded. “If I’m awake when you find me,” she agreed. He gave her knee a squeeze and stood.

“Oi!” Cassian waved his hand. His bare torso glistened with sweat and his chest moved in pants but not an inkling of tire showed in his stance or face. “You’ve had a month of rest, that’s enough. Now that you’ve had a play fight—” Rhysand scoffed— “It’s time for some actual training.”

Arwen pushed back to her feet and joined him in the ring where Azriel had just left. His recent fight gave her a slight advantage that he had yet to have a break, but in almost every other aspect he overpowered her. Moving into a fighting position, hands braced in front of her, Cassian let her make the first move.

He kept the fight light enough that she kept up without too much trouble against his promise. Azriel and Rhysand mimicked them in another hand-to-hand in the next marked ring over. “Good,” Cassian praised. “Remember your feet.”

Arwen nodded and her consciousness drifted to their soles. Fighting, at least, she didn’t have to relearn without wings. She hadn’t started until after. And she was good—a natural, Cassian had often commended. He was the finest trainer there was, though often he pushed until her limits were tested. Today seemed no different.

After moving into the pattern, he began to strike harder and faster, pulling her into holds that required more than a good elbow to the face to get herself out of. Arwen held a grin, exhilaration overriding the oncoming exhaustion. It wasn’t until he managed to knock her foot out from underneath her, and she crashed into the ground sore shoulder-first that it changed.

“Cass.”

Arwen squirmed under his hands that held her to the ground, not even hearing another calling of her partner.

“Cassian!”

The hands lightened. Arwen collected herself, adjusting her arm through a wince until she could bear the weight on her uninjured one instead. Rhysand and Azriel had stopped fighting, watching hers instead. “Sorry,” Cassian muttered, offering a hand. “You alright?”

She took his offered hand and let him haul her to her feet. “Yep. But that counts as a punch which I asked you to avoid.”

“My bad.”

“You need to be more careful.” Arwen narrowed her eyes, snapping them to the shadowsinger who she expected to be berating her, but his hazel irises were settled on her sparring partner. Azriel didn’t shy when the attention of everybody turned to him.

Cassian poked his tongue at his cheek, blinking at his brother then down at her. He had never said anything about her complicated relationship with the shadowsinger, but like many things, he knew. “I know, I’m sorry.” Though he seemed to be saying so more to her. Tossing an arm across her shoulder, hand hanging loosely in front of her chest he called for their training to be cut short. “You’re unusually quiet,” he said after chatting away in her ear.

“You smell of sweat so I’ve been holding my breath,” Arwen chortled, ducking out of his arm. Cassian stood for a moment with offence crafted into his features before launching after her, hooking an arm around her neck once more, holding tight enough that no amount of squirming would set her free.

Arwen laughed freely, bent with her head level with his stomach and the prints of her fingers marking his arms. He smelt worse even closer. “I’m choking! The air is toxic!” Her cheek was slick with sweat, filling her stomach with a vile feeling. Her fisted hands beat into him. “Rhysie!” She called out, praying for her brother’s assistance.

“Rhysie? No, I’m good,” she heard him say from some distance away. Arwen cursed at herself, knowing she should have pampered him with compliments beforehand. Underneath them, she could see the edge of the rooftop nearing, and past it, the steep mountain slope that led to Velaris below.

Arwen threw both her arms around his muscled thigh and heaved her weight against him. For a moment, the general balanced, then he lifted a leg, then they both went tumbling to the side. Still they struggled, wrestling to keep the other to the ground. She didn’t even care that her shoulder was twinging with pain again.

Arwen had felt the wind under the foot that hung from the end of the roof. It grew and grew and she struggled to keep herself atop of her opponent who had somehow managed to twist them around. Looming over her, her only warning was a flash of a grin, then he rolled—lurching them both off the edge.

There was no instinct in her to gasp, not even to be frightened of the falling sensation. Illyrians weren’t scared of being in the air, they weren’t born with the fear of falling. The two figures plummeted for a few seconds, black hair whipping around them both, the mountain behind him. Shadows of leathery flesh grew larger and wider.

A large hand clasped around her calf, pulling her fall to a sudden halt. A sharp ripple of air hitting wings sounded and the mountain stopped moving, Arwen looking at the world upside down. “You oaf,” she chuckled. Cassian soared above her, holding her leg in a single hand so she hung upside down underneath him.

“That’s not a nice thing to call the person who is holding your life in his hands.”

“You’d catch me.”

He raised a brow, looking down at her. “Would I?”

Arwen pondered for a moment, peeking down underneath her. It was still a fair way to fall. Without offering him warning, she twisted her leg around in a manoeuvre that force his fingers to unclasp lest her broke his hand. Wind tore at her once more, barely able to see anything by the winged figure against the pale sky as thick tendrils of black encased all sides of her sight.

She knew, with every drop of her blood, with every grain of her skin that he would catch her. The question was how long he’d wait and let the panic settle in that there was always a chance that he may not. Arwen flipped herself around, the city below her, though she would hit the bottom of the mountainside before she levelled with the true ground. She could almost imagine it again; spreading her wings at the last moment. So very much at the last moment that it was often that Rhys flew close enough to catch her. When she’d break into flight, she would catch his head shaking softly, swallowing away a growing paleness. A troublemaker, he’d call her, for making him worry. Arwen knew he wasn’t lying for she would hear his heart racing.

Only it wasn’t her that waited until the last moment that day. Arwen could see her shadow on the stone growing larger and closer, warning her. She could see the second closing in, but at a speed well below what he was capable of. The buildings and the shimmering sapphire of the Sidra disappeared, her vision encased by the red stone mountain that bore her home.  

The pattern of the blur changed, her arm stretched towards the ground, just a few feet from reaching it as she swung like a plucked pendulum. Cassian had taken her leg again and her laughter continued to reach his ears as he swerved around the low lying rocks. Blood pooled in her head which became a beating cherry by the time he took her back to the rooftop.

Rhysand and Azriel conversed, arms folded without an inkling of concern of either’s face at their disappearance. It was her laughter that drew their attention back and Rhysand cocked his head in mirth at her predicament. Cassian hovered just above the ground, her fingers barely scraping the rooftop but he would not let her go.

“Dearest brother, glorious High Lord and the best Illyrian and High Fae there ever was or is to be,” she sang, nausea starting to travel into her throat, “please get me down.” Cassian teased her by dropping lower until her entire palm flattened, then lifted again so she could not reach anything. This time, she didn’t fancy twisting herself out and knocking her head against the hard ground.

Rhysand strode forward, arms remained tucked into one another, stopping a few feet away. “That is quite the string of compliments,” he noted. She hovered head-to-head with him. He looked rather odd upside down. “But you do look absolutely glorious yourself from this angle.”  

“Must be a family trait,” she hummed, head starting to pound. Seeing that she’d receive no help from her own blood, she reached down to the ground again, examining whether she could use her hands to hold herself while she slithered out of the general’s hold.

The examination never calculated the results. An arm wrapped around her back, another around the front of her legs. Even if Arwen was blind, she would know, even if she couldn’t smell his scent of cedar, she would know. She would always know. The hand on her leg unlatched, and gently, her posture was corrected. “Thank you.”

Before she had felt the bond, they were friends. More than that, they were family. She had grown in their shadows, watched them fight and begged them to teach her to fly before her mother allowed it. They had laid out, watching the stars, laughing, and drinking. That hasn’t changed. Just the way she feels when they do.

“My only saviour,” Arwen added pointedly.

“I caught you,” Cassian defended haughtily. Brushing off her sleeves, she then ran her fingers through her windswept hair, very much aware of the spymaster’s looming presence at her side. He never said much, but now she wasn’t sure if it was his natural reservation or the shift between them that caused it so often.

“I would have come if I heard screams,” Rhysand said.

Arwen sent her brother a mocking glare over the spymaster’s shoulder. “I’m going to take a bath and get the sweat that isn’t mine off me before it seeps into me, and I start permanently smelling like that oaf.” Clearly, there was no need to further identify who ‘oaf’ was when Rhysand and Azriel both laughed towards the general.

Before she was out of ear shot, Azriel called her name. Turning, she waited for him to speak. Cassian was muttering to Rhysand behind him, smelling his arm then holding it out for her brother to sniff (who eagerly refused). “Probably want to brush your hair while you’re at it.”

Arwen’s lips curled in disbelief. She flipped a finger to him which set him into a quiet laugh that didn’t reach her ears, but she could see the rise of his lips and the movement in his shoulders. Her own smile lasted until she returned to her room and found herself looking in the mirror.

She only had one tattoo. One bargain. Black swirls crossed over one of her shoulders, a tendril flicking up the nape of her neck the others stretching down towards her elbow where they stopped. It wasn’t the bargain that wavered her smiled—she loved the bargain. She loved what it meant. It was what it had come from that hurt.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

It was the day of Starfall.

Arwen barely contained herself all morning, singing around the House of Wind, biting into food then forgetting about it because she simply had energy bubbling through her that wanted somewhere to go.

Rhysand sat with Cassian in one of the main entertainment rooms, discussing a new development of houses to be built for the growing population of the hidden city. Arwen danced her way through the room in search of Mor. Rhysand watched her with a crooked smile, his stomach clenching with a silent laugh at the singing of his cousin’s name. He was glad she still loved the day. It had always been her favourite and after the attack he feared that she would go into her shell. For the first few years, it had been somewhat the case, but she always came out in the end.

The High Lord became conscious of the tattoo marking their bargain that coiled around his bicep like a thorned cuff. A promise: a promise that they would never spend a Starfall apart, and if they did, she could ask anything of him and he had to oblige. After almost missing one, and realising that he’d never have another with his mother, the bargain was simply a symbol of a promise he made himself long before it was tattooed. Something she could look at and know. Something he could wear and in the few times he’s seen the High Lord of the Spring Court since, show that they failed to take his sister too.

He rubbed the sleeve of his black shirt.

“Not sure why we bother keeping a calendar,” Cassian remarked, leaning deep into the sofa. He had her half-eaten apple in hand that she discarded after greeting them only minutes before. He swore he saw her with something else to eat in her hand again. 

“So we don’t forget her birthday,” Rhysand drawled. “It’s the one thing she won’t remind us of.” Until the morning of with the ceremony of bounding onto his bed. The challenge had become to wake before her. “Speaking of, I can’t think of what to do for her 200^th.”

Cassian snorted, biting into the apple. “It’s still five years away, got plenty of time.”

“One would think.” And Rhysand had that exact thought for some time, until he did attempt one late, sleepless night to think of how to celebrate such a day. And his mind ran blank like it didn’t exist. He, his sister and his mother had celebrated it with a beautiful party filled with song and dance and wine. Even eighty years past he still recalled it. He wanted hers to be just the same, if not better.

Arwen wrapped her arms around Mor. “I’ll go tell the others to get ready.” Mor chuckled in her leave as she bounded back to where her brother and Cassian sat. Arriving from behind the sofa, she wrung her arms around each of their necks. “We’re going down to eat at the restaurant for lunch.”

“It’s not lunchtime,” her brother pointed out.

Arwen paused. “Late morning meal then. Up. We’re going now.”

And that was all the command she needed for them to rise and stretch. Too easy, her mind told her. Arms swinging by her sides, she gave a moment of thought to the bond. It led her where it needed to and soon Arwen was knocking on the closed door of one of the small studies. Inside, Azriel sat with a book, elbows braced against his knees.

She came to stand in front of him and plucked the book, laying it on the nearby desk face down so the page was kept.

“I was reading that.”

“I’m aware. I did not think I gave the impression of being blind.”

Azriel watched her through his lashes, trailing his gaze across each of her limbs. His shadows whispered fervently in his ears, one even moving to coil around her ankle, threatening to slip up under the material of her dress. For both their sakes, he silently commanded it back. Though they didn’t always listen, it did this time.

“We’re going down to the Sidra to eat. You’re coming.”

Azriel tipped his head, voice cracking as he prepared an argument against her demand. But nothing came. Nothing came because he did not want to argue. “When?”

“Now.”

That was all he needed. Arwen took a step back as he suddenly stood before her, towering in height. “Lead the way.” She stared at him for a moment, looking up and down as he had done to her. Then, she smiled and gestured to follow with her head. He walked just behind her shoulder the entire way, his shadows carrying the weight of lead over her.

To her delight, Cassian, Rhysand, and Mor were already waiting for her and Azriel on the small pavilion that they took flight from. Arwen headed straight to her brother, hooking her arms around his neck and let her weight drop.

Rhysand grunted and leant forward at her weight. “Alright, you impatient rascal.” Arwen simply laughed as he heaved her from the floor, the black hair and violet eyes shimmering as though a starlit reflection of one another. Mor allowed Cassian to sweep her from the floor, leaving Azriel empty-handed, but unburdened. “Amren will meet us there.”

Rhys, with his eager sister in his arms, took flight first. He curved through the air, swerving and spinning and gliding. What should have been a simple flight straight down became a bee’s line. Arwen let one hand drift out to the side, watching how the wind shook her fingers. He smiled down at her, knowing that he could at least give her that sense again—the sensation of flying. He would stay awake all night, flying over Velaris and even the length of Prythian if she asked.

Arwen’s head filled with only the thoughts of that day. The food, the flying, the coming night. Even when they landed near the Sidra and her feet touched the ground once more there was no remorse that she was not still in the air. It was her favourite restaurant after all.

“Sevenda!” she called to the owner. The High Fae woman with doe brown eyes opened her arms and pulled the High Lord’s sister into them, placing a kiss on either of her cheeks. “I hope we’re not too early.”

“No, of course not,” the woman dismissive with a quick wave. “Sit. Sit wherever you’d like.”

Arwen grins and heads towards a large, rounded table in front of the store that overlooked the glistening river. Rhysand is greeted next, receiving identical treatment. Cassian and Mor happily went after him, and even Azriel stayed waiting. Just before he sat, Amren appeared. There was a soft, but derisive smile on her face. Sevenda bowed in greeting.

In the next twenty minutes, plates of food appeared in front of them, all except for Amren who had blood poured in a crystalline cup. She swirled and grinned down at it, sharing her great thanks to Sevenda. Arwen turned her gaze away as she drank, not so keen on seeing blood being guzzled. The table filled with somewhat merry conversation, drifting here and there into smaller ones. Arwen chewed contently on her fish and after finishing it all, used the prongs of her fork to steal some cut chicken from her brother’s plate when he looked elsewhere. She had an inkling he was aware.

Rhysand was very well aware.

“You’re still hungry?”

Caught with chicken in her mouth, she looked to her right where Azriel sat next to her, smiling with a brow raised in question. “Is that a problem?” she demanded after swallowing, tone ringing with the same mirth as his.

One side of his lips raised towards his cheekbone, blinking between her and the table. “No,” he answered. Then, almost cautiously, he placed his hand on his own plate and pushed it towards her. “Take mine, I’m not that hungry.”

It was a salad, also with chicken. “Not that hungry?” she said. “If you’re still hungry, I’ll just pick at any leftovers.”

Azriel looked down at the plate that had a slightly concaved rim. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he corrected. “Or at least not as much as Rhys will be after he only has half a meal.”

It was significant to her, even if in all social customs it was not considered so. A female making and offering food to her mate was a sign of acceptance. Accepting his meal felt so much like a derivative of such ceremony. But she was hungry, he was her friend, and he was offering her food. Many years prior she called him a brother in all but blood. When the mating bond snapped, calling him brother made bile curdled in her throat.

“Then I don’t want to hear any complaints coming from you when you get hungry early.”

“I never complain.”

“Aloud.”

She had caught him there. Though a scrutinised argument might bring a few cases of his spoken complaints to light from good memory, most of it was spent with his shadows. Not that he ever really talked out loud to them—not unless he had a truly horrid day—but they were his companions. The only things that had been at his side longer than anybody at that table.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have as she used his fork and discarded her own. She pierced a tomato and tear of lettuce, bringing it to her lips. In all honesty, he was starving. He’d barely gotten through it when he saw she had scoffed down her own. He contemplated requesting a second meal, but it would have been smarter to ask one for her rather than lie and then proceed to prove his that very lie. He hadn’t had reasoning in his head when he thought of his mate, however. He saw she was hungry, and the answer was in front of him.

He watched as a metal prong formed a small valley in the middle of her bottom lip as she left it there whilst she chewed. When she swallowed, he watched her throat move and her chest heave to take a needed breath of air. Azriel forced himself to look away, favouring the river instead.

Xx

Arwen was more than happy with her choice of dress this year. It was a dark blue like the one she had found in the store with Cassian. Rather than an open back, it favoured a steep neckline. The sleeves were nothing more than two loose hangings of fabric that were sewn to each shoulder then cinched back with a wrist cuff. Elegant.

Her raven hair hung loosely around her shoulders, fluffed from a fresh wash. A golden circlet, plain in craft yet just as elegant as the dress sat upon her head, the slight point like an arrow down her forehead.

It was night, and the stars greeted them in the way that stars talked. Arwen braced her hands on the balcony’s railing, staring up at them as the others mingled behind her, waiting for the fall to begin. Her mouth moved in inaudible whispers.

Rhysand rested his side against the railing as his sister whispered words that didn’t reach his ear. “What are you doing?”

She turned to him, and he saw the stars’ reflection in her eye. “Talking,” she answered.

He battled a frown. “To who?”

Arwen looked at him like the answer was obvious. “The stars, Rhys.” Instinctively, his eyes fled to the sky above them. “Didn’t you see Mother always talking to them? They listen to us, at least, I like to think that they do.”

He had seen his mother whisper to herself, but he never questioned it. It had always simply looked like a prayer to him, but Arwen spoke like she conversed with them—that they did answer her. He turned his front against the railing next to his sister. “What do they tell you?”

“That’s between me and the stars, Brother.”

He laughed down into her ear. “Can I talk to them, too?”

She tipped her head. “I don’t know, they’re pretty busy this time of year. But I suppose you are the High Lord of the Night Court and the night is when they dance so perhaps they will answer you.”

Rhysand laughed again and leaned straight. “I will talk with them later, because right now I am happy with the company I have.”

Starfall had begun. Lights streaked through the air, leaving a trail of stardust in their wake. The heads of all the Night Court, even those in Hewn City who left their miserable homes for the night looked up. Arwen couldn’t see enough of it. Some splattered down across the city, painting roofs with the iridescent essence.

One splattered in front of them, painting the railings and their hands. The siblings laughed freely. Rhysand pulled a short dagger from his side and Arwen watched as he used it as a palette knife to scrap the star’s essence from the railing. Then he pulled a small vial from another pocket and thumbed the stopped off. He wiped the blade across the opening and the essence dripped in.

“Your present,” he told her. She had forgotten. “This way you’ll always have Starfall with you.” The vial was coated in the opalescent blue-green. It was delicate and small, hanging from a thin silver chair. The lid was also silver and the folded rim resembled a pattern of lace. “Am I forgiven?” Arwen stared at the vial, forgetting to answer. She took it from his palm and ran her thumb across the glass. Rhysand knew he had his answer. “I’ll have to take it back tonight to have it preserved with an enchantment.”

For now, she placed the chain around her neck and clung to it. It was far better than anything he could buy in the Palaces. “Thank you.” Her arms engulfed his middle, head against his chest. Rhysand smiled to himself, placing his chin on the crown of her head and watched the rest of Starfall.

Late that night, the celebrations over and the wine glasses empty, everybody slowly moved back to their own spaces. Arwen had stayed in the townhouse for a few nights prior and chose that the House of Wind would be a fine enough place to sleep. By coincidence of their chambers being nearby, Azriel and Arwen walked together back to their respective bedrooms. Her fingers were wrapped around the new necklace, noting that her brother forgot to take it, but it would be fine until morning.

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

She looked at him twice. “Thank you,” she whispered. Azriel looked handsome as well, but she couldn’t admit it. He always did, to the point where it irritated her to look at him. “I’m sad that it’s over. I’ll have to wait another year again.”

“We’ve got plenty of them,” he sang in his low voice. “That is the benefit of being immortal. And I see that you have a piece of it with you too.”

They had reached her door. Arwen stood out the front of it, eyes dropping to her chest. “Yes,” she affirmed. “Rhysand is going to have it preserved for me. Some enchantment.”

“Did he buy your forgiveness then?”

“He bought a pretend of it. He didn’t need my forgiveness to begin with.”

They had talked through the night, but amongst others with wine in their hands. Now, they were alone in a hall. Azriel traced down her neck, to the valley between her breasts where the necklace hung. He reached out, forgetting the scars of his hands and plucked it gently away from her skin.

Arwen swallowed and watched him run his thumb along it as she had. She felt so bare in front of him, yet not bare enough and wanted to slip from the dress. She didn’t even flinch when his knuckles brushed against the open curve of her breast.

Azriel was too aware of what he was doing and suddenly the blur that covered his scarred hands and the proximity of them against her became all too real. He dropped the vial, the backs of his fingers running down another inch towards her navel and sternum. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to make his hands go back higher or keep travelling lower.
Both.
He wanted both at once.

Azriel forced himself to step back. The shadows weren’t even whispering in his ears. He prayed—and he never prayed—that she wouldn’t look down. He didn’t know how to leave. He both desperately wanted to, his mind scouring for an excuse, and wanted nothing more than to stay. The choice wasn’t made by him.

Arwen took a step closer to her door, hand going back around her necklace. “Goodnight, Azriel.” Firm, but not uncaring. She unlocked her door and slipped in but by the time she peeked back as she closed it, he was gone. Arwen stood in front of her mirror and looked herself over. Her hand raised to the spot he touched her. She imagined that it was him again, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. Her fingers splayed under the material of the dress, wondering how their roughened feel would compare to her own softer skin. She slipped each shoulder of her dress off, letting it pile at her feet.

Arwen opened her eyes once more and stared at her reflection. Slowly, she twisted her shoulders and gazed over her back. The scars were like two horrendous chunks of skin had been cut out, because that was almost exactly what happened. There was nothing left, not even stumps. The knife had dug so deeply, pulling her wings from their roots. Madja had done the best she could but most of her healing had been done in the camp where her brother was training the new legion.

Her door opened with a creak of warning. “I forgot to—” Arwen’s eyes rounded like an owl’s as the door suddenly slammed shut, her entire room shaking under her feet. With cheeks of fire, she quickly tugged the dress back on and stormed to her door. Surprisingly, there were no cracks in the wood.

Peeling it open, a sheepish Rhysand stood on the other side, lips pursed so tightly that they hid between his teeth. Fisting her hand she rapped her knuckles once, but hard, against his forehead. “Knock,” she drawled loudly.

He waved a finger. “Lesson learnt. Trust me.” With the same finger, he pointed it at her chest, but averted his eyes. “I just—the necklace. I’ll have it enchanted.” Sighing, she unhooked it from her neck. At least he had walked in after she had finished touching at herself. She wouldn’t have come out if he saw such a thing. The necklace fell into his blind hand. Rhysand furled his fingers around it, finally meeting her eyes again. They softened. “Are you alright?”

Arwen nodded silently. She was fine. She would always be fine. But it was the anniversary of that night. Ten years. A long time to a mortal, barely anything to them. “I hate today.”

She loved Starfall. She loved watching the spirits move across the sky. She loved Velaris and the Night Court. She loved her brother, the High Lord.

But she hated what happened. She hated today.

Rhysand crossed his arms and leant his side against the wall next to her door. He nodded towards the inside. “Go get something comfortable on. I’ll make us some hot tea down at the townhouse.” Arwen didn’t move at first, but then suddenly swept herself away into her chamber and emerged minutes later wearing loose pants and a shirt. Rhysand led her down towards the pavilion, one arm around her shoulder, the other hanging by his side with the softly glowing light of the star, hanging from the chain linked around his fingers, shining against the dark siblings.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Feyre explored the contents of her mate’s room. He watched her, lounging on the bed with his arms stretched overhead. She smiled at him over her shoulder, running her fingers along the vanity then down the carving of his dresser’s door. She remembered how she painted her, and each of her sisters’ draws to their shared dresser. What would she paint on his, given the chance? Starfall, she decided. A rain of spirits—their colours magnificent. It would be a challenge to perfect it, to replicate that night’s beauty. She would have to practice it first on a canvas, to see what colours and brushes would do it to most justice.

“What secrets are hidden in here?” she asked, running her finger over the metal barred handle.

“You cannot tell anybody,” Rhys whispered, “But I own white shirts.”

Feyre burst into laughter and imagined what he would look like in anything but his dark shirts with pristine folds. Moving on, she wandered to a set of drawers away from the wardrobe. Resting on top were a collection of odd pieces, ranging from a short ceremonial looking dagger to a few rings and scrap pieces of paper that she recognised her own scribbled writing upon. Feyre looked back over her shoulder with a raised brow and he only challenged it with his own.

Her hand drifted down to the first draw, pulling it open. More odd pieces. A set of his fighting leathers were neatly folded. The next draw had a few books as well as a heavy amulet hanging from a golden chain. Feyre looked back at Rhys to ask who it belonged to since she had never seen him wear such a thing, but she found his grin had been wiped. His eyes stared at the drawer below.

She slowly pushed the one she had open back in, then hooked her fingers in the metal handle of the next, dragging it open. Wooden planks scraped against each other like it hadn’t been opened in some time and the grooves were filled with dust.

Inside, the first thing she saw was a small vial on a chain perched on a cushion of red velvet. The vial was the size of her thumb in both length and width. Its stopper was a polished silver lid with an intricately cut panelling on the side. But the vial was obsolete to the contents inside. It was the essence of the spirits from Starfall. A brilliant blue-green iridescent.

Next to it, a drawing framed in a simple, but elegant and dark wooden frame. It was of Velaris, from the perspective of someone flying over it. It was signed at the bottom but the writing was too curled and whimsical to make out the name.

There were more objects—a ring and earrings set, two bracelets made of a woven fabric—but the next one across was another frame turned upside down so the contents behind the glass were hidden. Feyre reached into the draw.

Rhysand snatched her hand. It was a tight grip of warning. She withdrew immediately. These were not his belongings, at least, they did not belong to him at first. “Rhys, who—”

“Not today.” His head shook, voice cracking in a way that she had not heard in a long time. Not since his confession to her in the cabin. He closed the drawer with his other hand, not even looking down inside of it. “I’m sorry, Feyre but I can’t. I can’t talk about those things.”

She looked back down at the closed drawer. “Are they gone?”

The muscle rippled under the hinges of his jaw. His grip on her hand tightened, then let go altogether. “Yes,” he whispered. “She’s gone.” He felt himself chipping, breaking and flaking away like crusted paint. “I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder for his abrasiveness then left his bedroom with the wind under his heels.

Feyre watched him leave, half tempted to open the drawer again, the other half of her wanting to follow him. She decided that neither would be her best choice. Guilt piled in her, realising that she had brought up memories that he did not wish to explore. Rather than staying inside his room—her room, of sorts—she wandered down to the lower levels of the Town House. Just as she made the last step, the sound of the door closing sharply ricocheted throughout the building. She wasn’t left alone, however, as Cassian sat in the entertainment room. They had been waiting on Mor and Azriel to arrive. He too had heard the unusual power behind the wooden door and stared in its direction for a beat before sighing and shaking his head.

Feyre joined him, sitting on the adjacent seat.

“I’m not sure what’s gotten into him,” said Cassian, glancing between her and the door. “Did he say anything?”

“I opened a drawer,” she answered, “in his room. It had some things inside. I didn’t realise it would upset him to see them.”

Cassian frowned, lounging deeper into the seat, crossing his ankles. “What was inside it?”

Feyre touched her chest. “There was a necklace. Jewellery. And a sketch of Velaris.” She watched the general’s face shift. He knew, she realised. There was the same pain, the same hesitation to speak. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No,” he breathed. “No, it’s been too long since I’ve talked about her.” He rubbed at the back of his neck and looked back towards the door. It was still shut. “Those things belonged to Rhys’s sister.” Her chest tightened. She had heard that he had a sister, but that was long ago and he had not told her anything. Not a name, not how she died. “Her name was Arwen, but I beg of you not to ever say it aloud. Rhys hasn’t said it since the day she died and neither has Azriel. Mor made the mistake of saying it once and I had to pull them both away from her.”

Feyre shifted at the idea of either one attacking her. She didn’t believe they truly would, but she couldn’t be certain of that if even Mor wasn’t safe. “Azriel?” she found herself asking.

Cassian nodded and looked to the door again. “She was Rhys’s sister, and her death ruined a piece of him that won’t ever heal. But Azriel was her mate.” Shock settled in her core. There was so much she still did not know about all of them. It was a slap in the face of still how new she was to the Night Court. “I didn’t think he’d recover after she died. He hasn’t entirely, but he’s not crazed or dead so that’s better than some do,” Cassian added bitterly. “Three hundred years and speaking her name is a curse that even I don’t want to mess with.”

“Can you tell me about her?” she asked him. “I want to know but I don’t think Rhys will tell me. I don’t think I should ask him.”

Cassian wasn’t keen on speaking of her so openly, nor did he want to breach the unspoken command of silence. But it was only fair for Feyre to understand and he was the only one that would speak of her now. Amren would too he supposed, but the half-demon woman only knew pieces of Arwen’s life. Cassian knew it all.

“What would you like to know?”

Feyre took a moment to decide where to start. “What was she like?”

Cassian found himself snorting, saying, “A brat.” Feyre bristled but the general swiftly shook his head with a small laugh. “No, she was wonderful. I always got a smack up the back of my head when I called her that. Arwen was born after the first war with Hybern, about eighty years younger than Rhys. I didn’t get to see her often when she was very young, but I saw her enough that she recognised me in a crowd. She would run to me and call me ‘Cassie’. Rhys tried it once and I’m pretty sure he’s still got a scar just under his third rib.”

Feyre smiled, because she had seen that small scar, caused by the nick of a blade.

“I was a bastard foot soldier that Rhys’s father wanted gone so he kept an eye on me but I got more freedom than Azriel who worked as his spymaster. When she got older, she would sneak out to see wherever our unlucky arses ended up.” He laughed suddenly, staring at the far wall. “I don’t think she ever knew I knew, but she fancied me as she came of age. It was a bit bizarre at times, honestly, but it was a natural thing. Rhys got a good laugh out of it. I just took it as a compliment until it passed. It was different for her and Az since they felt the bond quite a bit later in her life, but I couldn’t imagine even kissing someone who had vomited on me as a kid. And more than once.”

“Did Azriel find it strange? Since he had known her for so long?”

“Oh yeah.” Cassian nodded and folded his arms. “She was close to two hundred when the bond snapped but even then, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. But we’re also immortal and there are people here that are married to folk that weren’t even born by the time they were a hundred. Just a way of life for us. Difference was, he was around to see that time for her. But she was a fully grown woman by then. Over time it changed from being her brother to being something more.

“He became viciously protective of her. Remember how Rhys and I fought to get over some of the instincts of the mating bond?” Feyre nodded. Cassian huffed. “Yeah, well he was worse. When we first started to look at introducing women to training in the camps, we took her down to help encourage them. One of the men there made a mistake of snatching her wrist hard enough to leave a bruise. He went home with a snapped neck.” He caught the perturbed look in her eye. “Azriel may show his anger less than the rest of us, but he harbours more of it. And it doesn’t get out unless he’s fighting in a ring or working.”

“And… And how did she die?” Cassian’s smile faded. “I remember he told me about his mother. Was she there?”

“She was,” Cassian nodded. “But she managed to fight her way to her brother. Tooth and claw. Tamlin’s father cut both her and her mother’s wings off before he went to kill them. Wanted them to feel that pain.” Darkness swirled behind the usual light hazel of the Illyrian warrior. Feyre feared that she had pushed too far. “Arwen wasn’t the same after that day, even if she pretended to be. She didn’t like leaving Velaris and wouldn’t unless we came with her. She died about… about ten years after that.”

Despite her reservations and concerns of the pushing boundaries, Feyre whispered: “How?”

He tilted his head and looked down. “We’re not sure. W-we know that she was poisoned. There was an antidote but we didn’t get it to her in time. That’s half the reason why he won’t speak of it. He was meant to go see her after we came home but got caught up in some work and was late. By the time he got there it was too late. You have to understand that he believes it was the same reason his mother was killed. He was supposed to meet them but remained in the camp. I don’t think he thought he would ever make the same mistake, but we were here in Velaris. Not somewhere she could have been touched but the poison took some time to work.

“He was also able to get some vengeance for his mother. He killed Tamlin’s brothers and Tamlin’s father was dead. It didn’t fix anything, but he was able to blame someone. Able to do something. With Arwen, we don’t know who did it and that’s wrecked him because he feels that there is no one else to blame but himself. Other than Mor, she was the only blood he had left that he loved. We don’t even know why someone did it. If she was the intended target. I lost a sister that day too. The only sister I’ve had.”

He sighed and rubbed his hands together and Feyre didn’t ask anything more.

“I have a painting of her somewhere. I wanted to hang it someday but haven’t braved the job. If you remind me, I can show it to you. She looks like Rhys less ugly with longer hair.”

Feyre nodded. “Maybe it would do Rhys some good, to see her face. Help him.”

Cassian pursed his lips, rising at a knock on the front door. He leant closer to her and whispered. “I don’t think he wants that help, Feyre. I think he wants to continue hating himself over it.”

Feyre sat in the armchair, managing a small smile as Azriel and Mor wandered into the Townhouse.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Arwen was training. And she was training hard.

Something had bothered her, Rhysand had noted, almost as soon as she met them on the training grounds of the rooftop that chilled morning. He held the training pads up, letting her beat her fists against them in whatever pattern she liked. Arwen was growing stronger by the day. Physically.

Cassian and Azriel spared a gaze in their direction during the small water break. The former eyed how Rhysand readjusted his footing for a better hold against her. Azriel’s eyes, however, did not so much as turn to Rhysand. His eyes lingered on her body, the way her hips turned to follow the punches. How her tightly braided hair of raven brushed against her spine and the beads of sweat that splattered her forehead.

Arwen wasn’t even seeing her brother. In front of her were only the two black pads that her wrapped fists were pounding against. Again and again and again. Spikes of pain now shot down her wrists as her aim grew sloppy and broke through her threshold of toughness. It was only when her arm literally shook that she stopped.

Rhysand lowered his padded hands slowly, a brow peaking overtop of them. Arwen smiled tightly and stretched out her fingers. “Did I hurt you?” she taunted.

Her brother scoffed heartily. “Hardly.” He grabbed her wrist and held it up between their faces. “You think this little hand is going to hurt me?”

Arwen only smiled again, taking advantage of the loose hold he had, furled her knuckles, and punched him straight into the nose. His head flew back with a shout of pain. Snickering, she let her legs take her in a swaying jaunt across the ring to her own glass of water. Cassian and Azriel were biting down their own laughs. “I’m sorry Brother,” she called over her shoulder, “did my little hand hurt you?”

“No.” Despite that assurance, the High Lord held his nose which had a drizzle of blood flowing from it. “Brat.” His hand covered his grin as Arwen threw one of the other training pads his way, ducking just in time for it to go flying overhead.

Cassian gripped her shoulders from where he stood behind (and tucking his wings close just in case). “Why don’t you and I have a spar? Give both the weaker links a break.” Her energy was nowhere near spent, despite the intense training. He’d be a good run for her money.

“You’re the one that called for a break,” Azriel shot back. Rhysand just turned his face into a bitter frown, figuring that speaking with a bloodied nose from a single punch wouldn’t help his cause.

Cassian bowed back at him. “For your own sake. I’m a gentleman at heart.”

Arwen wiped at her brow. “Two minutes?” she bargained for. Cassian nodded and patted her shoulder. She rubbed her temples and yawned. Despite her bursting character that morning, she’d hardly slept that night. It was spent mostly on the small balcony that extended from her room in the townhouse.

When they got into the ring, Arwen’s attention had drifted. Her brother and Azriel stood next to each other, discussing something lightly but it wasn’t the words that caught her attention. Azriel had begun pulling off his top layer of training gear to counter his growing body heat—something she wished she could do, but that was an entirely different matter. He had broad shoulders. Not quite as broad as the general in front of her, but they were carved from muscle. The indents of the muscle seemed to lead her from his shoulders, down to his forearms then his hands which rested on his hips. From there, she could see the—

“Ow!”

Arwen fell on her arse, heels flying above and nearly over her. Cassian stood over her. “Dead,” he pronounced.

Shaking her head to get rid of the dizziness, she shot back up to her feet, forgetting about her half-undressed mate and giving her entire focus back to her sparring partner. There was no need to wager coin as Cassian easily won each round, but neither could deny that she was getting far better each week.

Rhys chucked her a towel that she rubbed down her face then across her neck. Azriel found himself watching her again, shifting his stance ever so slightly wider.

A simple chair was conjured from nowhere at Rhys’s doing and the female dropped onto it, resting her head in her hands to catch her breath. As Cassian and Rhysand moved on together to debate a round of weapons training, Azriel inched closer to the chair. He could hear her breaths, see the way her back moved with each deep pant. “You were good today.”

Arwen lifted her head with a parted-lip smile. “Thanks. I think I needed it.”

“Particular reason why?” His voice was flat yet deep, as it always had been. It was a strange comfort that never failed to warm parts of her that she wouldn’t even realise were cold in the first place. Even before the mating bond snapped, she took to his company.

Arwen shrugged. She strained to keep her eyes forward, not confident that she would control her gaze if she looked to her right where his hips were level with her head. But the blue flicker of a siphon drew it still. He only wore two that morning, one on each hand, held down by a leather contraption similar to a glove, only it hooked over his two middle fingers.

Without much thought behind the action, she took his hand. Azriel’s eyes snapped downwards, but the shock in him stilled there. Arwen’s thumb pressed over the azure gemstone. He cherished those moments of contact so he did nothing but keep his hand still and in her hold so she could continue whatever investigation she was doing on his siphon.

“Blue has always suited you,” she remarked softly.

Azriel’s heart twisted. The corner of his lips tweaked upwards. “Not that I’m worried about my fashion choices, but that is good to hear.” She looked up at him through her dark lashes and smiled. His own grew. “Ease’s my hundreds of years’ worth of worry that I chose the wrong colour.”

Her snort followed. “You’d also have Cass complaining for the next ten centuries that you were copying him.” Arwen let his hand go, folding hers together and locking them between her thighs. Azriel looked back to the training rings where Cassian and Rhysand were sword fighting. He inched another step closer and placed his hand on the spine of the chair to rest his weight against it. “And for someone that claims to be uncaring of their fashion choices, you always do look impeccable.” He couldn’t help it. He looked back down at her. Arwen swallowed and smiled tightly again. “You and my brother. Cassian looks like dog shit half the time.”

“I can fucking hear you!” came the cry of said Illyrian in the midst of raining down on her brother. “Just because—” he ducked to avoid Rhys’s swing— “I don’t spend an hour pruning myself every morning. Got better things to do.”

Arwen grinned to herself, bringing her heel up to the chair, locking her arms around her ankle. Gods, she remembered a time when she thought that Cassian’s dishevelled look was the most handsome thing in the universe. It still was handsome, but not in the way that made her heart flutter. That was back when she was younger, and she looked up to him as her protector. If Rhysand wasn’t around, he’d be the one to walk with her through the camps and ward off the snarling looks that came because of her half-breed nature. That love for him morphed back to something brotherly over time. And thank the Mother for it. She gave her well-wishes for whoever he decided to settle down with.

Her head tipped back in rest, lightly hitting the spymaster’s forearm. Today she was too exhausted, too caught up in other thoughts, to care about what he might be thinking of it. What she was thinking of it. He was her friend—one of her closest companions. Arwen had no desire to lose that.

After training, her first task had been a bath. Using her chamber in the House of Wind, Arwen scrubbed the dirt and sweat from her skin, emerging and feeling more High Fae than Illyrian. Leaving her hair loose, she slipped into a dress and joined the others for a casual early lunch. Rather sick of the male bickering, she spent the hour talking with Mor instead, even putting her finger to her brother’s lips when he tried to pull her into his conversation.

But by the end of lunch, her thoughts grew dreary again. Arwen found herself wandering along the open pavilion and finally sitting down on the very edge, feet hanging down over the slope of the mountain below.

“You’re making me nervous,” a voice called. Arwen glanced over her shoulder as Cassian meandered towards her. He too had dressed down after training, hair pulled into a half-bun. “Sitting that close to the edge.”

An amused huff escaped her. “The fear of heights didn’t suddenly come for me after losing my wings,” she said as he sat down next to her. Illyrians weren’t born with that fear, and it was highly unusual for any of them to develop it. If they did, it was beaten out of them. Any fear that came with flying came with the knowledge that a swift change in the weather could be disastrous if they did not learn to control it. High winds, storms, and thick clouds—they were the enemy.

“Can’t say you’re not afraid of hitting the bottom though,” he pointed out, leaning to her with a raised brow. Cassian would be lying if he said that he didn’t worry over her tendencies to still enjoy the open air. The risks she took sometimes, though he was often laughing and right there to catch her, also made him swallow something down. What if they weren’t there? The idea that one day, she may just risk a little too much.

“That is why I’m sitting on the ledge and not hanging by my fingers,” she countered. “But now that you’re here.” Arwen shifted forward by an inch, and it was all that she needed to before his large hand planted on her stomach and pushed her back. He was shaking his head, looking forward but with a loose smile. “You’d catch me.”

“Always will,” he promised, ignoring his previous thought. “But I don’t particularly feel like making a dive for you right now. Az got a good blow on me and I’m still sore.” It was half-true. His side had an already fading bruise, but the other half of him wanted her to talk. He too had noticed her demeanour that morning and he came to her now to try and pry it out. “Did you have a good sleep?” is where he decided to start.

Arwen looked at him oddly, and he could admit the question was a bit strange for the middle of the day. “It was alright,” she answered. “Sleep was good, but I didn’t get much of it.”

His chin tipped upwards partially in interest. “No?” he prodded.

She shook her head, eyes narrowing into slits against the sunlight. Arwen decided that Cassian was a fine choice to talk to on the matter. He understood being the outcast. “I feel… Human,” she decided to say. A short chuckle followed. “I don’t mean for that to be an insult to them, but I feel like one when I shouldn’t be.”

Cassian rested his hands on his knees, boots digging into the stone beneath. He was careful with his words around the subject. “Wings aren’t what make us who we are.”

“It’s not just the wings,” she muttered, now frowning. “I’m half-breed. Illyrian and High Fae. Wings were the only thing that made me feel Illyrian, and now they’re gone. But High Fae are supposed to have magic. My brother is the most powerful High Lord and he’s only been doing it for ten years. Even some Illyrians have magic and I know it’s rare but… I don’t have magic or wings. In the mountains they see my ears, with the High Fae, they see me without magic and the stronger Illyrian blood. I don’t fit into either of them.”

Then she realised that she may have made a mistake. Cassian knew what it was like to be on the outskirts, but not because he didn’t fit in with the other Illyrians. He was as Illyrian as they came. He was the perfect soldier, and it was only because they didn’t like the way he was born he was pushed to the edge. He always knew he had something but was refused it. Arwen didn’t have anything to claim on.

“You don’t need to.” He waited for her gaze to slip to him before smiling. “Why would you want to fit in with war-mongering bastards, or the snobbish pointy ears?” He laughed and Arwen cracked a smile.

“I have pointed ears,” she noted with a weak glare.

“But you’re not snobbish,” he countered. “You don’t turn your nose up at me so you’re better than all of them in my book.”

“Yes,” she sang. “Your death book. Dear diary, Keir looked at me funny today, now he’s destined to die by my sword.”

His lips pursed. “Can’t deny that.” They both fell into a comfortable laugh and he threw an arm around her shoulder that hung loose down her front, followed by the extension of his wing. “Though you did say I look like dog-shit.”

Arwen smothered her grin. “Only half the time.” Cassian made a noise of mock understanding and acceptance, Arwen tipping her head onto his shoulder.

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.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Cassian meandered through the townhouse where he had slept for the night, not too drunk to fly home, but drunk enough that he knew better than to try when he had his own room somewhere on safe ground. As soon as dawn cracked, the streak of sunlight through his open window awoke him and within minutes he was dressed in his training leathers, two siphons on either arm, the rest tucked neatly away.

He gave a knock with the back of his knuckles on Arwen’s door out of courtesy but knew that the response would be nothing more than a grumble anyway and walked in. The relatively young half-Illyrian woman was curled up near her pillow, more than half her face buried in the feathered pouch. “Sunrise,” he announced, shaking her upper-most arm. She stirred, the lines deepening between her brows. “You earnt yourself training by running that mouth of yours.” Arwen only tightened her hold on the pillow. He could imagine that she had a headache which is why he had a tall glass of water and something for the pain waiting downstairs.

“Not today,” she growled, turning onto her stomach.

Cassian sighed, striding around her bed to the other side of her room where her curtains were drawn closed. He yanked them open, golden light piercing through the room. “Up,” he commanded.  To encourage the process, and show her that he wasn’t messing around, he began to rifle through her draws until he found something that he knew she would wear to training regularly and tossed it on the empty side of her bed.

When she still hadn’t moved by the time he had finished, the general resorted to tugging the blanket away from her. Surprisingly he wasn’t met with the resistance of her clinging fingers as though she had let it slip away. “Up,” he repeated, traversing back to her side of the mattress. At her still closed eyes, he pursed his lips and sat down on the bed near her middle. “We won’t go too hard,” he promised her. “It’s good training to be able to fight even when you don’t feel like yourself. Builds resilience.”

Arwen furled her fist around her pillow and for a moment he feared that it would be next flung into his face, but she only used it as leverage as she pushed up with her knees until she was sat on her ankles, facing the headboard. Cassian tightly held his lips against any remark about her less than dignified appearance. “Do I have to?” she asked, voice a croaky whisper. Cassian almost felt bad. Almost. That was the keyword that separated him from both his brothers. It only worked on him when he let it. “I already have resilience for not punching you right now.”

He cracked a chuckle. “Get dressed, meet me downstairs in five.”

Arwen submitted to the order that paraded behind a soft tone.

Cassian smiled at her half-hearted glare and squeezed her shoulder before leaving to allow her privacy. He sauntered back downstairs, the rest of the house which included Mor and Rhys still in a heavy slumber. Azriel no doubt was enjoying having the House of Wind to himself for the night and early morning. It took more than five minutes for Arwen to arrive downstairs, but he decided to say nothing of it upon observing the foul look spread across face. He offered her the water and the powder to mix it with that would give a slight relief to the pounding in her head. She downed it quickly.

The moment Cassian noticed that something might truly be wrong is when she simply waited for him to pick her up outside of the townhouse so that he could fly her to the rooftop. He had been bracing his muscles for the usual jump where she’d claw to his front. It was a habit she picked up in her youth before she was old and strong enough to fly. But that morning, he was the one to bend at the knees and lift her, a single arm loosely going around his neck. Nevertheless, he flew them to the rooftop on the House of Wind.

Arwen wiped at her eyes as she was placed back on her feet, sniffing and trying to clear the fog in her mind to navigate her way around the rooftop. She distantly heard Cassian’s direction of stretching. It wasn’t terrible and the slight pain was more awakening than anything else.

When it was time for proper training to begin, that sensation that had been plaguing her since the previous night seemed to only grow. It made her feel woozy, but not quite dizzy. More so that her inner body was not matching the world around her rather than feeling the world sway. It had to have been something she drank. But Rhysand had brought her all her drinks and they were nothing new.

He handed her a short dagger, telling her that they’d be working on her blade skills. He sure wasn’t going to trust her with a sword with the way she was looking at him. He preferred his guts on the inside of his skin. Pulling to her to one of the training dummies, Arwen mutely fell into position, his hands only giving slight adjustments. She struck down on it, flipping the knife between holds and following the manoeuvres she had been taught.

Cassian noted her weary blinks that were becoming slower each time. And her strikes were sloppier than when she had first even begun. “Are you being this terrible on purpose to get out of training?” he prodded. “Because it’s not working but you are going to hurt yourself.”

Arwen stopped, her breath shuddering, eyes closing over. “I don’t feel right, Cass,” she admitted, praying that he would believe her and not what he had just accused her of.

And he did. He rested a hand on the side of her left shoulder, reaching across and taking the dagger from her other hand. “Go sit down,” he told her gently. As she slowly walked back to the shaded area, he went over the other side to place the blade back in its spot. Just as he turned back around, Arwen fell to her knees. “Arwen!” The space between them was soon eliminated as he dropped down beside her, a hand to her chest to assist in keeping her upright as she bent over. Arwen was breathing unsteadily but slow, eyes blinking rapidly. He felt the guilt trickle in, knowing that she had been trying to tell him since he woke her.

He placed a hand to her forehead. It was hotter than usual, but not the heat that came with a fever. Arwen seemed to be in her own head, focusing on her breathing so he let her, listening to her heartbeat with his tune hearing, then trying to note if she had any other physical signs of ailment. “Are you going to be sick?” he asked her.

Was she going to vomit? Meekly, her head shook. “Can I go back to bed? Please.”

He couldn’t deny her that. Cassian guided her to her feet, letting her lean against his side. He took her back down into the House of Wind, gradually through the halls and then he pushed open the door to her chambers in the House of Wind. Arwen all but fell onto her bed, not even in the mind to thank him for bringing her there. It was his fault she was taken from her bed first, she reasoned.

Cassian tugged the blanket from under her and lay it over her stomach, more so he could spend those few moments silently analysing her. She must have drunk more than they both realised, or outdid herself with the dancing.  

Leaving her be, Cassian returned to his own training.

It wasn’t for another hour that company joined him in the training rings. He was running through a set of exercises that were hard enough to elicit pants. There was no point unless he was pushing himself.

Rhysand arrived in his own training gear, having spent most of his morning discussing work with Azriel about talks of Hewn City which was resisting his leadership. The spymaster left to communicate with his network. “Don’t tell me you let her off training,” he called at no sign of his younger sister.

Cassian continued his set of sit-ups as he answered. “I know,” he grunted. “Still trying to figure out if she was actually ill or just playing me. She’ll pay for it if she isn’t.” He finished off his set as the High Lord began stretching. “She learned it from you, you know,” he accused, pointing his blade at his brother. “How to manipulate people.”

“I pay for it every day,” Rhys chuckled. “And the worst part is, is that I know when it’s happening and I still fall for it.” The warrior duo finished off their training together, the High Lord informing his General Commander of his spymaster’s whereabouts.

Rhysand wandered through the House of Wind until he landed outside of his sister’s chambers, rapping his knuckles against the wood. At no response, he turned the handle quietly and peered inside.

Arwen was fast asleep, turned on her side. Carefully and quietly shutting the door behind him, Rhys crouched down next to her bed. She didn’t look sick. Not in the pale, lifeless way that they would when something was strong enough to take Fae down. She would have had to put on a good show for Cassian to believe it. Master manipulator indeed. The thought made him smile. It wasn’t lies or twists of word and thought like he used, crawling through their minds. No, she was smart enough to use people’s own desires and wills against them. She knew how to find their weak spots and rein them for her own use. And all of it was hidden under a soft smile that she had gotten from their mother and batter of her eyelashes.

But when Arwen opened her eyes, not in such a deep sleep as he thought, there was no battering or moment of her adjusting them upon seeing him there. They were dim from the moment he saw them. His smile evened. “Cassian said you weren’t up for training.” Arwen breathed heavily through her nose and gave a stiff nod. “Drink too much?” He had been keeping an eye on her intake, but perhaps it had gotten away from him.

“Or danced,” she croaked through a smile. “I’ll make up for the training.”

“Should I get Madja?”

Arwen shook her head against the pillow. She didn’t feel sick. She felt off. Like there wasn’t some illness inside of her, but that she was the problem itself.

Rhysand pressed his lips together and gave a soft stroke to the top of her head. He was beginning to see why Cassian believed her. There was a dullness to her and if his sister was anything, it was not dull. “Stay in bed today,” he told her, the side of his lip quirking. “I’ll send you food.”

She seemed to burrow deeper, eyes closing once more. “Thank you.”

Rhysand sat on his haunches for another moment, fingers lightly scratching her scalp. He searched into her open mind, piecing together small fragments of memory that she left on the surface for him to collect. Then he leant forward, pressed a kiss to her brow and left her to sleep.   

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Arwen had been checked on a few times that day. Probably to figure out if she was faking it or not. Bastards. They should know that she enjoyed training enough to put through with it if it was nothing more than a headache and bit of tire from the night before. If she had the mind, her brother would have a broken nose from one of her shoes.

By the time that her stomach was calling for dinner, which had yet to appear in her room, she was frustrated enough with staying in the one room all day to go searching for it. Each step was slow and calculated.

It was a bitter reminder of the months after she had lost her wings. A time where simply walking was such an effort that there were days Arwen did not have the stamina to even try. Stumbling, off-centred, over-compensation for a weight that was no longer there. Wings were like tails, helping them balance and could be twisted and shifted around like extra limbs.

She kept a hand to a wall. Arwen’s body kept switching between abnormally light, and like the weight of the mountains were upon her shoulders. Her skin itched and something buzzed through her. The sensation was new, and if she deigned to admit it—frightening. I’m not sick, she kept telling herself. Arwen knew sick, she knew hungover.

She found Cassian, Rhysand and Mor waiting in the main gallery near the pavilion entrance.

“What are you doing up?” Cassian asked, the first to notice her.

“I’m starved,” she answered through a weak smile.

He gave a grunt of agreement as Rhysand took her arm once the wall disappeared. “Az will be here any minute. He’s dropping off paperwork then we’re heading to the townhouse for dinner.” They had been waiting for some time, but Rhysand assured them that he had entered through Velaris’s wards not long ago.

“Do you want to come with us?” her brother asked. “Or I can send food to your room again.”

“I’ll come,” she said, determined to at least enjoy one meal with her family.

Sure enough, the sound of wings came as Azriel landed with the swift grace of a feline. He tucked his wings in tight, extracting folded papers from his inner jacket pocket. As a natural movement, he surveyed his environment with a trained eye, noting everything he could see, hear, smell. His shadows whispered into his ears of everything else. Azriel’s eyes lingered on his mate, who leant against her brother as he handed the same male his report. Rhys took it, flipping through the firs couple of pages and then with a swish of his hand, it disappeared.

He heard Rhys mention something about dinner down at the townhouse and he gave mute nod of agreement. His desires before returning centred on crawling to his own room and spending the night alone after the long and hard day of flight, tracking, and reporting. That was until he watched Arwen tiredly blink up at him, her lips careening in a small smile of welcome. He hoped he managed one back. Now, he knew he would have to follow them, so he could put his mind at rest at seeing her poorly appearance. What had happened since last night?

They made their way to the pavilion, Cassian hauling Mor to his chest who theatrically draped herself. Azriel stayed behind Rhysand as he picked up Arwen, her cheek resting on his shoulder where Azriel could watch her face.

Arwen smiled at him again. Azriel was sure he managed one back this time.

Her untamed hair tore against the wind as Rhys took to the sky, her fingers holding his jacket tight. She watched Azriel over his shoulder. The way the wind rippled through his short waves, the slight adjustments of his wings. The way is his eyes would drift over to hers every few seconds. Devastatingly handsome. Arwen tucked her head back into her brother’s neck, so she didn’t stare the entire time.

“You’re not going to roll out of my arms, this time then?” he taunted her. “Because we can get this over with quicker if I just drop you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she scoffed. “I’ve got to get a bit of fear out of you. And a bit of annoyance. Otherwise I’ll be neglecting the duty of a sibling.” The view of Velaris was utterly brilliant. The city was just being taken by sunset, the last amber lights of day glittering over the Sidra.

“Yet I’m not allowed to annoy you?” Rhys prompted back with a dry smile.

“Your existence annoys me enough.” There was a sudden drop, the strength of his arms disappearing just long enough to elicit a short shriek that had Cassian and Mor chuckling. Arwen grumbled and held tighter to his neck.

“What was that?” Rhysand sung, barely doing anything to smother his smile. He heard Arwen grumble, about to say something—then she slipped. Or turned. Or something. All he knew, was that her weight disappeared from his arms. And he wasn’t the one to let go.

~

Arwen sucked in a draw of air as she began to fall. She hadn’t even felt him let go, but he must have as she had been comfortable and had no intention of twisting from his grip. The three figures with their wings spread out casted dark shadows against the cerulean sky. It was a second, perhaps two or three, before Rhysand flew down after her. Arwen smiled, but didn’t laugh as usual as she had no intention of feeling the rush of air that night. Her hand reached upwards but her brother took his time to catch up.

Cassian remained higher with Mor but Azriel had drifted lower.

Rhysand’s wings tightened against his back as he sped up his dive as she met the halfway mark of between where they once were and the grounds of Velaris. She manoeuvred her arm so it would hook around his neck and he stretched out his arms so she would slip into them before he spread his wings once again.

He caught her, wings shifting outwards.

But she wasn’t in his arms. Rhysand frowned and readjusted his flight path again. He was so sure he had her. Her body was right there, and his arms were underneath her back and legs.

Arwen saw his frown and her own formed. She lengthened out her arm again to him. Rhysand didn’t pull these tricks like Cassian did. He didn’t wait and risk collision. In fact, she was rather sure he hated when she would twist away and let herself fall.

Her brother sped his dive, now his hand reaching for hers as well. The wind ripped at her hair, sending it snapping around her face. Arwen just made out his hand equalling with hers. He closed his fingers around her wrist yet she didn’t feel his firm grip. She felt nothing but air.

His hand was going right through her. Rhysand tried again, then again, using both arms to try and grab her and halt her plummeting.

Panic swelled in his eyes—something she did not miss. “Rhys,” she cried warily. She was still falling, plunging towards the ground. Rhysand tightened his wings as close and narrow as they would go, enough to be painful. He kept waving his arm through the air, through his sister; but she was as tangible as smoke itself.

It wasn’t possible. He kept denying that what he was seeing was true. He couldn’t even touch her, couldn’t feel her. He tried not to imagine what would happen if she hit the ground, but a few images struck his mind. His heart started pounding painfully.

Azriel had been observing the fall mindlessly at first. But now he was streamlining towards them both, Cassian flying somewhere behind him with Mor as he too caught on that something wasn’t right.

“Take my hand!” Rhys gritted through a cry. Arwen was breathless, unable to even respond past attempting to follow the command which was given in the voice of a High Lord. His hands flung through her body as though she was nothing but a mirage.

And the ground was becoming terrifyingly close.

Azriel appeared beside him, his hand also reaching out but there was no difference. It was her, not Rhysand. Arwen let out a whimpering wail as her desperate clawing failed. “Arwen!” He didn’t let his eyes off her, commanding his shadows to her form but they weren’t strong enough to stop her fall even if they could hold her.

Rhys’s eyes flickered behind her in what he knew where the last few precious seconds they had left to figure something out. Arwen screamed, their hands still passing through one another. His clenched teeth bared as one of his own cries of frustration surfaced.

Then he felt skin.

He took a viper grip along her forearm, wings snapping out so hard and fast that it strained his back and sent a spike of pain down his spine. Just as they were about to pass the roof of a city building, Arwen swung like a pendulum from her brother’s grip, her feet sweeping just metres from the ground.

Azriel had to twist out of the way but he managed to take flight a second after, dodging a small group of civilians that had stopped to watch the spectacle. He paid them no mind, soaring back into the air above. He watched Rhys lift her past the buildings and over the wide Sidra River.

Then she was falling again.

Rhysand’s flight faltered harshly, but Azriel was already diving just seconds behind him. Arwen’s body left a hard ripple through the water and he dived through it, following the trail of bubbles.

A wash of whitewash surrounded him the moment he dived into the water. It was dark, barely a streak of light penetrating anything below the surface. Azriel kept his wings tight, kicking and stroking his arms through the water without a thought of how far down he was going.

He could just see her body through the cloak of darkness. Her hand was still lifted, fingers curled around water. He swam deeper as she sunk, eyes closed. Move, move, move, his mind screamed at him. Azriel closed his hand around hers, bubbles passing his lips in the breath of relief that he could feel it. He hauled her to his front and started to kick back to the surface.

Rhys had not been far behind him, metres below the surface but he rose back up and breached, then disappeared into thin air. Azriel kept kicking, her legs limply grazing between his. His head broke through to the cool air, his lungs seizing a new breath. Rhysand had winnowed to the edge where Mor stood, Cassian knelt near the water. Azriel kicked hard, balancing her head over his shoulder to where his brothers’ hand were extended and waiting.

He clasped onto the crafted stone edge of the river, the other arm around her thighs and heaved his weight up. Rhysand and Cassian grabbed her from underneath her arms, tugging her back onto solid ground.

Her wet hair clung to a pale face.

“What in Cauldron’s name happened?” Mor demanded, voice taut.  

Rhysand ignored her, examining his sister. He lifted and twisted her around, laying her front over his arm and began to alternate between rubbing her back and giving hard thumps with his palm. “Come on, come on,” he muttered.

Cassian offered his hand to Azriel but the spymaster ignored it, his own strength enough to bring himself back to the riverside. He fell into action, stone faced and silent, kneeling on the other side of his mate. He cupped her jaw, pinching it open and rested her forehead in his other palm to keep her airway clear.

Cassian knelt on a knee, looking between all four of them. Mor was the only one to meet his gaze, but they were just as equally lost.

Arwen coughed. Just a small, choking sound, yet one that relieved Rhysand of a growing pain in his chest. He continued rubbing her back, but softening his pats as her coughing grew, water spluttering from her mouth.

Arwen flung her eyes open, hands scraping against the ground. At her push, hands assisted her into sitting up and she fell towards the most comfortable and familiar ones she recognised. What had happened to her? “Rhys.” Her voice broke, tears swelling in her eyes as she gripped tightly onto his arm as he held her to his chest. She hadn’t been able to feel him. She had slipped through him like a ghost.

Azriel fell back onto the path, arms stretched straight and balanced over his knees. Droplets of water hung from his hair, tickling around his eyes. He still said nothing as he watched Arwen cling to her brother like everything depended on it. He couldn’t blame her for that. He wanted to hold her too, to prove to his mind that she was there—that he could.

Rhysand’s eyes were wide, not truly focused on anything. But the others could see the terror behind them. The dwindling reservoir of panic as he held the back of her head.  

It was Cassian who broke the silence. “What the absolute fuck just happened?” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Arwen had been poked and prodded, assessed and tested in every which way. To the point where she was no longer upset and gone was the disorientation, now just tired and hungry. And she still hadn’t had dinner. They had asked her questions like she knew the answers, then gave the same ones to Madja who looked over her. No answers came.

She had just vanished. Physically. What would have happened if she hit the ground? Rhys had caught her seconds before, then she slipped through him again. But as soon as her back hit the water, the pain had been excruciating and enough to knock her out.

A rapping at her door broke Arwen from her self-absorbed trance. “Come in.” It was Azriel, who opened the door, his handsome face peeking before his leather-clad body did. Her smile was already growing but shot wide as a plate full of food appeared with him. “Is that for me?”

“No, it’s mine,” he said. “Thought I’d eat it in here.”

Rolling her eyes, she stormed from her seat at the vanity and snatched the plate from his hands. Arwen made it a step away before spinning on her heel. Azriel stood with his hand still hovering, a flash of surprise in his eyes. “Thank you,” she told him. Her mind was so fuzzy it was hard to think. “Sorry, I’m just so hungry and—”

“It’s fine.” He added a lift of his lips, dropping his hand. Arwen took her plate and sat on the edge of her bed, balancing it on her thighs and was already cutting into the meat. He remained in the doorway for a moment, contemplating just leaving her be. “How are you feeling?”

“Crazed,” she answered in a humourless chuckle. “I don’t know, Az.” The nickname always turned something in his stomach. Cassian and Rhysand caught him up as they spoke to Majda about how she had been feeling strange all day. He listened intently to every word. “I really don’t know.” She chewed fervently on her dinner, using her utensils in place of her hands as they waved around. “I mean—I just moved right through everything!”

Azriel nodded in agreement as he took in her room. He hadn’t been inside it for years. Not since he felt the bond snap into place. It wasn’t like he was in here often before that either but made a point of avoidance more regular. He wasn’t sure if he should stay but knew her well enough that she’d it clear for him to go if he wasn’t welcome. He chose to sit on the chair near her vanity, turning it to face the bed.

Arwen sighed and smiled again at him, pleased that he decided to stay a little longer. She missed him. Missed him being Azriel—not her mate. The one that would sit and read silently with her when Cassian had managed to piss her off or offer her hiding spots in his shadows when her brother or mother came looking.

She looked down at her steamed beans. “Do you want my beans?” Poking one with her fork, she extended it towards the spymaster.

Azriel hesitated a moment, but leant forward and took the green bean from the prongs. Arwen nudged them all to the far side of her bowl, gesturing with her head for him to join her on the bedding. He sat down, bringing the bean to his lips.

She didn’t even have time to gasp.

Her hand slapped his, the bean flying across the carpeted floor of her room. Azriel’s jaw unlocked before he suddenly realised why she had done it. He had almost eaten food offered to him by his mate.

Arwen’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to slap you.”

He flexed his hand then clenched it shut. “No, that was probably the best thing to do.” Arwen hummed and dove back into her meal. Gods, she really had been hungry. Or just wanted to avoid speaking any more to him.

But he was proved wrong to that second thought when she gave a bitter chuckle. “Maybe someone put a curse on me.” Azriel smiled at her amusement, but he tucked the idea away to bring up to Rhys later who was worrying himself downstairs. He had wanted to bring her dinner up, but Cassian stalked across the room, took the plate from Rhysand’s hands, handed it to Azriel and shoved Rhys into a seat. Apparently, the calm exposition of the shadowsinger was thought to be better company than a nail-biting High Lord for the half-Illyrian female.

“Perhaps,” he replied. “Annoyed anyone recently enough to warrant it?”

Her head rolled around. “Certainly. It’s narrowing the list down that is going to be the issue.” His eyes thinned as he laughed, a detail that she took great notice in. By the Mother she wanted to embrace him. Arwen wanted a source of contact with another, the fear still at the forefront of her thoughts that she wouldn’t be able to at any second. And that was heightened by the drive of the bond. But Azriel wasn’t one for contact, least of all affection, so she resisted. “If it is, Helion could help. Couldn’t he?”

He nodded immediately, both to soothe the growing anxiety he could hear in her tone and because it was the truth. They were on good enough terms with the High Lord of the Day Court to ask for his help, even on a personal matter. “I’d take you to him myself.”

“Thank you.” With her meal near finished, the slowed her eating. Violet eyes drifted down to his lap, where his hands were safely being held. “Sorry,” she said again, seeing the streaks of red on the back of his scarred skin.

Azriel shook his head with a soft laugh, rubbing at the markings of her fingers with the thumb on his other hand. “Trust me, it was barely anything.”

“The fact that a slap hard enough to leave marks is barely anything to you does not make me feel better,” she drawled flatly. “It shouldn’t be barely anything. You should be scowling and complaining how tender it is.”

“I should be?”

“Yes. Because that’s what people do when they haven’t been hurt before.” The muscle under the skin of his jaw rippled. “They don’t know pain, so when it comes, they hurt. Experience can be numbing.”

He pursed his lips after a moment of silence, then leant down closer to her ear. “Maybe I’m just tough,” he whispered in a light tone. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not about the pain he’s been through or how the slap of her hand was barely the swat of a kitten paw to him. She knew enough already of his life and he wasn’t interested in inviting her deeper into it. “I’m a warrior after all.”

“So’s Cassian,” she muttered. “But he complains like a babe if you step on his toe.”

His lips quirked, wondering if his brother could hear their conversation from downstairs. He wouldn’t put them above eavesdropping. “I’ll keep my mouth shut on that,” he replied, earning a slight nudge of her elbow into his side as she likely had the same train of thought.

Arwen felt the bond between them. Her thoughts slowed at it, mindlessly plucking at the invisible string. There were good reasons why she hadn’t acted on the bond, and good reasons why she often thought of rejecting it. They just hadn’t been spoken aloud, least of all to him. She didn’t have to wonder what he thought about it. His reaction on that day would never leave her mind.

“Thank you for bringing me dinner.”

Azriel knew the tone well and was on his feet within the second. The hard, dismissive tone that signalled she desired guests to depart. She was a sweetheart by nature, as Cassian would call her, but she wasn’t a child anymore, nor a simpleton. It was the voice that belonged to the daughter of the High Lord that was her father, the tone that her brother carried too. The one that put her third in charge of the Night Court, seconded to only Amren.

It wasn’t that Rhysand didn’t trust his sister to be the next in line, but he knew that if he fell for whatever reason, his sister would be in no quick position to take power. He knew that by his own actions at her near death and that of his mother’s. It was dangerous and an impulse-driven surge of emotions. Though he did not regret seeking revenge, he was in no place to lead a court for some time after, leaving the others to take control as he tended to her and to his own grief. If he fell, then it was to a something beyond him in strength and he needed someone who was even stronger, colder, harsher to seize control. If Amren failed that, if it wasn’t power and magic that the Night Court needed, then his sister was the one he entrusted.

Azriel didn’t know what had caused the sudden change of tone, but he made no point to question her. He treated her words as orders and unless he had reason to argue, orders were not questioned. He gave her one last look over his shoulder as he neared the door, a firm nod in acknowledgement and then he was gone.

Arwen looked back down at her plate, the ache in her back growing. It had started from where it hit the surface of the water but she had ignored it in favour of other woes and worries. Now it was like a blister that she had left untreated. She finished her meal; slower and picker about which tastes she put on her tongue until only the beans were left. By that time, the Town House had grown quiet.

With a wince, Arwen pushed herself from the bed, plate in hand, and wandered back down to the main floor. Azriel seemed to have left, but Cassian was lounging in the sitting room. He laid stretched across the lounge, an arm behind his head. Arwen passed him to the kitchen instead.

Rhysand was in there when she arrived, braced against a bench. He blinked, dragging in a breath as he looked up. “How was dinner?”

She looked down at the plate. “You gave me beans.” It was a little sharp, perhaps a little accusatory. “You haven’t given me beans since I was fifteen.”

His eyes dropped to the plate then closed over as his shoulders sagged. He was well aware of her distaste for them. Not even a simple distaste, for the last time she had eaten them when they were cooked into a stew he made, she had vomited for an hour after. “Shit. I—sorry.” With a wave of the magic she barely possessed, the plate disappeared. “Are you alright? Did you eat any?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Her brother stared at her, the two pieces of information floating in his mind but the link not yet made. “Me?”

“You haven’t put beans in my food since I was fifteen,” she restated with more emphasis on each word. “One hundred and eighty years ago. Meaning I know it’s not a mistake that you make usually. So are you alright?”

He blinked again, then nodded loosely. “I’m alright,” he affirmed. “My mind just isn’t sitting straight at the moment.” Arwen nodded as she knew exactly how he felt. “Madja is going to do some research for us, see if there’s any record of this happening.”

“I’m not sure a healer is what I need.”

Rhysand leant his hip against the large island bench, drumming his fingers. She was right, he noted. This didn’t seem to be an ailment that needed herbs and a healing touch. Arwen had become intangible. That was something else. Something magical. Before Azriel had made his swift and quiet departure, he had murmured to Rhys about the possibility of a curse. Neither had any idea what curse could cause such a thing but it was a possibility until ruled out.

He wasn’t alright. But neither was she and she needed him to be, so he would be. And if he was making guess, he would say that her ‘un-alrightness’ was far worse than his. It was his duty to be alright. As a High Lord and as a brother. “Stay in the house for the near future,” he said. “I… I don’t want you to be on the mountain or in the air until we figure this out.”

Arwen agreed with a stiff nod, her toe scuffing the floor, wondering if she would fall through that too. “I’m going to take a nap. Or just sleep, I suppose. It’s late.”

“I’ll be here. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Rhys.”

She sauntered back across the main floor, thinking about her bedroom. But she still had that itch of touch, the one she refused herself from taking from Azriel. Just the idea that at any moment she might not be able to ever again, drove the urge and her feet towards the sitting room. Arwen and Cassian had a habit of taking naps together, usually from falling asleep after a hearty meal and talking. Or even after training that exhausted even the endless mounds of energy the general seemed to have in reserves.

Standing over him, she lifted her bare foot and nudged his ribs. “Move over.” Cassian tilted his neck and arched a brow. “Please,” she added with a smile. With a grunt for show, he inched himself closer to the back of the lounge and rolled out his arm. Arwen lay on her back, knees pitched towards the roof next to him, head rested on his arm which curled back up, his palm slapping against her forehead and roughly brushed the hairs back. “Goodnight, Cass.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

The next morning, Arwen was barely able to push herself off the bed where she had been moved to. Overnight, the ache in her back tenfolded. The scars on her back felt as fresh as the day the wounds were made. She choked on her whimpers and suffocated the thoughts that came with each blinding strike through her muscles.

Making way to her mirror, Arwen lifted her black shirt that was from the previous morning’s training. Her scars marking where her wings had once been, as brutal as they were, looked no different from before. Releasing her grip on the material, she knew there was no way she would be changing any time soon on her own. Fortunately, the twin half-wraiths were always around to help with such things, but she’d call for their help later.

In need of something to break her fast, Arwen ventured downstairs, each step slow and calculated. As she climbed down the stairs, Mor was sweeping around. “Morning,” her cousin called. “Sleep alright?”

Arwen tipped one side of her mouth upwards. “Like the dead.” Which was a good thing. And it became clear that the gods of sleep favoured her over her brother. Her jaw loosened when she found Rhysand in the sitting room. “You look ghastly.”

Rhysand’s eyes were sunken and flat, his usually tanned skin paling to something more akin to Morrigan’s than his Illyrian ancestry. He raised the mug he was drinking from in greeting. “Morning, sister,” he said flatly, lips curved in a humourless grin, not taking kindly to her first words of observation for the day. “Delightful as always to see you.”

“Doing my duty to make sure you don’t enter the world looking like some Middengard Wyrm,” she muttered. “Or would you rather it be the people of Velaris telling you?”

He flared his arms out in theatrics as she took her time to sink into the lounge beside his favoured armchair. “You could at least start with, ‘Good morning, dearest brother. I am so fortunate to have you, but I must warn you that you are looking a bit peaky today. May I offer you a warm tea?’ Or is that too hard for you?”

Arwen stared at him with pursed lips. After a moment of silent deliberation, she said, “I fell out of the sky yesterday. I’m allowed to be short.”  

“Don’t start using that against me already,” he responded, but his mirth had dried out. Arwen only lifted her hands as if to say, ‘what can you do?’ He had indeed been up the entire night, reading whatever book he thought might lead to a clue of what happened. When there was nothing left in the town house, he debated going to the library under the House of Wind but couldn’t bring himself to leave the town house without someone awake. Cassian had hauled her into her room some hours into the night to return to his own up at the House with Azriel, Mor electing to stay with Rhys. But he was glad to see, at least, that she managed to get rest.

Arwen made the decision once she sat in the comfortable cushioning of the lounge, that she would not be getting up for some time. Nuala thankfully handed her a bowl of cooked eggs; a favourite of hers. She debated whether the wraith could read her mind as she ate.

Just as her spoon was scraping the juices in the bowl, the front door rammed open. Two heavy sets of feet, albeit one considerably lighter than the other, announced their identity. Arwen smiled over the top of the lounge as Cassian first sauntered in, dressed in a loose shirt and trousers. He stopped just beside the length of the chair, arms folded as he looked at the High Lord.

“Mother’s tits, Rhys. You look like fucking shit.”

Rhys slumped into his chair, even more exhausted. “Morning, Cassian.” His violet eyes fell onto the floor as he seemed to be speaking to himself. “What happened to polite good mornings?” He made an exploding gesture with one hand. “Gone,” he whispered just as Azriel trailed in.

Cassian frowned and looked down at the young Fae female beside him. Arwen waved her hand. “You must excuse him. He delirious. I suspect all the arrogance has finally gotten to him.”

He made a noise of understanding and perched himself on the lounge arm to her left. Azriel remained standing in the shadows that prowled around him. “And how are you, princess?”

Arwen placed a hand on her chest. “Thank you for asking. Somebody has forgotten to ask.”

Rhysand smiled mockingly at Cassian. “The first thing she did this morning was insult me. She’s perfectly fine.” Arwen lifted her middle finger to which he only gestured to. “My point is proven.” Cassian gave a rumbling laugh, scuffing through her hair in approval of her actions. He took another look at his sister, properly examining her. In a more solemn tone, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

The movement of her shoulders was slow, Azriel noted. “Fine.” Her eyes dropped to the floor beyond her feet, something in her face hollowing out. Hardly fine, he thought. And she was hiding it. A fact he would point out, if it needed to be, but he knew his brothers saw it just as clearly.

Mor entered the sitting room, her eyes darting to the new forms but doubled down on the High Lord. “Cauldron, Rhys. You—”

“Look like shit. I’ve been told.”

Arwen placed her empty bowl aside. “I, for one, am sick of looking at you. Would you please go hide your hideous looks away in your bedroom?” Which was her sisterly way of telling him to go to bed.

He regarded her request, head resting in his palm. He didn’t want to sleep whilst she was awake. And perhaps that was a flaw of his, to need to be in oversight of everything. He had his Inner Circle to take some of that weight off him, but he still couldn’t entirely give them the burdens. “I have work to do today.”

“Like what?”

The High Lord sighed. “I have three letters to respond to. There’s an inquiry into an upcharge made by the shipment of spices that just came in. A meeting this afternoon.”

Arwen folded her hands in her lap. “I will draft replies to those letters. You can just read them and sign them later once you feel better. I will write to the merchant and request that he explains his upcharge and I’m sure whoever this meeting is with can be delayed for a few hours or until another day. Their High Lord has important respite to attend to.” She spoke with the voice of a noblewoman—the calmness and ease.

Rhysand’s brows pressed together, a small ounce of pride sparking in him to see his sister in such a state of control. Which was plenty to say considering their positions should rightly be opposite. “No,” he decided. Arwen’s lips cracked open, no doubt a whinge incoming. “I don’t want you working today.” Working might take his mind off of things, at the very least.

“You look in worse shape than me,” she protested.

“Because I’ve been up all night worrying about you,” he shot back. “You’re not alright. I couldn’t touch you, Arwen. My ghastly appearance, however hideous you may find it, will go with a goodnight’s sleep but whatever happened to you won’t.”

She swallowed, the small point in her throat bobbing. “It might. It might not ever happen again.”

“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything.”

“And you think you’ll find the answers in the books you’ll drool half-asleep on?”

“Would you have me do nothing?”

Her face flushed with heat. “You’re twisting my words, Rhys.”

Rhysand bristled and straightened in his armchair. But his spymaster, whom he had all but forgotten in the shadows of the sitting room, called his name in warning. “Rhys.” It was enough for him to stop. And think.

Mor twisted her lips into a tight smile. “I’ve got nothing else to do today so why don’t you both rest and I’ll take care of those letters and have the meeting delayed.”

The High Lord burrowed his head in his hands. “Why do I feel like a child being scolded?” Nobody answered. He pushed from the armchair and kissed his cousin’s cheek. “Thank you, Mor. And you—” he rounded and pointed an unyielding finger in her direction— “will stay home for the day. If it happens again, I…”

Arwen nodded, her lips pursed in a grim smile. “I know.”

~

Cassian and Azriel both had their duties to attend to, and although Mor was still present in the town house for most of the day, she was busy and kept working in Rhysand’s office. Nothing out of the ordinary happened and she managed to get changed with the help of the twins. And nothing happened meant Arwen was drowning in boredom. She had spent an hour in the garden, sketching a flower, then bathed, cooked herself and Mor a mid-day meal. Rhysand had not shown since he retreated to his chamber which meant he was fast asleep. If he wasn’t he’d be as restless as her.

Arwen recollected her sketchbook and granite pencil, and with the grace of a feline, slipped through the upper hall and into her brother’s room. It an obscenely grand place, with a luxurious bed wide enough to cater to his wings. Hers was the same of course. The curtains were half-open, letting in enough light to see but not hinder sleep. Her brother lay on his side, silk sheets of black strewn to his stomach, one arm tucked under his ear, the other stretched across the mattress.

She crept around the far side, pinching the sheets and slipped onto the bed. Arwen settled against the plush headboard, placing the sketchbook in her lap. “Pig,” she muttered as he made a sound akin to a snore. Her hand moved with swift lightness across the rough paper, sketching light lines of her brother’s face, then his body. His cheek was unceremoniously flatted against his arm and his black hair scuffed the wrong way. It might well be his next formal portrait. Arwen grinned at the thought of taking the sketch down to the Rainbow and having it painted and hung in a glorious golden frame. She would place it in the hall alongside the portraits of the past High Lords.

As she placed more pressure on the paper, detailing the thick wrinkles along his eyes, her brother shifted. Arwen blindly reached out and placed a hand on his face, pushing it back onto his arm. “No. Still.”

He swiped her away like a miscreant fly. “Are you drawing me?” he rasped, evidently still half-asleep.

“No.”

The sketchbook was torn from her lap. Arwen sighed and turned on her side as Rhysand examined the pencil work. “Burn it,” he commanded after a moment of assessment.

“No,” she said again, though this time in a laugh. “The likeness is incredible, don’t you think?”

He groused something back then started to flip through her latest works. They were nothing notable, as everything worth sketching perfectly was done on single sheets. Arwen watched him with a soft smile, until she realised the timeline of what he was currently looking through. “That’s enough,” she said, reaching for the book.

Rhysand turned away from her. “No, I want to see more.”

“Rhys.” He didn’t respond. She could see it coming as he plucked the corner of the next page. Arwen launched at him, well preferring to destroy it than let him see. He twisted away from her, laughing as he figured out she wanted to hide something, which only made him the more determined. “Rhysand, I swear on the Mother!”

“Whoa.” Arwen snatched the page, tearing over half of it from the book, leaving just the portion with Azriel’s head left. Her face heated uncomfortably as her brother looked back over his shoulder at her scowling form and pursed his lips. “Doing anatomy practice, were we?”

His crowing laughter grew with each second as she sat, entirely flustered, holding the remnants of the naked sketch. “I hate you.”

“Is there one of Cassian too?”

Arwen bundled the paper and pegged it at his face, the crumped ball bouncing off and rolling along the floor. “Please,” she scoffed. “He asked for one though.”

“Should have said yes.” He handed her back the sketchbook and careen his lips into a brimming grin. “And given him a little lesson in cockiness.” Arwen whacked his shoulder, even though she agreed to the idea of it. “Does Azriel know of that drawing?”

“Of course not,” she hissed, protectively holding the book to her chest. There was nothing else like it in there, but still it left her exposed to have someone see it and know that she had the desire to put it on paper. “And you won’t say anything.”

“He’d like it.” Arwen tilted her head down to him. Rhysand read the flat expression and sighed through a flared nose. “He’d appreciate knowing his mate thinks of him,” he added softer.

“You don’t… He wouldn’t. Trust me.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you two?”

Arwen shook her head. She was just grateful Rhysand had the mind to not scour through hers or Azriel’s for the memory. It was a privacy she pleaded him for. He hadn’t liked it, if only for the sake of understanding why she was in such a state, but agreed. “I’m happy just being here, Rhys. With you. With Mor and Cassian, even Az and Amren. It’s enough for me.”

“I don’t think it is, princess.” Rhysand pushed himself up to sit beside her, his violet eyes flooded with sorrow that she couldn’t bear to hold. “You and I both know you aren’t happy. Not in the way you used to be.”

Her dark brows merged. “Can you blame me?” she croaked in a whisper. The confession, one that only happened in the weak moments of her mind, brought the sting of tears. And moments before they fell, she managed to mutter, “I want Mother.”

Rhysand drew her closer. As he idly stroked the back of her hair, leaning against the headboard with his cheek against her hairline, he said, “I want her to.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

The town house trembled with a blood-curdling scream.

Rhysand startled awake, flinging the silk sheets from his body and tore down the hall as the screaming continued. He could already hear the commotion downstairs and half-expected to find one of them with their arms cut off. He knew who the screams belonged to—but they were distant, almost smothered.

Mor and Cassian were yelling at the other, but it wasn’t the sound that awoke him. No, they too had their heads snapping around, searching for its source, arguing between themselves. Just as Rhysand’s feet hit the last step, the front door flung open with his spymaster’s form dangerously alert.

“Where is she?” Rhysand demanded, reaching the sitting room, capturing Mor and Cassian’s attention.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Cassian growled back, though the frustration wasn’t aimed at the High Lord. Azriel burst into the room after him, shadows unsettled and whipping around him. “We can’t find her.”

“Can’t find…” Rhysand trailed off as he listened to his sister’s voice. She called his name, then Azriel’s, Cassian’s, Mor’s and even Amren’s. She was thumping against something solid. Trapped. Their heads all turned, ears perked for the sound.

“It’s happened again,” Azriel realised, quickly sending his shadows off on a hunt.

All Arwen saw was blackness. All except a thin slither of light that crossed against something made of stone, the trail thinner than her smallest finger. Her stomach pressed flat against the earth, hard wooden slats against her back. She couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t lift herself or move in any direction. But she had fallen into whatever pit it was.

Cassian’s head was tilted up, examining where he stood in relation to the upstairs level. Rhysand and Mor swapped between pressing their ears closer to the walls and floor as they scoured through the sitting room and into the small library that made his office. Azriel lingered behind, using his shadows. They had found her, but now he had to find where they both were. “Her bedroom should be right above us,” the warrior stated. She had still been asleep not half an hour ago when he opened her door. 

Arwen heard their muffled voices. Rhysand had tapped into her mind, soothing words flowing to her. She was trapped underneath the houses, pinched between the earth and the foundations. Somehow fallen right through the house itself but not through the ground.

‘You’re going to have to winnow out.'

“No,” she said aloud. “No—I don’t know how to, Rhys!”

Rhysand evened his breaths as he crouched on the floor of his office. He could hear her through the floor, felt her panic in his mind. “You’re going to have to. There’s no way under the house and we can’t winnow into that space. Either that or you find a way to make yourself go through things again.”

Arwen felt Azriel’s shadows. She couldn’t see them. She could barely see anything, but they always felt like a soft tickle. “I don’t know how to control it,” she spat, willing back failing to keep herself calm. “And not every Fae can winnow, and we both know I can’t!”

Rhysand rolled his tongue over his lips, looking to the rest of the Inner Circle for ideas. They couldn’t destroy the flooring because they would risk hurting her in the process and there was no way for them to get to her from the outside either. With a resigning shake of his head, he said, “You’re going to winnow. I’m the most powerful High Lord in history—”

“I do not care for your bragging right now,” her muffled cry interrupted.

“And there is no way that my sister isn’t capable of winnowing. There is no way that I have all this power and you don’t have any, so you are going to winnow.” Rhysand finished his firm words, holding his breath as he awaited her reply. “Arwen?”

Arwen tapped her forehead to the earth as she tried to focus on gathering enough air as her ribs were pressed flat. She had to winnow. She would rather try that than attempt to make herself move through things again. What if it had only been the Mother’s miracle that she hadn’t plunged through the earth itself?

Cassian opened his mouth to suggest prying the floor, but Azriel knelt just before the first crack of his voice sounded. “Arwen?”

Her pointed ears perked at the sound of her mate’s voice. It was like a call, specifically for her. As though his voice was designed for her ears. Arwen tried to turn her head upwards to hear him better, two deep valleys of skin forming between her eyes as she waited for him to speak more.

Azriel licked his lips, his weight rested forward on the pads of his fingers across the floor. He felt her heartbeat change as soon as he spoke, telling him that she was indeed listening. His eyes skimmed across Rhysand’s face who watched him intently. “Two spots, remember? Imagine where you want to be and see yourself standing there. Imagine yourself taking one step forward and moving from where you are now to where you want to be.”

Arwen clenched her eyes but did as he instructed and put her shield in place to block out any of her brother’s attempts to garner entry again and distract her. She envisioned herself outside, basking in the morning sunlight that she had barely gotten a glimpse of as she awoke that morning before the world turned to a blur of colours.

Rhysand listened for his sister’s response, listened for any shuffling. He tapped her mind, but he was locked out of it like an iron gate stood before him. “Arwen?” he called again, voice growing rasp. “Either let me in or talk to me.”

Cassian rapped the back of his knuckles against the polished wood floor. “Sweetheart, I’ve got things to do today. I don’t want to spend it digging you out.”

Mor rolled her lips between her teeth. “Don’t listen to him. Take your time.”

“You look like a bunching of idiots talking to the floor.”

Four heads snapped around. Arwen sat just before the office door’s threshold, covered in a concoction of dust, dirt, and unidentifiable grime, still in her nightgown. She coughed away her dry throat, though it sent a spike of pain through her chest that she had fallen on from the second story of the townhouse.

Mor waved her hand through the air as they migrated towards her, the dirt disappearing and leaving her as pristine as she was leaving the bathtub last night. “Are you alright?” she breathed.

Arwen nodded and brushed aside her cousin’s hand. “I’m fine.” She huffed something as close to a laugh as she could manage and looked to Rhysand who dutifully knelt at her side. “I winnowed.”

He let out a breathless chuckle and nodded. “You did.” He examined her body and her mind which was now unlocked for him. The questions that he wanted to ask were answered through it.

Arwen pushed to her feet and practised her breathing, letting her breastbone stretch out the tenderness.

“That’s the second time,” Rhysand muttered, a hand cupping her elbow but mostly looking to Mor as Cassian filled in the roll of speaking with his sister. “It’s going to happen again.” Mor didn’t answer him, looking between both her cousins. But she warned him with a look to keep his words of fear in control.   

“Fuck you,” Arwen muttered to Cassian’s small grin. She leant her side against her brother’s front, somewhat hearing him talk behind her head to Mor. “The only thing you’ve got to do today is work on your biceps for the mirror.”

“An important task,” he drawled out, flexing his arm which roused a larger smile from her as she rubbed at her chest. “If I take too many days off, I won’t be able to haul you around, you lug.”

Tired and still agitated from her rough awakening, Arwen only manage a short, airy laugh of a single exhale. “Are you calling me fat?” she muttered, half closing her eyes, temple against the front of her brother’s shoulder.

Cassian drew his lips wider as he said, “Well endowed.”

It drew a series of reactions. Arwen coughed another laugh. From just beside him, Azriel’s eyes narrowed in a warning just as sharp as his infamous dagger currently lodged at his thigh. Mor offered a sharp huff from the back of her throat as though she had heard the same words too many times and Rhysand tilted his head away from his cousin towards his general. But Cassian was content seeing a flicker of amusement in Arwen’s eyes that the looks he received were brushed aside.

When a thick silence lapsed and nobody seemed to know what to do or say anymore, she gave a slight raise of her brows. “Are we having a family breakfast? I can smell food.”

Mor gasped. “The eggs!” The sound of her shoes thumped out of the office and down to the kitchen. Cassian laughed but followed her out, likely in concern for his food.

Azriel half-turned to the door but looked back. Arwen waited, watching him intently as a slight frown etched its way onto his face. She wanted him to say something—anything, really—just so she could open the chance to speak with him. But his lips never opened. When it was just her and Rhys left in his office, she wiped a hand down her face. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

Rhysand didn’t say anything. How was he supposed to tell her that he didn’t either? That he had no clue what was happening or how to help? That was his duty, as both High Lord and her brother—to know what to do. Yet in this, he was chained. “Let’s just have breakfast.”

They all sat around the dining table, eating from their delicate porcelain plates. The eggs had turned out quite burnt but Mor cooked another batch. Apparently, she had told the twin wraiths she wanted to cook that morning and sent them elsewhere. Arwen tried not to look at Azriel as they opposite at the table, even when he made a few short comments. Nobody spoke of what had just passed and Arwen wasn’t sure if she should count is as a blessing, or if it was strange that she was still reeling from what had happened yet everyone else ignored it like it was nothing. The strangest part of breakfast was that Mor and Rhysand were unusually quiet. She guessed by the frequent glances shared between them that they were having a conversation the rest of them were not privy to.

When everybody started to move, Arwen kept her eyes on Azriel. He murmured something about seeing them for dinner and headed towards the front of the townhouse. She followed after him. “Azriel?”

He was a few steps away from the front foyer when the light melodic voice called his name, and like she was a sire and he a sailor, he could not help but turn around. She remained a few paces away, her feet close together and her hands clasped at the front of her gilded nightdress. His shadows had pounded at him when they hunted her down underneath the house and they still trilled around him now like a warning, wanting him not to leave her. But she had her brother, he told himself. She would be fine with him gone.  

She ran her tongue over dry lips. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I… I’m not sure how I would have gotten out of that without you.” She had winnowed. She had done something which she believed impossible of herself for nearly two hundred years.

He smiled through a sigh. “I’m sure Cassian would have been happy to pull apart the floor if you hadn’t managed.”

“But he didn’t need to,” she pointed out. Couldn’t he just accept her thanks? Could he not just take her gratitude with open hands? It had been a few years now since they both felt the snapping of the bond, a few years of treading around each other and being careful with their words.

Arwen took a step forward. Azriel’s eyes turned down. She didn’t take another. He would not even continue to look her in the eyes, wouldn’t even stay around after she had fallen through the floors like she was nothing more than the shadows that surrounded him. Despite what calmness she knew she held on her face, Arwen was anything but. It was for her brother’s sake that she forced herself to not reveal her panic, to hide her shaking hands between bites of her breakfast. She hoped that Azriel would at least care to stay around.

Crossing her arms across her stomach, Arwen took a step back. Hazel iris lifted back to hers at the sound of her step but held no sign of intent to say anything. Her lips parted, the words dying before they arrived. Snapping them back shut, she turned around and stalked back towards the staircase.

Rhysand wandered into the main hall as the foyer door opened and Arwen strode past him. He reached for her arm, intending a gentle clasp, but she yanked herself away from him and did not even look back as her feet lightly tapped to the upper level. “Arwen?” At no answer, he looked back to the foyer where his spymaster had just disappeared to. Knowing neither would provide him with the answers he sought, the High Lord lifted the point of his elbow to press against the wall next to his head, then pinched the bridge of his nose with the same hand. He would let her rest, he decided, and let his spymaster do whatever the Cauldron he wanted to.   

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Feyre strode down the hall in the House of Wind, a velvet emerald dress hugging the cinch of her waist. Her slim fingers stroked through her golden hair, fixing the slight disarray that Rhys had caused when he decided to do revolutions in the sky as they flew up from the town house. In her other hand was a book written on the first war with Hybern. She had longed to know more about her new home’s history but didn’t wish to ask her mate to relive that part of his life in such detail so she had asked Cassian if he knew of any history books since he had already shown to be fond of books on battle.

She could still hear the chiming laughter of Rhysand and Mor down in the main sitting room as they gathered before an evening meal as a proper family once more. It had been too long since she's had this part of her life back since leaving for the Spring Court.

Feyre knocked on Cassian’s door with the bone of her knuckles.

“I swear I’m almost ready!” reverberated from the inside. Chuckling, Feyre opened the door to the General Commander’s luxurious bedroom. It was always remarkably neat, though not as neat as Rhysand’s. Cassian was indeed almost ready, donning a pair of clean black trousers with numerous pockets and a long-sleeved shirt in a matching shade of black. He double-looked at his High Lady. “Feyre,” he greeted. “Am I that late that he sent you down here to get me like a dog?”

“No, Azriel and Amren haven’t made an appearance yet,” she said with a warm smile. “I actually came to return this.” She held up the cover of the book and he made a face of recognition. “It was…informative.”

Cassian understood what she meant and offered a tight smile as he took the book. “Let’s hope we don’t have to relive it again.” Her smile tightened in response. He placed the book on a shelf, trailing his finger along the dark, polished wood. “Are your sisters coming tonight?”

Feyre tipped her head knowingly. “No, Nesta won’t be there. She’s locked herself up with Elain for the night. Elain doesn’t want to come for… a few reasons but mainly to avoid Lucien. Lucien isn’t coming either though.”

“Didn’t know we bothered inviting him,” he jibed through a grin. Feyre twisted her lips in a playful reprimand of warning. Cassian’s shoulders shook as he crossed them over his chest. His eyes drifted down over the shelves that had an open backing, not quite making it a bookshelf though he used it mostly as so. There were other trinkets, mostly odd gifts from hundreds of years’ worth of celebrating. When he landed on the small chest near his feet, he looked back up to Feyre. He gestured for her to come closer.

Feyre lifted her brows but wandered further into his room as he crouched down and flipped the metal lock of the chest open. It looked untouched; one of the only things with evidence of dust in the entire chamber. He pulled out a wide piece of rolled parchment, sealed in place by its own permanence of being bent for so long. “You reminded me of this. I’ll admit I had to search for a while to remember where I put it but—but this is a painting of Arwen.” Feyre’s eyes widened as she flickered them between her companion and the scroll as he unravelled it. “Rhys took any down that had her in them. Stored them somewhere and never told us where but I managed to steal this one before he took it.”

It was a simple portrait, with a background the looked like it was somewhere in one of the sitting rooms of the House of Wind or the town house. The first thing that Feyre truly took notice in were the girl’s eyes. Such a deep, rich shade of blue that they were a glistening mirror of Rhysand’s. Everything about her was; from the eyes, to raven hair, the tanned skin and the slight uplift of her full lips that resembled something between a smirk and a smile. The young female sat formally, with set shoulders and her chin lifted and sitting on her forehead was a golden circlet with a slight point that dipped just above the middle of her dark brows. No doubt an official portrait of some kind. “She’s beautiful.”

Cassian hummed in something of agreement. Feyre glanced at him again, but his eyes never left the painting. “You’re mates with the male version of her so I’m not surprised,” he said through a quiet chuckle. His throat bobbed. “Sorry if I sprung this on you. It’s just nice to be able to talk about her again. I didn’t—” he coughed and seemed to reset his shoulders— “I was still here in my room when Rhys and Azriel found her and by the time I got to the town house when Rhys called for me, she was gone. After that it was like he wanted her gone from his memory and I couldn’t bring her up. I visit her grave every few months, but goodbyes don’t really seem right when only one person gets to say it.”

He finally looked away from the portrait towards his High Lady, wondering if she had any recognition of the way he felt. But Feyre’s eyes were locked on the portrait with a frown. “How long ago did you say she died?”

Cassian’s lips parted as he swallowed and did the math. “Uh, she was just about to turn two hundred, so about two hundred and fifty years ago. I know that’s a long time for mortals, but it barely feels like a few years to me. I keep thinking that—”

“I’ve seen her before.”

He blinked, looking back down at the oil painting then at Feyre who examined it with a closer eye. “Did Rhys accidentally show you a memory?” he inquired at her lack of context. “A nightmare?”

Feyre shook her head, though she knew that he had indeed had at least a few night terrors about his sister. She had only claimed a small memory of what he felt, placing it to his sister after he first told Feyre of her existence. But she had never seen Arwen’s face through them. “No, but it was through Rhys’s eyes. I-I saw her there. Under the Mountain.”

Cassian didn’t know what to say. “Feyre, she died long before that.”

But Feyre shook her head adamantly and pointed to the female’s painted smile. “I remember that face. When I died, I was looking at everything through his eyes and I saw that female standing next to him. I thought it was so strange that they looked alike and that she must have been part of his court but I hadn’t seen her before then. She was looking at him too, but he never looked at her.”

He looked down at the painting, not quite sure what he wanted to believe. There was no doubt that Arwen had a recognisable face. No one else on Prythian had her and her brother’s looks. Cassian shook his head. “It’s impossible. Rhys would have seen her. She’s dead, Feyre. I saw her body and watched it get buried.”

“And so was I,” she whispered. “Cassian, I was dead and so is she.”

He tipped his head from shoulder to shoulder in wild thought, willing enough to entertain with slither of possibility it held. “Did you see anybody else you know to be dead? What about those two faeries that you…”

Feyre swallowed the pit in her throat at the memory but shook her head. “Maybe I’m just making memories up. I don’t try to remember much from that time.”

Cassian rolled up the parchment with a sigh, placing it back in the chest. “Maybe Rhys has created an imprint of her in his own reality," he said through a long sigh. "If you were seeing through his eyes, maybe you were seeing what his mind created as well.”

“Maybe,” she echoed, then looked out of the arched glazed window that beheld the setting sun. “Now you’re late for dinner.”

As he stood back up, pushing his sleeves up the length of his forearms, he pointed a finger at her chest. “So are you. But Rhys can’t be mad at you which works in my favour.”

Feyre smiled, wiping the memory of what had just passed between them. “No, but Mor can and will be if she’s denied dinner on a starving stomach.” He made a grousing sound of agreeing realisation and ushered them both out into the hall and set a quick pace towards the dining room.

The welcoming graces of their family adorned their lips again with grins as they sat down around the mahogany wood table. A feast lay before them that Mor was already picking at. Cassian picked up Amren’s plate without warning, much to Azriel’s chagrin, a habit that the warrior didn’t seem keen to let go of. Feyre indulged herself in wine and even Azriel made a few smiles through the night. Cassian even forsook his care for the lack of a certain Archeron sister’s presence. She hated to admit that the night was likely going far better than if they attended, no matter how much she wished they would have.

As they relaxed, moved to a sitting room with more glasses of wine in hand, Cassian and Mor started up a game with cards. Azriel and Amren sat next to each other, though with a comfortable distance between them, watching. Feyre sipped at her red wine, turning her gaze to her mate. Rhysand was watching her, a soft but perplexed edge set in his violet eyes.  “What’s the matter?” she asked, laying a hand on his thigh.

“Nothing,” he murmured, sending her a quick uplift of his lips before he looked away and settled into the lounge further. Feyre however, continued to watch him as he had watched her. He leant against the armrest, elbow driving into the soft material as he fingers curled atop of his lips to hide them.

“Rhys,” she called again, soft enough not to be heard by the rest of the Inner Circle, but firm enough to take his attention. He laid his hand over hers, glancing in her direction, but settled his eyes somewhere else. Feyre followed them, all the way to Cassian. It took her a few moments to realise that he had caught a glimpse into their thoughts. “Rhys.”

“You didn’t see her.” His voice turned rasped, nothing more than a hoarse whisper. “She wasn’t there, and you didn’t see her.”  

Feyre looked back to Cassian, but he was none-the-wiser to their conversation. Instinctually, her gaze turned to Azriel instead. He had been looking somewhere along the floor near her feet, but as if her eyes held weight and he felt them, his own hazel ones lifted. Feyre found that it was hard to tear away from them once they locked. She couldn’t help but feel as though he knew as well as Rhys what had been in her mind.

Her mate. Azriel’s mate was dead. Did he want to forget about her too, or was he stuck in a world of pained silence at the order of his High Lord?

Feyre took her mate’s hand in a tighter clutch for the rest of the night and kept her mind occupied with other thoughts so she would not send anything through their linked souls. But the harm had been done. They retired early in the night, returning alone to the town house and crawled their way into the large bed in their now shared room. Feyre laid her head on his chest, the thrumming of his heart leading the pattern of her own. He made idle stroked along her bare spine as though he was counting each small bone along it. He stared off to the other side of the bedchamber, lost in his thoughts.

Feyre bit her lips before speaking. “She was beautiful,” she said, echoing what she had said earlier. She wasn’t looking at his face as she spoke but still could read every response his body produced to her voice. The stroking of her back never stopped. “So much like you.”

“I wish there was more for you to say about her.”

She lifted her head, brows burrowing but realised that he wasn’t throwing a jab at her. He said it to himself. Beauty is what one could see from a painting, but little else. And a painting is all she knew besides a few pieces from Cassian. Yet Rhysand wasn’t willing to offer that something more. “Why do you want to forget her?” she whispered.

“Because I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember her.” Rhysand looked down at his mater who still had her head lifted partially off his chess. “I tried to use my own powers to wipe her from my memory but… It doesn’t work like that. I can’t change my own mind just like we can’t bite off our own fingers.” His own admission of the extent he had gone to was sickening to be said aloud. “And I don’t trust another daemati to do it.”

Feyre lifted herself higher, resting on the points of her elbows. “She was your sister, Rhys. Azriel’s mate.”

“Haven’t you ever wished to erase a part of your life?” Rhysand stretched his jaw and nestled further into his pillow. “You saw what I was willing to become, what I was willing to do Under the Mountain to protect my family and this city. I would have done all that just to keep her alone safe. Remembering her is remembering that I didn’t. That I didn’t go to those lengths to protect her.”

It was shame, in his voice that she recognised. It was buried deep, roots clawed into his mind like a weed.  ‘I don’t think he wants that help, Feyre,’ Cassian had said. ‘I think he wants to continue hating himself over it.’

“Goodnight darling.”

Feyre closed her eyes as Rhysand leant down to kiss her forehead, the soft glow of the candlelit blowing out. She hadn’t wanted to end the conversation there, but it was clear as the night sky that it was. So she nestled back against him, a smile of contentment curling on her lips as she fell asleep at his side.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

“I think I know something.”

Rhysand, sitting in an ornate chair in the generous sitting room, nearly spilt his morning tea over his lap. He recovered the tilt of the cup, managing only a few droplets to spill over as Amren circled around the chair, a hefty book in hand. “People have forgotten how to say good morning in this city,” he muttered, eyes flashing around for sign of anybody else. The town house had been remarkably quiet that fine morning, with Arwen still sleeping away and the others at the House of Wind. He had least of all expected Amren to show up at the hour of dawn without prompt. “What do you have there?”

“An answer,” she answered. Amren donned her usual grey assortment of a cropped blouse and loose trousers. It was un-uniquely plain until one looked at the jewels adorning her neck of a blood-coloured ruby necklace. Rhysand sat straighter against his chair as Amren dropped the book on the lowered table in front of the lounge and flicked through the pages to the one he could see marked. “It’s been stuck in my head ever since you told me what happened, and I couldn’t figure out why.”

“But you have,” he filled in, placing his tea aside. “You know what is happening to Arwen?” He glanced up along the staircase he could just see through the main hall, wondering if he should awaken her. No, he needed to know first if it was something worth informing her of. Mother knew she was better off sleeping in any case. 

“I’ve never met one before, but there was one alive that had been recorded sometime when I was in the prison.” Rhysand crouched next to his Second, eyes scanning the words of the page. He recognised the label before it was given—one. One of something. Amren murmured to herself before an elegant finger landed on the right page, mid-way through a passage. “There. ‘A being that could move into a plane beyond our existence’.”

His mouth parted wide with a slow blink. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means a spiritual plane, Rhys,” Amren stated flatly. Her finger moved down to a single, italicised word. “A celestian.” He stared at the word for a pregnant length of silence until she grew tired of patience. “You are tied to your bodies just like I am tied to this form. But my existence is tied to something else, just as yours also are.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“How you are a High Lord, I will never understand,” she crooned. Rhysand spared her a quick smile, choosing to take the jest from the insult. “There is a reason, Rhys, that you call the yearly migration of spirits, Starfall.”

It was too early in the morning, he reasoned against his slow comprehension. But his mind finally started working. “They move through a celestial plane,” he said, the words echoing softly. “We move into it once we die. But Arwen is alive. I think I’d know if she wasn’t.”

Amren failed in smothering the roll of her eyes. “Cauldron Rhysand, I know she’s not dead. But like me, she’s in a form that’s not completely natural to her.”

Rhysand splayed out his fingers in front of him, forearms pressed into the edge of the table. “But she’s my sister. I was there when my mother gave birth to her. She’s Fae and Illyrian.”

“And your spymaster is full Illyrian, yet we call him a shadowsinger. You have powers too.” He fell silent again, placing pieces of both said and unsaid information together. Amren waved her hand across the page. “This is the only written source I could find. It’s not enough to tell us whether it was inherited or just chance, but it is the only thing that makes sense.”

He buried his face into his hands, stretching the skin until he deigned to look back up. “I still don’t understand what she is. What does it mean for her?”  

“I’d like to know too.”

His gut twisted, both physically and metaphorically as he snapped his upper body towards the large arched entrance into the sitting room. Arwen stood in her nightgown, her lips thinned into a single line.

“Or would you like me to return to my chambers so you can continue talking about me while I’m not here?”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said, but his urge to argue with her that morning was weak, even to defend himself. After a heartbeat of nothing, he extended his arm towards her in a gesture to join. Arwen glanced over her shoulder but dropped them and quietly moved across the sitting room, kneeling on his other side. “Amren thinks—”

“I heard,” Arwen declared stiffly. “I was standing there for a while.”

He examined her, waiting for her eyes to meet his but she diligently stared down at the page, only looking up to Amren. But her closeness to his side told him that her frigid temperament wasn’t aimed at him that morning. Though he had been the one to take the bite of it in the last few days. “Why now?” she asked. “Azriel has had his power since he was a boy. I haven’t even shown signs of magic before the other day.”

“Azriel was likely born with his powers, but I would bargain my jewels to say that they only came out when he was pushed to emerge,” said Amren, her voice toned with the usual flat drawl.

Arwen pursed her lips tighter as her mind flooded with the memories that had been shared with her of that time. How he had been locked away every day, except for one hour. Every day trapped in shadows until they became his companions.

“I’d also say we’d have more shadowsingers in the world if there were more circumstances to bring that power out.”

“I count it as a good thing we don’t then,” Arwen said bitterly. She raised her palms to the air. “I really…” She cut herself off, dropping her forehead to the table and encircled herself within her arms. Just as Rhysand’s hand skimmed her spine, she lifted it again. “I’m going to get something from a bakery for breakfast.”

“I thought you wanted to know more,” she heard her brother croon in a low voice as she stood.

“I trust that you will tell me what you know when I get back. Did you want anything while I’m out?” He barely got a ‘no’ in before she was up the stairs again. Arwen changed into a dress of midnight blue, the sleeves short and hanging off her shoulders. She let her hair remain loose to hide the peaks of the gnarly scars that showed through the top of the material. Giving a short wave directed to the living room, she was soon out in the city of Velaris, mingling amongst the morning crowd.

Her nose filled with the scent of the morning happenings. Freshly potted flowers, the scent of the earth after the rain that passed through the night that still left a glistening sheen over the road. Arwen followed the warming arms of fresh bread. The young baker was more than happy to serve the High Lord’s sister, boasting his best selection. Deciding on two slices of a fruit bread that was cut for morning wanderers such as herself, Rhysand's denial of needing anything permitted her to remain within the city to her heart’s content as she ate.

It was a rather splendid morning if she were in the mind to enjoy it. But the only smiles Arwen managed were those in return to the greetings she was gifted by her people. And when a familiar shadow drifted past from something overhead in the sky, she didn’t even bother with them anymore.

Azriel landed beside her with swift grace. He was dressed in his leathers, all the knives and his sword strapped into place in the way that she called recall with her eyes closed. “Good morning,” he said, striding alongside her as though he had been there the entire time.

“Morning, Az,” she murmured. He, along with Cassian and Mor, had retreated to the House of Wind days ago and she wasn’t naïve enough to not know why. She was only surprised that it was him and not Cassian that took the first step to talk to her, if anything.

“Would you like to get breakfast?”

“I’ve had it and I guess that you would have already too.” She looked up at him through her lashes, his expression confirming the presumption. “I don’t particularly feel like talking if that’s why you’re here. Especially if Rhys sent you.”

“Why would he have?”

So he was going to play the game of ignorance? “My point still stands.”

“I thought you might like company on your morning stroll,” his flat voice informed her. It was unnervingly deep sometimes, particularly in the morning Arwen had noted. “I don’t have to talk.”

She supposed that was the best type of company she could take. Cassian would say something stupid to annoy her, Mor would attempt to distract her with nonsensical topics, and Rhys would try to slyly get her to talk to him—for her own sake, he would reason. Amren at least wouldn’t have offered in the first place. Despite herself, Arwen growled out, “So you’re finally taking to seeking me out now that my existence is being questioned?”

Azriel stopped walking, though she continued for another few paces. “What?”

She waved her hand, unbothered to try and explain herself more. He continued to follow her, sometimes a few steps behind her, others directly at her side as she wandered through the open market stalls and looked through the shop windows. When she caught sight of her own pondwater eyes in one, Arwen quickly blinked anything away before they could fall.

“I’m heading home,” she declared, already moving before he could contend. Azriel still followed behind her like a silent guard, as he often did whenever they went to Hewn City. They weaved in silence back through the city streets until the town house stood before them. Arwen reached the door first, pushing through it and then the next out of the foyer.

Inside, Cassian leant against the staircase banister, speaking with her brother who seemed to have just walked down from it. He grinned at the sight of her. “There’s the sunshine,” he bellowed.

Arwen flinched at the loud voice, giving him an odd look and strode past him along the stairs. Cassian said something to the others, but her mind was elsewhere and it muffled to even her tuned ears.

‘That was rude.’

‘Fuck off, Rhysand.’

He said nothing more, which was good for the sake of his balls (since he would hide his wings at the first sight of a flare in her eyes). She huffed aloud at the thought of the memory he once shared with her, showing how she would tug at his wings as a babe whenever she threw a fit. It was effective to get his attention, so she supposed the habit never died. Though Arwen did feel an inkling of guilt using such a sensitive target. If she were anybody else, her head would be long gone. It was a leniency she tended to abuse.

Gathering her sketchbook, she retreated to a sunroom that overlooked the garden, with a wall of pristine glass. The floor was drowned in sunlight, so she moved the cloth-covered chair right into the centre of it. Draping herself across, Arwen pulled her sketchbook into her lap and began something to resemble the view of the Sidra from the other side of the city. She knew what it looked like there by heart.

It was only a few minutes, as she was still lightly etching the outlines of the pathway when the door to the sunroom opened. Arwen expected another verbal reprimand from her brother, but the scent that wafted through was too different. Her only acknowledgment of his entrance was a slight glance up at the sound of his footsteps.

Azriel himself looked like a shadow in the small room of sunlight, creams, and white. He took a quick look at her paper before stretching down on the cushion-lined seat that stretch the length of the alcove shaped windows. He bathed in the morning sun that lightened his tanned face and gilded small flecks in the hazel of his eyes. “Cassian is talking too much, and I have a headache,” he said after a few moments, as if only just remembering he should give an excuse.

Arwen looked at him, to her drawing then back up. She offered him a small nod of acceptance before her pencil started moving again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

Arwen and Azriel were up before dawn the next day. He had remained at the town house overnight which subjected him to her early arousing, requesting him to train with her in the paved area of the garden. Their communication for the next hour was almost entirely physical, using gestures with their hands or motioning to equipment. She settled on punching his padded hands, her heart matching the beating of her knuckles.

Her arms had been begging to stop for some time, but it was only when she nearly broke her wrist from rolling it forward that she stopped. Arwen’s arms dropped, shaking slightly. She hunched over, fearing the acidic feeling that rose through her throat. Behind her, Azriel tore off the pads and tossed them aside. He laid on hand on her back, his other palm pressing flat against her chest, just below her clavicle to support her hunched weight.

It was a calm spring morning, with greying clouds right on the horizon that threatened an evening shower.

“Do you want some water?”

Arwen remained bent for another moment with clenched eyes, then slowly rose and shook her head. The hand at her chest dropped, but it was a small delight that the one on her back remained in place as his head tilted to search her face. She could tell he was worried—about what, she wasn’t entirely sure though. Rhysand hadn’t spoken of what he and Amren found yesterday, and Arwen hadn’t asked so it was unlikely that he knew anything. 

Azriel remained where he stood as she stepped away from him. His eyes followed her fingers as they unwound her hair from the fraying bun to rake through and tame it once more before tying it all off again. He hadn’t been sure what to make of it when he awoke to her leant over him in his bedroom, meekly asking for him to join in outside. Now he understood.

As she squinted against the sky-broaching sun, he gave his right wing a slight shift until its form cast a shadow across her face.

“Oi!” Their heads turned towards the back entrance of the town house where Cassian leant against the threshold. “You two going to come have breakfast with us?”

Arwen looked back to the still dawning sun, noting how early it was for the house to be awake. But she supposed that both Cassian and Rhys were early wakers, and she was the only one who ever truly slept in. Nodding towards him, she began collecting her training gear along with Azriel.

Nuala and Cerridwen were in the kitchen, her nose already filling with hints of eggs and rations of bacon. Rhysand was moving about, adjusting the lapels of his black tunic. He smiled as she passed him in the hall. “Good morning.”

Arwen acknowledged him with a brief glance and their meeting gaze before moving past him completely into the dining room. She took her usual seat, the three Illyrians following suit around her.

“Mor is staying at her estate,” Cassian filled in on their cousin’s absence. “I don’t disturb her when she’s there.”

Rhysand chuckled. “For the best.”

The first thing Mor had done when she brought the land was tell Arwen she was welcome any time to escape the boisterous presences in the town house and the House of Wind. Although Arwen found the town house quiet enough most of the time, she certainly had been considering taking the offer up.

She made a loose point across the table. “Can you pass the salt?”

Instead of reaching for it, or even using magic to move it across the table, Rhysand made a show of splaying his arms out alongside his filled plate. “So now you want to talk to me?” he crooned. “I thought I must have been invisible for the last twelve hours.”

Her eyes slithered into a firm glare. “I’d prefer if you were. I’ll get it myself then.” The wooden legs of her chair scraped against the ground until the small shaker of salt appeared in front of her. Arwen looked down the arm it was attached to. She muttered a small, “Thank you” and took it from Azriel.

She remained silent for the rest of the meal, somewhat in pettiness for Rhysand calling her out, but mostly because she didn’t want to risk speaking and opening her thoughts to the rest of the world. Fortunately, Arwen was also ignored for the remainder of breakfast.

When she returned to her bedroom, changing from training clothes into loose pants and a shirt she stole from her brother, she believed herself safe from having to talk for at least another few hours, curled up on her bed with her sketchbook. That was until her door opened without a knock.

Cassian closed it right behind him, folding his arms loosely as she casually examined Arwen’s room as he meandered towards the bed. She said nothing as he stretched down along the mattress, rested on his peaked elbow near her hip. It was a curse knowing him well enough because her stomach grumbled uncomfortably in warning in the long moments before he said anything.

“You are being a brat.” Arwen curled her toes upwards and looked back down at the rough paper in her lap. Cassian sighed and lifted himself back into his seat. “Sweetheart, I’m telling you because you need to see what you’re doing and that you’re hurting people. People I know you don’t like hurting.”

“I’m sorry, I thought a General Commander could deal with a bratty female for a few hours,” she bit out.

“It’s not me you’re being a brat to if I ignore that remark.” At her lack of attention, he pried her sketchbook away and tossed it on her bedside table. Arwen turned a half-hearted glare towards him. “Arwen—” his tone was thick with warning— "Rhys is trying to help you and you’ve been nothing but snide to him for days. If you need someone to be snarky to, take it to me. I enjoy a good bite.”

She rolled her jaw, pulling her knees closer to her chest and linking her arms around them. A sharp arrow of shame shot through her, spreading like poison. “Why do you think I’m up here, Cassie?” Arwen had indeed been trying to avoid him—avoid them all to a certain extent. Her emotions were being stirred in a boiling pot over a stoked fire that she didn’t have the power to put out. Training had numbed some edge of the heat but did nothing to the actual fire.

Cassian sighed again. “He wants to talk to you.” Arwen’s softened eyes moved from the empty space in front of her to the warrior. “He didn’t send me,” he added, “but he’s not sure whether you want to listen to him right now.”

Her hands around her knees loosened and they straightened out. “Of course I do,” she whispered. She nudged him off her bed with her knee, following suit. Cassian led the way out of her bedroom.

The rest of the house was unnaturally quiet considering there were currently three Illyrian males present. Arwen twisted her hands by her stomach as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Rhysand appeared from the archway into the sitting room.

“Amren and I have a theory, if you want to know it,” he said gently. At her small nod, he looked to Cassian. “Can they hear it too?” She nodded again.

They moved into the sitting room. Arwen occupied the single ornate chair, resting herself over one arm as Cassian and Azriel settled on the lounge and Rhysand in the opposing chair. He braced his elbows against his knees, hands loosely interlinked between them. “Good news is you’re not dying.”

Cassian raised one fist to the air in victory. “Always a good start.”

Azriel and Rhysand chuckled and even Arwen managed a small smile. “You said something about a celestian,” she said, resting her temple on a fisted hand. “Is that what you think I am?”

Azriel’s brows furrowed together. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Neither had I until yesterday. Amren found it in one of her books. Prythian hasn’t had one recorded in over five thousand years and there isn’t much written but we gathered a few pieces.” Rhysand recounted a few things that Arwen had already overheard from the morning prior. Cassian and Azriel listened intently, interrupting only once in the same way Rhysand had done when making the link between the celestial plane and the dead. “We don’t understand much but from what we do, you have a link to the spirit realm. Your body has started to learn to move between them.”

If she had the energy, Arwen would be laughing maniacally at the idea of being whatever it was he called her. It sounded absurd, even coming from Amren’s knowledge.

It was Cassian that asked, “So how does she not fall through everything?”

“You have a tether,” he said. Arwen straightened, not expecting such a swift and confident answer. “The earth is your tether. It is what keeps you linked to this realm so that’s why you don’t just plunge right into the earth. We’d have to test the extent of what that involved, but I’d guess that the natural ground and water work. It won’t bring you back physically, but it will keep you here—keep a gateway open for you to return.”

“How does she control it when she’s not on the ground?” Azriel inquired, almost matching the High Lord’s bent but alert posture. “She can’t stay on the ground forever.”

Rhysand nodded once like a slow bow of his head. “Amren said she’s working on something she thinks will help until we get it under control.” Her lips twitched upwards. We. Not just her. “We assume there’s more to it but nothing else was written.”

“Well, that’s informative,” Cassian jeered, leaning back into the cushioning of the lounge. “Is that how you feel, princess? All spiritually?”

Rhysand lifted one corner of his lips at the jest as his gaze traversed from Cassian to his sister. It simmered out like a starved flame as he gauged her downturned eyes. He half-lifted himself from the seat. “Can you both—”

Cassian was already nodding with a solemn look in her direction, but he had to nudge Azriel from a firm stare. They both quietly left the room. Rhysand raised entirely to his feet, quietly walking forward. His arms just started to open, feet away from her, when she leapt from the chair and threw her arms around his neck. His heart cracked at the sound of her sobs muffled against his neck and her entire body shook against his.

He said nothing in the following minutes until he knew she would be able to listen to anything he said. “This isn’t a bad thing,” he whispered into her ear next to where his cheek pressed. “It just means you have more power than you realised.”

Her voice cracked as she said, “I don’t want things to change.”

“What do you think it going to change?” He peeled his cheek away from her head but she refused to lift hers from his shoulder. “Arwen, nothing is changing. Not in the way that matters.”

She only cried harder and it frustrated him that it wasn’t the answer she needed. He could still hear the light footsteps of his brothers-in-arms that evidently were trying not to be heard. To offer her more of a sanctuary of privacy, he flared out his wings then encircled them both within.

“I just want my wings, Rhys,” she cried into his tunic, each word a desperate plea as she heaved to breathe. He could feel her fist furling tighter around his collar. “I don’t want to fall through floors. I don’t want to be different. I just want to fly again.”

He hated her for it.

He hated that she asked him for the one thing that he could not give her. To be prepared to offer a world, to be prepared to make any bargain like the one currently under his sleeve. To hold that all on a plate and then be asked for the one thing that was out of his reach, even with his unmatched power and an entire court at his command. He hated that she suffered for his choice not to meet her that day. A stupid, stupid choice because he was busy and didn't want to take a few minutes away from training to winnow and meet them. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

Arwen glowered at Cassian who sat in the ornate chair. Her glass jar freshly baked cookies that had been neatly stacked in there were now subjected to his large, clasping fingers. He hugged the jar to his sternum, feet kicked up on the matching ottoman. But she would be leaving for a few days and no doubt would have plenty of spare hours to bake more that he wouldn’t be able to touch.

“I thought you ate a specific diet,” she noted with a note of accusation. Azriel, seated beside her on the small lounge, snorted in agreement. Her eyes were sore but dried. Rhys had eventually winnowed them both up to her room where they had laid until she had cried all she could give. They spoke more after that, their words raw and open as they let their wounds bleed out together. Arwen felt sickly gross when he admitted how pathetic he had felt the last few days, knowing that her attitude in part had been a fuel. Never good at apologies, she could only hope that he took her weak attempt to heart.

“He is,” Azriel agreed, a slight smile adorning his tanned cheeks.

“I’m stress eating,” Cassian refuted, pointing a cookie towards them before shoving it in his mouth. Through a muffled mouth he added, “It doesn’t count.”

She flicked her eyes over his body. “The only thing you have to stress about is gaining a few pounds with how much you’re eating.” Arwen winced as he flicked crumbs across to her, one landing in the corner of her eye. “In all seriousness, why are you eating so much?”

Cassian paused momentarily, then shrugged as he resumed devouring but at a more eased pace. “You’re stressing me out, kid.”

“Kid? I’m nearly two hundred.”

He flicked over another crumb. “You’ll always be a kid to me, kid.”

Arwen thumbed the crumb until it stuck to her skin and then sucked it off, giving her tongue a brief tang of its sugary sweetness. “Will you at least save Azriel a few? They’re his favourite.”

He crumpled his nose in distaste, but she knew he would follow the request either way. Azriel gave her a hint of a smile when she glanced in his direction, which may as well be a grin from the brooding spymaster. Arwen knew that he had his reservations about taking them since they had been made by her hand but once she left, he would be free to eat them if he pleased without consequence.

“I’m not sure I told anybody that.” He sat forward, arms braced against the point of his thighs.

She smiled tiredly at another raspberry and white chocolate cookie being shoved into the general’s mouth. “You always snack on them when they’re around. More than you do other flavours. Call it an intuitive assumption.”

A gnawing hunger arising in her stomach but untempted to attempt prying the jar free from the arms of the General Commander, Arwen rose and wandered into the kitchen, browsing the shelves. No doubt she’d have a generous meal for lunch, but that was another hour away. She drew to the woven basket of fruits, contemplating between the apples and oranges when Azriel meandered into the kitchen, no sign of Cassian behind him. He moved like a cat—silent and smooth.

“You know,” Arwen began, plucking a ripened apple, “I honestly don’t know how you’re still their friend.”

He lightly frowned, leaning his hip against the marble benchtop as she twisted the stem of the apple off. “Who?”

“All of them. Rhys and Mor have been talking for over an hour now and I doubt it’s all been about work, the gossip mongers.” He had told her he would fill Mor in with anything that needed to be done for the next week whilst he would be away with Arwen in their family cabin. A well-deserved break for the both of them, he told her. But being the prying person Arwen was, she very well knew that his schedule for the coming week was rather lighter than usual. “Cassian doesn’t shut up either and he has a unique skill of finding the way under everybody’s skin. You aren’t much of a talker, yet you’re still here. I think patience must be your virtue, spymaster.”

One corner of his lips rose in what looked like something of an amused huff. “They talk so much that I don’t need to. I think it works perfectly.”

She folded one arm across her sternum and leant the small of her back into the tabletop as she took a bite from the apple. “I suppose so,” she sang. Arwen half-dropped her hand to shake a single finger in his direction. “Now you have to tell me, what has Rhys got planned for my birthday?”

It was a month away, but no doubt her brother had something on mind. It was different every year, from having the restaurant at Rita’s to themselves for an entire night, served with a buffet of never-ending food, to a weekend trip to the cabin, all of them crammed into the one building. Their mother had always celebrated their birthday with the grandest efforts she could conjure. Arwen hadn’t said anything aloud, but she had guessed that Rhysand had taken that mantle—so that something hadn’t changed.

But she also hated not knowing. She hated not understanding what was happening next or being able to control it. And though Arwen utterly adored whatever the day held before her, there was always a slight twang of disappointment because it was never what she expected. Not in the way of expecting something grand and getting less but having an image of how her day was to be, crafted by her desires at the time only to have something completely different before her, could be jarring.

“You’ll enjoy it,” Azriel promised. Arwen scoffed at the display of arrogance as he knew exactly what was to come. “We’re staying in the city if that helps.”

Thinking on it for a moment, she said, “It does. Slightly. Velaris is a large city though.” Arwen looked down at her apple as she asked, “You’ll be coming, won’t you?”

She could feel his eyes run over her. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

He had missed it before. Quite a few as she had matured, but she didn’t count those. But he had missed it nine years ago, his duty calling him to investigate something in another court. It seemed like such a long time ago to even bother remembering such a small detail on one day of the year. But it had been the same year that she felt the bond snap into place. Azriel had done all he could to avoid her, taking missions anywhere and everywhere. Cauldron, he even volunteered to go to the Illyrian camps. Back then, there was still a part of her that clung to the bond and she had searched for him in the party that Rhysand threw in the House of Wind. When she hadn’t seen him, Arwen let a piece of the bond go.

So now Azriel saying, “He wouldn’t miss it,” didn’t mean much in its entirety. Because both she couldn’t believe him when he said it, and neither did she intend to care.

“You can stay in the town house while we’re gone,” Arwen told him. “You’re always welcome in any case, but if you need a break…”

He said, voice flooding with sincerity, “Thank you.” Azriel turned his front towards the countertop, bracing his elbows along the polished surface. “Enjoy yourself, Arwen.” Her eyes flashed with uncertain surprise, not expecting such a delicate request. “Nobody likes seeing you this wound up.”

She gave a short humph. “We’re going for Rhys just as much as we are going for me. He’s been running himself into the ground lately. Hasn’t had a break in weeks” And not just because of her whole debacle. He was still a new High Lord by their standards, barely a decade into the role. The people of Hewn City were teetering across the edge of defiance that had her brother pale-faced in anxiety some nights. Not to mention the Illyrian camps had thrown a riot at the naming of his new General Commander.

Cassian had taken the role quite seriously, almost immediately drilling his authority into the camps but even then they still held bold. Arwen knew it hurt the warrior, to be in such an esteemed position yet still treated like a stray dog in the eyes of his inferiors, both in rank and moral. It was why, whenever she knew a visit was upcoming, she would side with him on his arrogant remarks, peppering him with subtle assurances right until he left. And she’d do the same when he arrived home, not even entertaining to question how they treated him.  

“Cassian will give him the same talk,” Azriel said, then tilted his head at a slight angle. “And Rhys will mirror what you just said.”

She hummed softly, ears prickling at the creak above her head, signalling a moving weight on the upper floor. “Do you just know us that well, or are we just that predictable?”

He arched a dark brow. “Can I say both?”

Arwen chuckled, then mimicked the movement. “Perhaps our cycles have been linked up. He’s always moody when I am.”

He paled marginally at her brazen remark, a dusting of rose painting the tips of his rounded ears but the concept of her brother in the woes of a female’s cycle was enough to rouse a hearty laugh, her own joining. It grew by the second, Azriel leaning forward to laugh with his head hung between his shoulders and Arwen tossed her head back.

Rhysand strode into the kitchen, a calm smile at the sight. Until she let out a moan and wandered towards him. “Rhys, my dear brother, are you in pain?” Her hands heavily pressed against each of his cheeks, causing a small pout on his lips as his eyes turned from soft to bewildered. “You should have told me.”

Behind her, she could hear the spymaster laugh harder. It wasn’t louder by any means, but the sound strengthened.

“Uh, no,” Rhysand carefully answered. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Oh, don’t fuss, you need not hide this from us. It is completely natural after all. I know for many the signs start early and that must be what is happening since I am not due for weeks.”

“Should I know what you’re talking about?” he asked, attempting to turn his head, likely in search of Cassian who might have an idea, but she kept his head steady and pointed to her.

“Now, now. I have a whole list of food that will make you feel better. It is a good thing we’re heading to the cabin for a week,” she said, finishing with a righteous nod of her head. “I’ll take care and watch over you.”

He offered a croaking chuckle, not quite sure if he should be laughing yet or worried. Rhysand took her wrists gently and pried them from his face. Deciding to entertain her, he said, “I know you will.”

Arwen’s eyes thinned as she grinned, glimpsing back over her shoulder. Azriel was still hunched over the countertop, but his chin was over his shoulder with a slight grin back that created small hills on his cheeks. It warmed a tiny pit inside of her, knowing that she was the source of amusement for him. That she was the one to bring that smile on.

“Are you ready to go?”

Not needing to pack anything, she nodded and turned back to Rhysand. “Just let me say goodbye to Cass.” Arwen brushed past him but shot a look back that told him to follow. So he did. She swayed her hips with each step as she wandered back into the sitting room where the warrior still sat with a near-empty jar. Cassian had a new one in his hand, his oncoming bite only stopping at the sound of her entrance.

Arwen moved around the back of the chair, bent over the spine, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “How are you going to live without me, Cass?”

“Comfortably,” he stated with all confidence.

If she hadn’t been planning on her next move, she certainly would be now. “You’ll feel bad about saying that when I’m dead,” she muttered in his ear with taunt ruling her tone.

Cassian sighed, sinking further down into the seat. He couldn’t sit entirely against the back with his wings in the way, though it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable with the padding. “Sweetheart, when you’re dead, it will be because I am too.”

Arwen smiled, tightening her arms momentarily. She understood exactly what that meant.  

Rhysand, shoulder resting against the sitting room’s arched threshold with crossed arms asked, “And how do you plan on dying.”

“I—”

Arwen cut him off, pushing onto her toes so she leant right over his form and sunk her teeth into the cookie he still held near his face, plucking it free. Quicker than lightning, Cassian whipped his head around, strands of his dark hair lashing her eyes. Falling back, she laughed through her half-filled mouth and scampered away.

Rhysand threw his head back with a bellowing laugh. Azriel lingered in the main hall, still grinning like he was before.

Arwen almost made away too. But a thick, decorative pillow of red velvet struck her back with a force that had her tripping, shoulder banging into the opposite end of the archway to her brother. Turning back, she smiled slyly at the fuming Illyrian and munched on her reward as if daring him to try and get it back. He seemed to contemplate it for a while, but settled on a large, pointed finger of warning and slunk back to his seat, arms curling around the jar.

Once their squabbling all settled, Rhysand made his way to her side and held out a palm. Arwen looked at it, but asked, “Can I try and winnow us there?”

His fingers curled as they relaxed but he didn’t move his hand away. A hinting smile told her that he was pleased to hear her suggestion. “You think you can do it?” Not a doubt whether he thought she could, she noted. Just an inquiry into her own confidence.

In answer, she took his hand, smiled at the others and the spot they stood on became empty within a blink.

Cassian loosened his protective arm around the jar. Realising there was still another in the room, he was about to tighten it again, before he took an interest in the way his brother stared at the spot where they had been standing. “You alright there, Az?” Azriel’s hazel eyes sharpened and cut through the air as they turned on him, hearing the accusation. Cassian stood, taking long but slow strides out of the sitting room and into the main hall. Just as he passed the shadowsinger’s form, he added, “It’s just a week. I’m sure you can live without your High Lord for that long.”

“It’s not hi—” Azriel cut himself off sharply, like the rest of the words never existed in the first palace.

Cassian raised both his brows, nose gently flaring with a long exhale as he moved around Azriel into the kitchen. “I don’t know how you do it,” he sang aloud in the otherwise empty kitchen but knew his voice carried. He tipped his head pointedly to the side. “I don’t know why you do it.”

“What would you do if you were her mate?” The coldness behind the voice had the general turning back, blindly pushing the jar back to the tucked spot it belonged. Azriel hadn’t entered the kitchen, standing just shy of the entrance. The shadows crawled around him like moths to a flame. “What would you do, Cassian?”

Cassian frowned and went about cleaning up the remnants of his earlier snacking. “It doesn’t matter what I’d do because we’re different people.” At the sight of Azriel’s darkening face, unappreciative of the answer, he sighed again. “I would have freaked out, Az. Is that want you want me to say—the validation you’re after? But then I would have realised not only is she my mate, but I’m also hers. It goes both ways. By denying yourself her, you’re denying her a mate. If I were her mate and did what you have been, you’d hate me for it.”

The coldness on the spymaster’s face turned something from hard resistance to a barrier that withheld every thought behind it. “Is that how you feel? You hate me for it?”

“My feelings towards what you’re doing shouldn’t be the ones that matter.” He cupped his hand and brushed crumbs into it off the tabletop. “I don’t hate you for it. But I can’t promise I won’t feel that way if she ever comes to me upset on account of it. You're just lucky that hasn't happened yet. And that Rhys knows how to bottle things up.”  

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

Water sploshed around Arwen’s legs, a great wave of white billowing out in her peripheral to match the one around her. Her knees buckled with the unexpected landing, her boot-clad feet twisting at the ankles.

She gasped, arms flapping around as the river water engulfed her. From beside her, Rhysand let out a similar noise, sploshing beside her. The ground underneath her was thick mud that sucked her feet down.

“I didn’t mean it!” she cried out, praying he wouldn’t push her under for winnowing them into the water. There was no response from him for a few moments as they both gathered their bearings, then, a hand wrapped around her elbow as Rhysand guided her to the bank.

Water poured from them, leaving puddles along the stony shore. His black tunic glistened and hung with the weight of being soaked, unevenly sticking in odd areas. Her own assortment of black breeches and top matched.

Rhysand flicked out his hands, beads of water cascading from them. Then he laughed, head tossed to the open, sapphire sky. “Now I remember why Father made me winnow one hundred times from one end of Velaris to the other in practice.”

Arwen pointed in an eastern direction. “But I am close,” she said. “The cabin is only… another half an hour’s walk that way.” After a moment of silence, she shot her lips into a grin if only to add to her demeanour of innocence in the ordeal and keep sway of his amusement in her favour.

He stuck his tongue to his cheek, rolling violets to see the back of his head and held out his hand. “I don’t feel like walking.” She took it, but nothing happened. Rhysand lifted a brow. “Aren’t you going to winnow us closer?”

Arwen startled slightly, entirely expecting him to take charge. Her lips softened into a smile as she thought once more of their family’s cabin and the world around sucked her body through the channel.

They reappeared closer, the cabin off to their right. She had aimed for a few feet away from the door, but Arwen was happy to call it a victory, nevertheless. The early summer’s sun battled the partial chill of her now soaked attire, but before they reached the door, they turned dry with a flicker of her brother’s magic.

“Here we are,” he said, pushing the door open as he looked back down at her. “Safe and sound.”

Arwen grinned back, tipping her head to her shoulder. “I’m practically a master of it already.” The cabin’s welcome came in a wave of cool air that sat just right on her skin. The windows were open, curtains pulled back to stream the midday light in.

They each fell into their respective positions of lounging, Arwen pulling a book from the shelf next to the unlit hearth and laying across the long seat whilst Rhysand made himself something to drink. It stayed like that until her small snack passed through her gut and she became ravenous again. Instead of requesting some domestic magic, Arwen headed to the kitchen and spent the next hour preparing lunch and an apple pie.

“What has Cassian so stressed?” she inquired as Rhysand wandered into the kitchen. Following his nose of course, as she tilted the skillet to keep the vegetables cooking evenly. “We’re not going to have any food when we get home, I hope you’ve realised.”

He fell into the high bench seat, lightly tapping both his hands. “He’s stressed because everybody else is. Like an animal feeding off everybody else’s emotions.”

Though Arwen was glad there was nothing personal that was igniting such a state in him, it was little ease to still know that he still was subjected to the effects of stress. “This is a break for him too, isn’t it?” she mused. “How many duties does he have this week?”

The knowing smile was all the confirmation she needed but he still said, “Just reviewing a few documents on some laws I intend to implement with the camps. A letter from Delvon to respond to as well, perhaps. If he gets bored. Mor has promised to supervise a night out at Rita’s.”

“And does Cassian know that you’ve gone lax on him?”

Her brother scoffed. “Of course not.”

Arwen hummed, amused by his meddling. Then she nearly dropped the spatula. “You asked me to bake those cookies! You absolute—” not having the word, she waved the utensil towards him— “you knew he would eat them all. And here I was baking Azriel’s favourite because I thought he might get one.”

“I noticed that.”

“You, my dear brother, are a plotter.” Arwen shook her head with a grin. “Makes me wonder how many plans of yours I don’t ever figure out. Care to inform me?”

He slid from the seat as she killed the flames of the stovetop, and extracted ceramic bowls painted black from an overhead cupboard. “I don’t.”

“Will you tell me the ones you’re doing in the future? Maybe so I know to bake Cassian’s favourite cookies instead of Azriel’s, for example.”

“You never tell me when you’re plotting.”

Arwen turned around to lean back against the benchtop as he finished collecting everything to set their meal on. They both knew he could have used magic to have it done within a second, but they both also appreciated the simplicity of doing it themselves. The synchronised movements that needed little thought so they could converse with busy hands. “Rhys, I do not plot. I flutter my lashes, and everything goes the way I want it to.”

“Don’t I know it,” he snorted. “I remember when you were eight, you convinced me to take you flying in the middle of the night one winter. I tried to refuse.”

Her lips tugged upwards. “We got caught in that blizzard.”

“You loved the fact that I couldn’t fly in a straight line.” He folded his fists loosely, resting them on the edge of the table as he laughed softly. “All while I was panicking and didn’t want to winnow in the air, but I couldn’t even see the ground.”

“I trusted you.”

He shot his eyes wide, which only made her laugh. “Your lips were going blue, but you still managed to fucking laugh when I got caught in the wind.”

“I remember when we finally got home—mother screamed.” Arwen couldn’t even bring herself to feel terrible about it now. The memory belonged to the ones she held dear. 

Rhysand shook his head, bringing a glass of amber liquid to his mouth and took a generous sip. “I’m certain the entire camp woke up and heard everything. I tried to tell her that I didn’t know the blizzard was coming, but apparently, she didn’t think that was a good excuse for taking my baby sister out flying in the middle of a winter’s night.”

“I think she even got a few wrinkles when you told her that I manipulated you into it.”

He made a small gesture of a toast to her. “Because how could the heir to the Night Court, a warrior who has led a legion of Illyrian soldiers into one of Prythian’s largest wars, a Prince of Night, ever be tricked by a little girl who still didn’t know how to not make a mess when she ate?”

Arwen raised her hand, curving her pointer finger. “I had you both hooked around my finger.”

“Then you had the audacity to crawl into my bed after and tell me you were cold.”

“You were livid,” she chuckled. “But I didn’t care.”

 “To top it off, you continued to tease me the next day when I was put on muck duty for endangering you. Apparently, my misery was worse than yours.”

“Rhys,” she said softly. “Your misery will always be worse than my own.”

Not in the amusing way. Not in the way that she could laugh at his misfortune. She understood full well the parts of his life that passed before her birth, and those after. She understood what weight his shoulders were burdened with where hers were not.

Arwen used to hide around corners, heart pattering painfully whenever their father would have Rhysand brought to him with scolding words. Rhysand would take it with a grim face, a nod of acknowledgement and leave like nothing more than a perfectly trained foot soldier. It would remain there even as he would take her hand, not saying a word, and drag her out of the house.  

When she was too young to understand, she would pound her small fists against his hip until he told her what had happened, cheeks would wet with fretful tears. He would never tell her, of course. But she also, naively, loved it when they were in Velaris at the time because he would spend the rest of the day with her and buy whatever she pointed at. As she grew older, Arwen no longer asked but always waited around those corners, shrouded by the shadows.

His shoulders softened as he took a step toward her. Placing a hand on the far side of her face, he kissed her temple. “We don’t compare those things. And you certainly do not minimise your own, Arwen.”

In an effort to brush off the tenderness of the moment, she said, “You’re always serious when you use my name.”

They spent the day playing with cards, reading when talking grew tiresome, then as night fell, they turned to climbing the rooftop. Despite being summer, the nights were still with a chill and breeze so she sat against the rooftiles underneath a woollen blanket. Rhysand had attempted to reach for it in order to share its warmth only to receive her spluttering and repetitive slapping of his hand. He was promptly told to get his own.

The stars were just as awake as they were, blinking in a way that made her feel like they were saying hello. Part of Arwen was nervous that at any moment she would fall right through the roof of the cabin as she had in the town house, but knowing that the earth below would hold her settled enough confidence inside of her to deal with that fear.

“I give you everything,” he declared. “I make sure you have a house, beautiful bedrooms in every home, cooked meals, Nuala and Cerridwen at your service. I let you do everything that you please to but when I ask to share your blanket, I get slapped away.”

“Rhysand,” she crooned, “Do I need to have a talk with you about expectations. Just because you do things for me does not mean I am required to give you anything back. Cauldron, we need to set this straight before you find a wife.”

With a twitch of his finger, an invisible force stripped the blanket off her. Arwen scrambled to grab it before it fell over the edge of the roof and tucked it underneath her, so her weight held it down. Rhysand huffed a short laugh, but his eyes set back on the stars.

“Do you want a wife?”

Rhysand blinked, a subtle frown etching between his dark brows as he looked back across to her. He knew what she meant, for more than the words asked. Did he want to invite another person into his life that they both knew would make them a political target? Just as she had become. He decided to answer with his heart. “I do. Not for breeding or power, but I would like to have someone to love like that.”

It hurt her heart to know that he felt a gap missing, wishing she was able to fill that void for him. But she knew that when that time came (for she was certain someone would find love in her brother), he would not need her as much anymore. That he would have someone closer, someone with a more intimate relationship with to rely upon. It was in no way jealously, as Arwen intended to welcome his choice with open arms, but perhaps something closer to grief. Their circle would widen, and she would lose a piece of him that would now belong to his chosen partner.

“My attention is not finite, sweetheart.” Arwen broke from what had become a long stare at a single star, slowly turning her head back to the side where Rhysand was watching her. She felt the soft grace of his presence in her head. “You will not lose anything from me if that time ever comes.”

Even as the daughter of a High Lord, Arwen had not had much stability in her youth. Not in the homes she stayed in, moving between cities and camps, between father and mother. She never knew if the next week she would be running through Velaris with her hair bouncing behind her, or stuck in the Court of Nightmares, putting in a brave face as she hid behind her mother’s legs. Azriel, Cassian and Mor became lights in times shrouded in uncertainty but still she never knew if their visits would be in a week’s time, or another year’s.

Rhysand had always been that form for her. He was the pillar of familiarity that she could tether herself to.

She managed a meek smile and looked away. “I must sound like a clinging child.”

“You sound like someone that I am blessed to have as my sister. We both know what the other end of the stick looks like.”  He reached behind her, fingers spidering out along the crown of her head, giving it something between a rough massage and scratch.

Arwen couldn’t hold her gaze high. It was unspoken, but who he was talking about may as well have been highlighted by the stars themselves. Azriel’s half-brothers weren’t just unlikeable and crude—they were cruel. Rhysand and Cassian returned from the Court of Nightmares one day, shortly after being crowned the new High Lord, with their knuckles bloodied and scowls crafted so deep into their skin that even she baulked before finally asking them what had happened. As horrible as it sounded, she smiled at hearing how they had beaten Azriel’s half-brothers down, breaking their wings. By the rumours, they still couldn’t fly today.

“Are you going to talk to them tonight?”

Rhysand was looking towards her neck where she realised she had lifted her hand to, clinging gently to the small vial that now hung there, rarely ever taken off. “Am I going to talk to the stars?” she murmured, looking back up to the silver artwork against the dark canvas. “I don’t think I need to. Are you?”

Rhysand huffed and leant back into his elbows, his fingers leaving the back of her hair in slight disarray. “I think I need to talk to them about my sister. She won’t share anything with me, the ungrateful brat.”

With a bitter mutter, Arwen pried the ends of the blanket from underneath her legs, scooted closer to him and flung the material over his body. “Tattling on me to the stars, Rhysie. That’s just low. They’re eternal, you know, and never forget anything.”

“I don’t think I need to tell them,” he said, a tanned hand protruding from the blanket and tapping her nose. “They were watching down on us when you slapped me away.”

Arwen’s eyes turned wide like a deer caught in the forest, head snapping up. “I swear I’ll be better,” she promised those glittering lights. “You could have told me they were watching.”

A resounding cough spluttered next to her ear. “You’re upset at me for not telling you there were stars out?”

“Yes.”

“Cauldron boil me. Fine then. Arwen, be careful because there are trees around, some flowers, and probably a few insects watching. Oh, and don’t forget a few birds are awake during the night.”

“Now you’re just being condescending.”

“Ah, what did it?”

“Everybody knows that flowers go to sleep at night.”

“Now you’re being condescending.”

“Rhys… Flowers do close up at night. Most of them, anyways.”

“I knew that.”

Arwen leant against him, laughter that brought water to her eyes following. “I am so telling everybody that you didn’t know that.” Rhysand hugged his knees, muttering something along the lines of telling her to shut up. Eventually, as her laughter settled and a smile crept back onto his lips, he lifted one elbow to invite her inside his looped arms and she fell asleep on the rooftop of the cabin.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Arwen had her fingers entangled by thick tendrils of black and silver threading. She wound them in a pattern, crossing under and over with muscle-engrained memory. There was already one bracelet finished, tied off around her left wrist.

Her feet were kicked up on the back of another chair, black slouched against the one she perched in. The black tresses of her hair had been bound into a high in an effort to keep the strands from falling across her face as she diligently worked away.

At the sound of footsteps behind her, she pinched all four strands of thread between two fingers, leant away from the chair and clasped her brother’s writs. He made a sound of discontent as she yanked his forearm under her armpit and held it steady, encircling the woven bracelet around his wrists.

“You’re twisting my arm,” he griped.

“Cauldron’s tits you have fat wrists.”

Letting his arm go, Rhysand straightened back to his full height and made a show of readjusting his black sleeve. Then, with a frown, measured the width of his wrists with his other fingers. “What are you making?”

“I’m making friendship bracelets,” she said, tipping her head to grin up at him. “And you’re going to wear it everywhere you go.”

He snorted, bracing his forearms across the back of her chair. He reached over her shoulder and plucked her adorned wrist to inspect the finished product. Arwen paused her crafting and let him. “Are you going to make me wear it in Hewn City as well? Their fearsome High Lord wearing a matching friendship bracelet with his sister. Hmm.”

“It’s the entire reason I’m making it.”

She soon finished it with Rhysand still watching over her shoulder. Arwen made a motion with her hands for his own. Winding it around, she knotted it in a way that would be impossible to remove without cutting it or using magic. Flinging her arms out with a sigh, she declared, “I am a craftswoman. I should start my own business.”

He inspected his new adornment with a slight smile. “You know Cassian would love one.”

“I’d bet he’d wear it proudly everywhere,” Arwen said, her lashes fluttering with soft blinks towards him.  He set a line between his brows, tugging the end of his sleeve down to reveal it more. Laughing to herself, she knew that he would now raise to the challenge of proudly bearing the child’s jewellery. Just as she planned.

Rhysand stood back up, taking a step away as he remembered his initial reason for wandering into the open dining area. Gods, he knew well what she had just done. And now he’d have a constant reminder at his wrist that she always got her way with him. At least if she did make one for Cassian, he’d be able to point out that the warrior fell to his level as well.

The rest of the day passed over quietly, and so did the morning of the next. He awoke later than usual, unbothered to change from his loose trousers that he had been sleeping in or even look in the mirror to tame his morning mane. As Rhysand wandered heavy-footed into the sitting room with a yawn, his pace slowed to a halt as Arwen stood at one of the bookshelves.

The dress was familiar. Simple, black, and elegant, it hung gently across the upper scope of her body, loosening from the waist to the floor. The sleeves were tight and long, ending at her wrists. All of it was familiar to him because he used to see her wearing it at least once a week since the day she brought it thirty Starfalls ago. Every week, that was, until ten years ago.

The plunging back was the only daring thing about the dress. It was a sharp cut, right down to an inch above her tailbone. And it left on display the marred canvas of her back. The wicked scars were still a mix of fleshy pink and white. The marks of the deepest grooves where the stems of her wings had been hacked off.

Rhysand furled his right hand. The memory stained his mind, pressing that hand against the gaping wound. It seemed to do nothing as blood continued pouring from it like it wasn’t there. Even his throat turned hoarse in an echo of how it strained when he called for help.

He hated the part of him that was glad for her decision to wear clothes that covered the scars. It helped him forget too.

Very well likely feeling his stare, his sister half-turned back with a book in hand. “I miss wearing it,” she said absently. “So please don’t stare, because you’re the only one I feel comfortable wearing it around.”

He turned his eyes away with a flush of heat that wasn’t from any sort of embarrassment. “Nobody will care that you do,” he said when he looked back. “It’s no secret to us. Nothing to be ashamed about.”

“So, I’m just supposed to forget that they’re there? Forget what happened.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then how am I supposed to do that?”

Despite his own guilt-driven pleasure at not having to see them every day, it still stung to know that despite his efforts, he had failed to create a space for her to feel comfortable enough to even wear her long-loved dresses. It had taken years for Azriel to comfortably accept the touch of their hands, but they were still forging their brotherhood at the same time.

But she did feel comfortable around him, and that was a start.

“You’re supposed to accept that it’s now a part of you.”

“Supposed to?” Rhysand knew he chose the wrong words even before Arwen full turned around, a flash of hurt spreading through her eyes. He silently blamed his still half-asleep mind. “I didn’t know there were rules and benchmarks that I was supposed to meet. How late am I to the one where I am supposed to be letting strangers touch me in curiosity?”

He took careful steps forward, hands gently raised with palms facing the roof. “Arwen, you know that I don’t believe that.” As Rhysand walked closer, she shied away from his attention. Still, the evidence of confliction was painted like a flame in the darkness. Not confliction with him, he realised, but at her own thoughts. “Do you need space today?”

Arwen tugged to book close to her stomach, nose flaring in a soft sigh. “Can we go flying tonight?” Rhysand opened his mouth, but the only thing that came from it was a crack in his throat. “Please.”

“We can’t risk it,” he murmured.

“I want to go flying.”

“And I won’t risk it.”

It was a rare moment that passed between them then. He had placed his foot down, words teetering on the edge of a High Lord’s. From we to I, he had made the decision in his own power—no longer a negotiation. This was the line he drew.

From a voice that was meek, almost like she never intended for him to hear, she said, “Azriel would take me if I asked.”

“Then maybe you should ask him,” he replied before the words could be deliberated in his mind. “But he will give you the same answer because it’s in our best interest to keep you on the ground.”

“Or maybe he will because the risk works in our favour.”

Rhysand opened his mouth, expecting a retort to come to his lips within seconds but he froze as those words registered, echoing through his skull. “What do you mean by that, Arwen?” he demanded. Her eyes turned away, feet soon following. She made it a step before he grasped each side of her face and turned it back towards him. “You tell me what you mean by that.” Something fluttered in his heart. A small, but stomach-sucking fear in a form that he hoped he would never experience.

“He never wanted me as a mate, Rhys,” she whispered.

His grip was fierce but gentle. The point in his throat bobbed as he asked, “What did he say to you?” What had he made her believe, was the better question.

Arwen leant away from him, eyes refusing to meet. “It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to wear the dress so my mind is on it, is all.”

“Why did you decide to wear it today?”

Her lips parted, a soft crack erupting from the back of her throat before she answered. “Because it is just us here,” she said, though it sounded more of a question. As though searching for the words that would seek his approval.

Rhysand hated the assumption he was going to make, praying to the Mother that it wasn’t true. “Because Azriel isn’t here.” How desperately he wanted to venture into her mind, but he wouldn’t break that promise. But he’d find ways around it.

“I want to change.”

He hadn’t even the time to read what his words did to her, fingers splaying across empty air as she twisted her cheeks from his palms. There wasn’t even a voice consciousness enough inside him to convince her otherwise.

Rhysand hadn’t known how to take the mating bond between his sister and closest friend initially. He recalled smelling it first on Azriel, demanding with a joyous smile to know who it was. At the reluctance to answer, he had backed off to allow time for his spymaster to recuperate the new discovery (and warning Cassian and Mor to do the same). Then he had gone home where his sister was curled up in the sunroom with her sketchbook. He had watched her from behind in the doorway for a few minutes as she continued scrawling unaware, before realising that he still smelt the bond.

The first thing that had flooded him was dread. He couldn’t comprehend at that moment what it quite meant for them. The first image that came to mind was his sister with an Illyrian—the ones he had lived with in the camps. Their bloodthirsty nature and rotten morals when it came to females. It had taken his own time of recuperation to come to terms with the fact that it was someone he trusted with every fibre of his life. Of her life.

She hadn’t responded to it—hadn’t made a hint of the new bond between her and the shadowsinger for the next few weeks even though the Inner Circle grew well aware of it. He had placed it to the fact that it was only two months after the attack as Arwen barely talked during those times. Barely left the town house. Nobody pushed for answers or information. The first sign that she was even aware of it, was when he finally pried to know how she was feeling and she shoved him from her bedchamber. He waited on the other side for over an hour as she cried, unable to open the door that she leant against and he couldn’t bring himself to force his way in. When she finally opened it, he found nothing to say.

Rhysand kept near Arwen for the rest of the day, lingering near her in the cabin when she read, now dressed in pants. He wouldn’t let go of what she said. Or maybe he will because the risk works in our favour. It was sickening enough to think of Azriel desiring the worst outcome of the risk—one that he was certain Azriel would never intend—but to hear her believe it… In our favour. She thought that of herself. 

The line that he drew when it came to letting her keep things to herself suddenly became a whole lot blurrier.

Rhysand placed down two bottles of age-old wine on the low table in the middle of the sitting room along with a packet of cards they had already played during their current stay. “Put that away,” he said, motioning loosely to her book. “We’re doing something actually fun.”

Arwen raised a brow but placed her book aside and sat up in the chair she laid across. “What are we playing?”

“High Gamble.”

High Gamble was exactly what it sounded like. They each held ten cards and placed one down so the face was hidden each round. When they turned them over, whoever had the lowest card drank. The game was mostly luck with a little bit of skill as you didn’t want to waste your high cards each turn but placing too low would ensure defeat. For most players, it was figuring out patterns in their plays. For a daemati, it was slipping into their minds.

The siblings sat opposite each other on the floor, staring at their hands. Arwen had a trench between her brows, eyes thin and sharp as she examined her choices. Rhysand sat with a tented knee, pretending to look.

She placed hers down first. He followed, then flipped them both. He won. “Drink,” he commanded.

Arwen laughed at her own defeat and poured a generous amount into her small glass. “You know, losing isn’t really losing when you get to drink this.”

He grinned. “It isn’t right now, but by morning I’ll certainly feel like the victor.”

They continued playing, though he ensured that every few rounds he lost and indulged in the wine. She was getting worse each time, her eyes no longer sharp, nor her mind. Arwen’s cheeks turned a soft red, as did her temple where it leant against her fist. He could feel the slight warmth of his own drink settling in his blood, but he was far behind in the race to intoxication.

“How are you feeling?” he taunted as she blinked warily at her cards.

“I don’t exactly remember what we’re playing,” she admitted.

Rhysand shook his head and held his laugh. “Just place a card down, sweetheart.” She did as she was told, face upwards so he could see exactly what it was but fortunately, his was already down. Arwen stared at him, waiting for more instruction. “You’ve got to drink.”

She pointed a finger at him, as though stating that his idea was fantastic and grasped the bottle with both hands. “The last time I was this drunk—whoa!” Rhysand lurched forward, grabbing the neck of the bottle before she spilt it everywhere. “Last time I was this drunk, it was with Cassian on your birthday and we ended up trying to swim in the Sidra.”

“I know,” he said, smiling at the memory. “I was there and had to fish you both out. You tried to drown me.” He had tried convincing her to come back from the edge, then flew overhead but she would duck underwater each time he reached for her and ended up having to go in himself, fearing that she would drown herself. Cassian had begun pulling off all his clothes and Rhysand had never been more thankful for Azriel’s shadowing abilities.

“I wasn’t trying to drown you. I wanted you to see how beautiful it was underwater.”

As Rhysand helped guide the glass to her lips across the table, he said, “Azriel was worried that you would hurt yourself.” He shot the arrow, now he had to face what it struck.

Arwen winced away, though he was unsure if it was from the alcohol or the mention of her mate. He placed the glass aside, then with a wave of magic, sent the cards and drinks away. He would never let her get anywhere near this state anywhere outside of their home, or under careful watch.

“He’d think it was a blessing.”

There it was again, though this time the truth was raw and unfiltered. Rhysand shuffled around the short end of the table, making sure that she wouldn’t trip over by attempting to stand. Or let her shy away again. “Why’s that?” he whispered, curling strands of hair away from her face. “Why do you think that?”

Arwen was now a beating red, the violets of her eyes hazed. Again, he couldn’t tell the cause. “Because he never wanted me as a mate.” The same words she had said before.

So he said again, “What did he say to you?”

Her chest heaved in ragged breaths and he held her shoulders just in case. “He said nothing. Nothing, Rhys. Have you realised that he’s never even said that I was his mate aloud?” A flat laugh followed from her as he frowned. It was true, he realised. “The only time he’s come close is when the bond snapped. And he…he…” Arwen closed her eyes, seeming to recollect her composure.

“Arwen,” he urged softly.

“Not you.” She opened her eyes and stared at him with pondwater eyes. “That’s what he said to me the moment he realised. Not you. Anyone but you. Not Arwen.” She repeated the words like a chant as Rhysand remained deathly still. “H-he pled with the Mother to change her mind. He vomited on the floor!” Arwen let out an airy wail as hysteria enveloped her. “I-I couldn’t—he was my mate and he—”

Rhysand fell onto his haunches as he took her weight, staring at the fire alight in the hearth until it dried out his eyes. He wished he hadn’t done what he just had. Wished that he never knew the truth of what her mate had said to her. He didn’t even see him as his brother at that moment.

He deigned himself to not moving, letting his tunic soak with tears and wrinkle under fists. He deigned to letting his arms grow tired holding her entire weight, one around the backs of her thighs, the other at her shoulders. He deigned himself to not doing anything until alcohol-induced sleep finally took hold of her, and Rhysand winnowed them away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

The House of Wind was quiet and hollow with only the two Illyrians living inside. Though even they managed to make it feel full at times, that night was particularly quiet. Azriel sat near the hearth that remained unlit, sipping at a herbal tea. The room’s light came from a series of faelights instead, hanging from the roof. He was still dressed in his leathers from spending the day at one of the camps.

Cassian sat nearby at one of the tables, reviewing one of the updated maps as quite a few of the camps that weren’t permanently settled had migrated and needed tracking. He yawned, the odd groaning sound the only one in minutes.

His quill lazily moved on the tracking record as he found the right words of formality to translate from his not so politically formal mind. He stopped mid-word at the sound of wings against open air. Hazel eyes darted to one of the open windows, wide enough to allow Rhysand to fly through. Cassian, now standing, hadn’t been expecting their return for another two days.

“Rhys—” His words cut short as the High Lord moved from flight to a march. In his arms, was Arwen. Her eyes were closed, one arm hanging limply past her body, head tipped against his shoulder. Rhysand himself was reddened, the planes of his face unnaturally still. And with it, Cassian stilled too.

Azriel rose from the lounge, the loud clanging of his mug on a side table a distant echo. “Arwen,” is all he said, eyes set on the unconscious form as he swiftly moved around to intercept the High Lord’s set path.

Cassian watched as Rhysand twisted around the spymaster, his gaze unrelentingly set on the warrior. Azriel didn’t stumble, but it was like he was shoved. “Take her.” Rhysand now stood in front of him. “Take her and get her home. Fly low just in case.” His heart thrummed heavily against his chest, as he looked between the two High Fae. Cassian’s arms snapped into movement as Rhysand was already shifting her weight towards him. “She’s fine. Sleeping.” Rhysand didn’t seem to be able to form sentences any longer, but still alert enough to read the plain confusion and concern written on Cassian’s face. 

“Has something happened?”

Rhysand said nothing, still facing Cassian but his eyes flickered towards the corner of their sockets. Right in the direction that Azriel stood behind him. Something had happened—well, Cassian figured that out the moment he realised they were home early—but now he realised what that something might revolve around. He smelt the alcohol surrounding them both, and if he knew one thing about Arwen, it was that she talked under its influence.

And she’s said something that has pissed her brother off beyond words. Even without the subtle hints, Cassian knew that Arwen and Rhys had never managed to bring each other to true anger. Not the violent Illyrian kind that had their blood boil and curdle. But he had seen some semblance of that anger in the High Lord before, directed at himself. The day that Rhysand learnt that Cassian had slept with Mor.

Cassian took a step back, Arwen now in his arms. He wasn’t sure who he was protecting more—Arwen or himself. He decided on both.

“Rhys.”

Cassian glanced at Azriel, feeling a margin of pity for what he knew was coming toward his friend. Rhysand hadn’t yet turned around, but that sandtimer was running low. An audible draw of air drew his attention back down to the female in his arms, but his eyes never left the two Illyrians. Azriel had now sensed the tension, his wings tight and his feet spread. Cassian readjusted her to hold closer and higher as his own wings spread slightly in preparation for flight. “Don’t kill each other,” is all he said, before swivelling around the High Lord and leaping from the open window into the night, wings snapping into flight before there was any sense of a drop. Before he could fly away from the scene, Cassian’s rounded ears twitched at the sound of a fist meeting flesh and couldn’t help but look back.

Azriel hadn’t fallen, but his hand flung to cover half his face. He didn’t strike back. Probably just as unwitting to what occurred as Cassian was. He couldn’t think of anything that had happened to warrant it lately.  

He headed low fast, affirming that she was still solid in his grip. There was no telling when it would happen again.  He flew at level with most of the roofs of the city buildings. Low enough that a fall would injure, but he couldn’t go any lower without great difficulty navigating through signposts, hanging wires with faelights and awnings. He debated walking entirely but striding through the city with the unconscious sister of the High Lord would be a seed for rumours.

He made it to the door of the town house, using the rounded end of his boot to knock, since Mor had taken residence in it lately. The loud racketing of wood didn’t even arouse a noise from the sleeping female.

“Seriously?” the feminine voice rang from inside as the inner foyer door opened. “I couldn’t get a night alone?” Once the second, front, door opened, Mor’s expression of indifference wiped. “Cass—”

“She’s fine,” he said, repeating what Rhysand had said. “Just sleeping. Won’t wake up for hours I’d guess.”

Mor stepped aside and widened the door so he could move them both inside. “Where’s Rhys?”

“Beating the shit out of Azriel.” The gasp followed him as he walked through the foyer and into the main hall. Cassian began up the stairs to the second floor. “I don’t know why, and I didn’t stay around to ask. But Arwen is drunk and we both know she talks like a captured Suriel.” He let her put pieces together past that.

Mor followed him up, brushing past once they reached the end of the staircase and lead the way to the younger female’s room, opening the door for him. “Are they at the House of Wind? Should we go up there?”

“Have you learnt nothing about us Illyrians?” He managed a short laugh, shaking his head at Mor. “We’ll get answers once they’re done, but not before.” He leant forward, somewhat awkwardly releasing her on the bed. Through the flight, Arwen had fisted her hands around lengths of his hair. He winced, unable to pull away. “Let go, princess,” he muttered, dropping to his knees and attempting to pry away her hands. “Ow.”

Mor sighed with something mixed between amusement and frustration and moved closer to help him from a different angle. “Last I remember, you like a bit of rough hair-tugging,” she crooned. “Big tough Illyrian whimpering over a gentle tug.”

Cassian glared up at her as much as he could without twisting his head in a more painful position. “Just help me, you crone.” He knelt with a bowed head as Mor slapped his hands away and unfurled Arwen’s tight fingers.

“You should stay here tonight. They are going to destroy that mountain and I think it would do Arwen good to wake up with somebody around. I have to leave in the morning to Hewn City.” It was a battle against his instincts to not go back up to the mountain, despite what he told Mor. But it was pointless arguing, knowing he too already agreed he should stay. Once his hair was finally entirely loose, a hand scuffed him up the back of his already tender head. “Call me a fucking crone,” she muttered.

“Ow,” he muttered again, rubbing the overly sore spot. Mor sent him a look that softened as it moved to Arwen, the gave a small nod in a silent goodnight and farewell. Rising with a long sigh, Cassian veered slowly around her large bed and towards the glazed window. He leant against the small protruding frame and looked up at the House of Wind. He could still see the window he flew out of and the one next to it, the amber light inside making them look like eyes against the rest of the dark mountain.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, wondering if it was worth flying up just to check in the distance, when he caught sight of a flying form. It was barely visible against the night, but the shadow was pure black against the midnight blue, wings flared out. Rhysand or Azriel—he couldn’t tell but they were flying away from Velaris. Really, he was surprised either of them was in the condition to fly.

When Cassian next registered consciousness, it was with an eye-soring streak of light spotlighting right onto his face. He groaned, tilting his head to the side as it had been resting back against the edge of something. The bed. He slept against the bed.

“What in the Mother’s name are you doing?” Wary eyes moved up, the movement sending an ache through the front of his head, to find Arwen kneeling on the edge of the bed next to his shoulder with a flat expression. Her nose wrinkled, looking him over. “Did you sleep here?”

“Apparently,” he said through a hard breath, not quite believing that he hadn’t gone back to the bedchamber he used at the town house. Arwen looked downright terrible, which was exactly how he felt. Cassian was content for them to match energy that morning.

“What am I doing here?”

He stood, stretching his back and then his wings which felt like they had a bend in them in someplace unnatural. Through a yawn, he said, “Rhys brought you home last night. Piss drunk.” Behind him, as he closed the curtains that he hadn’t shut through the night, Arwen groaned behind him. It was followed by the sound of bedding being moved around. Still dressed, shoes and all, he figured that starting his morning would be easier than trying to head back to sleep on his own bed.

Arwen clearly did not share the sentiment. She had her head tucked under one of the many pillows, turned on her stomach. He meandered towards the bed, tapping her ankle in warning before gently yanking down the blanket from underneath her. She made worming motions as he pulled until it was free, then Cassian laid it back over her unceremoniously, not bothering to pull it down from where the top fell over the pillow she had nestled under. “I’ll bring something for your head,” he promised in an absent tone.

He made it near the door when a soft, “Cassian?” had his head turning back. Arwen had come out from her burrow, half lifted onto her elbows. He raised a brow in answer. “Thank you.”

Cassian wasn’t sure what the gratitude was for, exactly, but he took it with a humble nod nevertheless. Arriving downstairs, he was not the only one entering the main living space. He eyed Rhysand who quietly slipped in from the foyer door. The High Lord sported a fierce bruise along the left side of his jawbone, splatters of dark colour down onto his neck and cheek.

So it was Azriel that left.

Rhysand swallowed. “He looks worse.”

Deciding to be upfront and quelch his growing curiosity, Cassian asked: “Did he deserve it?” He didn’t stop and wait for the answer, wandering into the kitchen. Soft footfalls confirmed that Rhysand followed.

“Yes.”

“Is my favourite mountain still in one piece?”

“No.”

Both answers were short and with a hoarse voice. Cassian stretched his jaw as he mixed a powder that they always kept in stock with their drinking habits into a glass of water. “Do you want to tell me why before I knock you up for kicking me out of my home and then destroying it?”

Rhysand sighed and leant against the island bench. “If I tell you, you’re going to want to do the same thing I did.”

Cassian only shot him an even look. “It was that bad?”

Rhysand huffed through his nose, as if the question was too stupid to even ask. “To his credit, he stopped fighting back once I told him why.” Cassian leant against the opposing bench along the wall, the glass placed aside for whenever Arwen was ready to leave her bed. Rhysand opened his mouth and Cassian’s wings tightened in anticipation, fully expecting to not like what he was about to hear.

But another set of footsteps halted the conversation.

Arwen thumped each heel into the staircase, the sound following in her wake as she made her way into the kitchen. Black hair sat in a dishevelled mess down her shoulders, her skin a calmy pale. She looked at neither of them, heading directly to the glass which now hosted a liquid of something between green and brown colour. Cassian nudged it towards her silently, tightening his lips into a small, sympathetic smile as she sipped at it.

Then blinked and shot his eyes wide as she doused the rest of the contents over her brother.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

Cassian’s mouth rounded, taking a step of action forward as the coloured water made a waterfall down Rhysand’s front, soaking the loose, black collared shirt. “Whoa, sweetheart,” he said, taking the glass from Arwen’s hand. “That’s Rhys, not Azriel.”

She didn’t relent her glare. “I know damn well who he is. And he knows damn well what he did.”

Cassian considered then that he might take back his musing about the siblings never bringing out true anger in each other. His eyes flooded with uncertainty, then turned on Rhysand with accusation. The High Lord gaped at his sister, wiping a hand down his open mouth. “Me?”

Arwen took a step forward as Cassian placed the glass safely on the bench. “Yes, you.” There was a fire burning in her eyes in a way that made her eyes no longer look like a gleaming jewel, but molten. “You know exactly what you did.”

Cassian stepped even closer, moving to grip both her arms from behind. Not to restrain, but to offer something to gravitate to. “Arwen, Azriel is fine. They both are.” It was the only reason he could guess she’d be this upset. But how she knew what had happened through the night was a mystery, unless she hadn’t been as unconscious as he thought.

Rhysand collected himself, not taking a step away, seeming to confidently believe that she would do little else to him—physically, at least. And Cassian believed it too, which was why his grip was firm but gentle. “Arwen—what he said to you… You expect me to ignore that?”

What had Azriel said to her, was the question reeling through Cassian’s mind. His lips parted as he debated butting in to ask.

But Arwen’s, “I don’t care about that,” stopped him. And Rhysand. She stood stiffly under the warrior’s grasp, not even acknowledging that it was there. “Of course I don’t want him hurt, but that’s not why I’m upset. You’re my brother and I know you would defend me to your last breath just as I would for you, so I am not upset that you acted in my defence. I’m not upset that you were angry on my behalf.” Her chest lifted in a heaved breath. It sounded as though she was pushing herself to get those words out whilst she remained composed. He wasn’t sure if it was so that Rhysand understood, or if she wanted to clarify it with herself first. “But I didn’t need your anger, Rhysand. I didn’t need you to do anything.”

Rhysand rolled his jaw. “It wasn’t your anger I was acting on. It was mine. It was my own anger and I have a right to do with it as I will.”

“It wasn’t your memory to be angry about!”

This time, Cassian did tighten his grip as she moved forward, but moved the step with her so he didn’t hold her trapped in one place. “This would be a lot easier to keep up with if I understood what was going on,” he groused, not really expecting to be heard, let alone acknowledge.

Arwen lifted her chin and leant back slightly until her shoulder lightly tapped against his breast. “My dear brother,” she sang lowly, “decided to get me drunk all in the efforts of making me talk about things I didn’t want to.”

Cassian’s eyes managed to dull yet sharpen at the same time as they moved from the side of the female’s head across the Rhysand who had the face of a guilty male caught red-handed in the act. Not in the regret of being caught, the general did note, but with distress at what it had come to. Still, he said, “I had to, Arwen. You wouldn’t tell me what he said to you, and I could see that it was hurting you.”

“You shouldn’t have pried.”

“He hurt you!”

“Ten years ago!” Arwen screamed, her voice rasping at the end. Rhysand was panting slightly now and Cassian’s gaze was determinedly flickering between them both. “He hurt me ten years ago. But he had never done anything like that since. I don’t know what was going through his head when he said those things and I never asked. Most days I forget about it but there are other times that yes, it does hurt and yesterday happened to be one of them.”

Cassian wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that whatever had passed occurred a near-decade ago. No wonder Azriel had no idea what was coming for him. It would be a wonder if he even remember it. But by the hurt on Arwen’s face just at speaking about it, he was certain that Azriel would know.  

“Then how can you be upset at me if it still hurts you?” Rhysand asked, his own voice turning breathless as he took a step forward, near eliminating any protective distance between them. Cassian’s hands dropped slightly down her arms as Rhysand lifted his to the sides of her neck.

“You’re not listening to me, Rhys!” It was a pained, desperate call to be heard. One that had Rhysand in silence, a deep line over his nose as Arwen looked up at him. “It happened ten years ago. I’ve had time to move on. I understand that it is fresh for you and I understand why you lashed out because of it. But you hurt me last night.”

Cassian watched as muscles rippled under the High Lord’s jaw and he knew that her words hurt him right back.

“You made a promise to me,” she continued, “that you wouldn’t pry through my mind to know these things.”

Cassian could tell that Rhysand’s response was weak even before the words came into existence. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t go into my mind. No. You decided that you’d find a way around that promise and make me tell you myself. That’s what hurt me, Rhys.” Arwen had lost the molten touch, he noticed, taking a minor step back and to the side at the same time that Rhysand dropped his hands. “I think I would have rather you have just broken your promise and burrowed through my head than lie and manipulate your way around it. At least I would know what your intentions were and that what you’re doing isn’t some game to try and fiddle your way to what you want. I played that game with you because I thought I was safe to drink around you.”

Rhysand’s nostrils flared. There was a new agitation that enveloped him—one that Cassian didn’t think entirely fit the fight at hand. “You didn’t have to throw that drink on me. It was childish of you.”

“Childish,” she echoed airily, tipping head back. “Maybe if you stop treating me like one then I’ll stop feeling the need to acquiesce to that vision you have of me, High Lord. I’m done with this conversation.”

She barely needed to tug from Cassian’s hands, slipping out of her spot between them and back into the hallway where her step retreated to the upstairs rooms. Rhysand sighed, waving his hand and drying his clothes. Then he leant forward and down against the bench just next to Cassian. He crossed his arms and buried his head inside them.

Cassian himself needed a few moments to gather his thoughts, placing all the new bits of information he gathered to form the story in his head. Begrudgingly, he was still missing the piece of what Azriel had actually said to ignite this entire thing. “That was low,” he muttered once he was sure Arwen would no longer hear them. The town house had been properly insulated and relatively soundproof through the floors. “Calling her childish.” He didn’t remark on the rest of the fight, seeing at it wasn’t his place.

Rhysand made an audible sigh and lifted his head, distraught painted across it. “I know,” he murmured. “I’m… I’m so used to her fighting like a youngling. Crying and sulking.” I didn’t know how to fight back, Cassian filled in the rest of the unsaid explanation.

It was true, and a bit of him was shamed to see that she noticed it—how they viewed her as so young. Despite being nearly two hundred years of age, barely eighty years younger than himself, even Cassian saw her still as the young half-Illyrian child that he adored visiting. A moment away from the bloodshed and viciousness of the camps. A giggling girl that clung to his side where her head barely met his hips for many years. One that would sneak into his room when he was around and she managed to peeve off her brother but wanted company to sleep with.  

“I had to do it, Cass,” he whispered, offering a shrug of his shoulders that mimed that it was all that he had. “I know it was horrible of me but I had to—”

Cassian held up a hand. “Don’t bother explaining to me. I’m not the one that needs to hear it.”

“You’re angry with me too,” Rhysand observed.

“I’m making myself a bystander,” he corrected. “You and Azriel are at each other’s throats, now you and Arwen. No doubt there’ll be tensions between her and Az whenever he decides to rejoin us so I think there’s enough tension happening that I don’t need to jump in and give my hearty opinions on the matter.”  

Rhysand rested his weight onto his palm braced on the bench. “Mor will,” he muttered with a broken chuckle. Cassian made a look of quicky agreeance. “You should have seen her yesterday. There was something that she said—”

Rhysand cut himself off as the stairs creaked in warning. The pair looked towards the large entrance to the kitchen, watching as Arwen descended the main staircase now dressed for the day ahead. She said nothing, only glimpsing in their direction before heading to the front foyer and eventually out into the city.

“Go with her.”

The request wasn’t completely unnatural to be heard, but the urgency in the High Lord’s tone had Cassian staring at him in uncertainty. “Where is she going?”

“I don’t know but, Cass… She said something to me yesterday and…” Rhysand pressed his lips together, shaking his head. “I can’t stop thinking over it.” Cassian was about to ask further until an image was flung into his head. A memory, more correctly. He remained silent, watching Arwen through Rhysand’s eyes as they argued over something about going flying.

When the memory ended, Cassian looked to Rhysand, unsure why such a few short sentences out of the whole ordeal had him so concerned, until an echo of her words at Rhysand’s push, replayed in his head and suddenly he understood. And he wasn't sure he blamed Rhysand anymore for going to the lengths he did. 

“So please, stay with her. She won’t let me and I’m guessing Mor is already in Hewn City.”

He nodded diligently. “Of course. But on one condition.” Rhysand’s face darkened at the idea of making a condition out of such a request. But Cassian only nodded upwards. “Go fix my damn mountain while we’re out.”

Rhysand managed a tired scoff. “You’re mountain?”

“Fine then, your mountain. Until it gets fixed,” he added under his breath. At another huff, he placed his hand on Rhysand’s shoulder and squeezed. “She’ll be fine. Like she said, it’s been ten years and she’s been through a lot of other things since then.”

“Exactly,” Rhysand whispered back. “With everything that she’s gone through, everything she’s currently going through, it’s only making me more worried. She lost both her parents within days. Her mate is...” That needed nothing more said. “And she had her wings cut from her. Not just broken but cut out. You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t rather die than lose your wings.”

Cassian couldn’t deny it.

“She doesn’t have our mother anymore. She probably feels like she doesn’t have Azriel either and now she might feel like she doesn’t have me. So as High Lord I am ordering you to stay with Arwen. Stay with her even if she doesn’t want you there. Fly overhead I don’t care—just watch her.” The pained words almost elicited a comforting response from the general, but like many times in the past day, he didn’t have many.

“I’ll take care of her.” Rhysand lifted his head and Cassian offered a grim smile. “You know I always do.”

Cassian ruffled his wings, as if making a motion that symbolised the shedding of everything that had just past in front of him then made way to the front of the town house to catch up with the half-Illyrian female. “I still don’t know what that shadowbastard said.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

Arwen made it to one street off the one the town house sat along before a large shadow appeared at her side. They walked in some time with silence as their third companion, her mind battling between focusing on her destination whilst pushing out echoes of the fight just passed.

“I’m sorry,” she said after they entered the busier part of the city, their reflections moving like soft, rippling waves across the glass panes of storefronts. “That you got caught in the middle of it all.”

“It’s not the first time. More often than not I am the middle of the theatrics,” he replied with a warm chuckle. His strides were loose, she had noted, shoulders making those soft motions with each step unveiled that his words matched his composure. With a gentle sigh he added, “Look, you don’t have to tell me but should I know what happened between you and Azriel?”

Arwen gave a small shrug. “If Rhys knows then I suppose there’s no point in avoiding it. But not right now. I’ll tell you over breakfast.”

“Ah,” Cassian breathed, lugging his thick arm across her shoulder as he guided her through the growing morning crowd. “I love our food dates. The best kind—well, second best.”

Frowning, she asked. “What’s the first?”

He choked on a laugh, not saying anything but grinning down at her with an arched brow, eyes pooling with roguishness. A brow that had a light scar tracing through it. Arwen pinched her own, before rounding her lips and coughing. “Glad to know, you Illyrian pig. And they’re hardly dates since you find them at pleasure houses.”

“Eh, that’s true enough. Alright, food dates take first place. Where are you thinking of?”

This time, Arwen was the one to grin without answering. And it was worth the reaction that she received from both him and the little shopkeeper, a lesser faerie that paled at the sight of the burly Illyrian and his wings. Cassian paled too, eyeing off the dainty teashop that was painted a pastel green, ceramic pots hanging from displays on the walls, small round tables with white lace trimmings and silver trays.

Arwen usually came here with Mor, once or twice with Rhysand but for obvious reasons, she never brought Azriel or Cassian. But now she had a heavy desire for light food and a quiet space to talk and think.

The little bell above the narrow door rang for a second time as it closed behind Cassian who was pushed right up against her shoulder, eyeing a pot plant near his head. “For two, please,” she said to the shopkeeper.

“Of course,” she squeaked out and gestured to an empty table near the front window. There were only two other patrons, seated together near the back.

Arwen glanced back, a hand loosely wrapped around his wrist as she led the way to the table. Cassian was too busy watching either side of him to glare at her. Illyrians were overly aware of their wings, so it wasn’t a problem of not knowing where they were, but it was still a tight space that required navigation.

Eventually he made it through the maze of delicate decorations and tables, sitting opposite her at the dainty table. The chairs were naturally designed with a low back that curved around so the armrests were of the same piece of wood, a netted fabric offering support.

He puffed out his cheeks with a long exhale that made her smile at the table. He looked like he had just successfully strategized through a battlefield. Soon they had teas in front of them and the silver tiered tray was taken away before being returned with sandwiches, savouries and sweets.

Cassian held up one of the egg sandwiches. “This is one bite,” he deadpanned.

“Yes,” she agreed. “That’s why there’s more of them. And this isn’t the place to stuff your face with food.”

“Then why are we here?”

Arwen rolled her eyes, leaning over and shoved the sandwich into his mouth. It went down with a hum of pacification. They made small talk for a while, until she couldn’t bear not talking about it any longer. “Where is he?”

“Rhys? He went up to the House of Wind.” He huffed, elbow braced on the table in a way that made her want to smack it off. “Well, he should be.”

“Azriel,” she corrected softly. She assumed he retreated off somewhere since Rhysand had only come home that morning and was currently back on the mountain.

“He’s fine,” Cassian answered, his tone softening to match hers. “He flew off last night out of the city.”

Arwen gave up on proprietary and placed her elbow on the table, scratching the underside of her forearm. “Do you know where?”

He gave her a look. “Are you planning on going after him?”

She shook her head truthfully. “No, I just want to know where he’s gone. It’s easier not to worry like that.”

Cassian made a small gesture with his hands. “I don’t know,” he answered. “But if you’re worried and he’s not back by tomorrow night, I can go out and check the places I think he’ll be hiding away in. Probably licking his wounds.”

“Just ask Rhys to tap into his mind.”

“You think he’ll answer. Better yet, you think Rhys will do it?”

“Azriel is loyal to his High Lord,” she said with a half-smile on one corner of her lips. “If Rhysand asks, he will answer. And Rhysand will because Azriel is his brother and his spymaster. He can’t have rouges in his court now, can he?”

Cassian managed a blithe grin. “He’s got you here, doesn’t he?” Arwen flicked the remnants of a cucumber that split from one of the sandwiches across that table, even managing a small laugh at his grouse. “Do you want to tell me what happened now?”

Leaning back into the chair, she looked out of the window where mouths of fae moved with sound. She was trapped in a perfect little paradise. Then her own mouth opened and she told Cassian what had passed all those years ago, how Azriel and Arwen felt the bond snapping into place and his panicked response. There was no point in keeping it to herself when the one person she didn’t want to find out, already had.

At the end of her retelling, Cassian sat hunched forward. One hand was splayed out along the table, the pads of his fingers ceaselessly drumming whilst the other was raised to cover his mouth. He stared silently out into the street, trenches dug into his forehead.

Arwen understood what was going through his head. Azriel was his brother in all but blood. The three of them—they would always be inseparable and Arwen wouldn’t want them to have it any other way. It never made her feel like something lesser. His natural defence would be to support Azriel, even if he didn’t agree with what he had done.

But she was part of the equation. She knew in her heart that Cassian held her in the same esteem that she held him. With their close relationship and his natural desire to protect what belonged to his life, that part of him would want to do exactly what Rhysand had done. Which is exactly what Arwen intended to avoid.

“It was ten years ago,” she said after too long of a silence. Cassian's eyes turned to her momentarily before shifting back to the street. “I don’t want Azriel to feel like this is being held against him.”

At that, he scoffed heartily and dropped his hand from his mouth. “He deserved whatever Rhys gave him for that. And Rhys was right; it was ten years ago for you but we’re just learning about this now.”

“He has full right not to want me as a mate. It wasn’t either of our decisions.”

Cassian stretched his jaw outwards, looking down at his hands that began to mindlessly pry a muffin apart. “He doesn’t have the right to hurt you.”

“It only hurt me because I was going through losing my wings and my parents in the span of two days then weeks later learning I had a mate so I’m shocked that I didn’t say anything that hurt him. Cauldron—I might have. It just…hurt, because I didn’t think I had much worth left. It hit me when I was down.” It was a partial lie. It would have hurt to hear at any stage of her life, but it had no doubt struck harder than usual. What he had said was basically a sign from the world that even a person destined for her would not want her.

“He cares for you.” Arwen looked up from where she too had been staring at his hands to find Cassian looking right at her. “I won’t defend him in the slightest for this but I do know that he cares for you and I need you to know that, Arwen.”

She nodded with the faintest of smiles. “I know. I do. I care for him too.”

“And we care for you.” Her smile continued to grow, however wary, at the graveness on his face as he declared so. Then he shrugged brazenly. “You know, like enough to help you back up if you trip over but not enough to throw myself in front of a sword for you care.”

The wariness dropped and Arwen shot her foot out under the table. Cassian snarled with a wince, his knee driving up into the underside of the table which made the entire thing shake. The silver trays clattered as did the ceramic teacups. Their eyes matched in roundness, grabbing everything closest to them, fortunately, nothing fell over.

The shopkeeper watched them silently from a distance, seeming to be terrified at the idea of breaking glass rather than upset at the noise disturbance. Arwen offered an apologetic wave. The pair stifled their laughter but took it as a sign to go. The rose and headed towards the counter.

“Could you put in my family’s credit?” Arwen requested, but two arms came to hang around her neck from behind before the shopkeeper could, a chin brushing against her head.

“Put it on mine. The princess and I are on a date and I’m taking care of her.”

She scoffed a little at his title for her being used right in front of a stranger, and then more at the underlying tease of his motives. But Arwen understood what he was trying to do and tilted her head back against him in a silent thanks. The shopkeeper nodded, not saying anything, probably very knowing well who they already were.

They navigated back out of the dainty teashop and she walked under the weight of his arm again for some time.

“How are you feeling?”

Arwen looked up at him, reading something behind his tone that she wasn’t sure how to translate. “Fine,” she answered. Cassian still looked down at her, searching for something. “I’m fine, Cass.”

“Alright,” he conceded in a slow whisper.

She didn’t ask anything more and he seemed to accept her answer, at least. They spent the rest of the day in the city, and though she was surprised that he was able to spend so many hours with her, away from work, Arwen never mentioned it aloud. Perhaps he still had little to do with Rhysand being lax on him. Which made her feel worse for the whole ordeal even more knowing that Cassian had been feeding off their stress before and probably still, now that they were back.

When they returned to the empty town house, Cassian threw himself on the lounge in the sitting room, quickly falling into a nap after what was apparently a hard day. Arwen adjusted the throw pillow under his head, then carefully adjusted the wing closest to the back of the lounge that she knew would be sore if she didn’t move it.

Retreating to her room, Arwen crawled under her blankets and curled up at the foot of her bed under their heavy weight, encased by the warm darkness. It was hard to tell, but she guessed she had fallen asleep on and off for the next hour or so by the ease in her body.

About to fall into another short round of obliviousness, her ears prickled at the light sound of someone entering her bedroom. Arwen waited silently, sighing as the mattress dipped under a weight that told her exactly who it was before their scent even made it to her nose.

A slither of light crept into her small cave as the edge of the crumpled blankets were lifted. “May I join you?” She thought on it for a moment, but nodded in permission. Rhysand lifted the blankets higher, rolling himself underneath them. He turned on his side to face her, but didn’t match her curled form. They were enveloped in darkness again and she could barely see anything of his face which lay right in front of her. “How was your day?”

He wasn’t ignoring what had happened that morning, Arwen knew. He was building up to it, testing the waters of where she was.

 “Was Cassian snoring not a good enough indicator?” She felt the brush of his near-silent huff of amusement. “It was nice, but I'm missing the quietness of the cabin.” Hence why she had retreated to her bed.

“You’re free to go whenever you want.” Another brush of his breath. “You don’t have to forgive me and I’m not asking for it, but will you let me at least explain why I had to know? So you’re not wondering.”

She licked her teeth. “Because you’re a nosy brother who can’t help but get in my business? I already knew all of that.”

“Because—” he started, firm enough to tell her he wasn’t in the taunting mood— “you scared me. And I’m still scared.”

“How did I scare you?” Arwen blinked in a small startle as a hand laid on the scope of skin under her ear, thumb stroking her cheek.  

“You don’t keep secrets from me.” As her eyes adjusted to the darkness once more, she could begin to see the proper outlines of the contours on his face. “So I always wondered why it was this one that you refused to share and then you said something at the cabin when you wanted to go flying and I need you to be honest with me, Arwen.”

Mother spare her, she really had no idea what he was talking about. There had been plenty of thoughts and emotions spilt that Arwen didn’t even know where to begin in chiselling them down. Nevertheless, she submitted to his request with a nod of promise.

“You said that it would be in our favour. As in, both you and Azriel’s favour if the-if the risk of taking you flying went wrong,” he said in a single breath. His hand squeezed tighter with the fingers that curved around her neck. “As if you wanted it to happen.”

She tilted her head. That hadn’t been what she meant—

“No.” Arwen shook her head fervently. “No, no Rhys that isn’t what I meant at all.” She let a shaken breath out as she shook her head again. “I promise you that I do not wish that upon myself.”

A hard exhale filled the small gap of air between them and a second later, his lips pressed against her forehead. She was stuck in her own moment of silence, reeling through what her brother must have been thinking over the past day about her. What he had been believing. What Cassian might have been thinking if they had talked.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said. “Don’t be. But that’s why I had to know, because I couldn’t do anything if I didn’t understand. I couldn’t help you.”

“I had only meant that neither of us were happy with the bond and… It would be better if it ended, but I don’t want it to happen that way.”

“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if something happened to you. Something that I could have stopped.” He turned onto his back with another sigh, though this one gentler than the previous. Arwen remained on her side and inched closer.

She hadn’t been surprised at his request to join her underneath the blankets rather than pull her out of them. It had used to be a game of sorts—one that she couldn’t remember now, only that they would hide under billowing white sheets, laughing and hiding from something. “I don’t plan on going anywhere,” she said through a smile, however unseen it might be. “In fact, I plan on being a very annoying thorn in your side for the rest of eternity.”

“You have succeeded well beyond expectations.”

Arwen pinched his side, arising a sharp jolt from him, then a pinch back. She pinched him again, receiving the same treatment in return until they moved into an elbow-in-mouth wrestle.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

One hundred and ninety-six.

One hundred years, then ninety-six more after that. Nearly two hundred years living. It seemed so strange that Rhysand had been High Lord for only ten years. It had felt so much more than that. Perhaps since Arwen seldom spent time with her father if she could avoid it. Her father was a hard male—not unkind in heart, but harsh. Her brother was the dominant male figure in her life both because she made him so and he chose to be.

Arwen leant forward, the points of her elbows driven into the wood of her vanity as she stared at herself in the mirror. Just awoken, a dark green set of a silk singlet and pants-clad her body, and her hair was unruly.

She hadn’t slept well, but the reason for it was unknown even to her. Blinking heavily to wipe away the remaining blur of sleep, Arwen lethargically reached for her brush and began running it through her hair. It was her birthday after all, and she should look decent for it.

It was still early, with dawn just cracking the horizon. She should already have gone leaping on her brother’s bed, as tradition called her to do but she couldn’t bring herself to go bounding out of her room. Sometimes he beat her to it, but there wasn’t any sound to signal his awakening.

Azriel hadn’t returned. It had been a month since he left, and to the Mother knows where. Rhysand kept minimal contact as far as he told her, making sure he was still alive but according to him, the court was capable of functioning without a spymaster for some time. Arwen remembered that Azriel had told her he would be there for her birthday this year. It didn’t seem that he would keep to his word, hearing no sign of him.

Arwen sat up straighter on the wooden stool, righting every inch of her posture until she resembled nothing less than grace in the mirror. She pulled her lips wider, setting them into a soft, manageable smile.

Good.

Looking back to the glass panes where the curtains had been drawn wide, the sun crept even further into the sky. Deeming that she let Rhysand have enough of a sleep in, Arwen left her bedchamber and manoeuvred across the hall. Nuala and Cerridwen smiled and bowed their heads in a quiet greeting, knowing to keep their voices down so early in the morning before the rest of the house awoke. Which would be soon if Arwen had her way. Which she always did.

Rhysand laid sprawled on his side, wings free from the void he hid them in. She stood just inside of the bedchamber, still not gathering the energy to leap onto his bed, but it wouldn’t be her birthday without a ceremonial wake up.

Plucking one of the soft pillows from a plush seat, she pinched it tightly in one of the corners and strode closer to the bed. Rather unceremoniously, she rounded it down through the air and thwacked it against his head.

His entire body jolted. Despite being asleep seconds ago, Rhysand became conscious enough to snatch the pillow before she could even pull it back up. Arwen lurched forward at the hard tug to it as they silently wrestled for control of the weapon. Older, bigger, and stronger—he won.

Lazily eyes fluttered open along with a crooked and tired smile as she fell onto the mattress. “G’morning,” he grunted. “Feeling old yet?”

“Not until I’m your age.” His knee jerked up from under the black sheet, hitting her thigh that lay on top. Arwen gave a small laugh of a single breath. “What’s the plan for the day?”

With a waking sigh, he turned onto his back, wings disappearing. “We can do whatever you want until tonight.”

“Tonight, huh?”

“Yes, and you’re not finding out before then.” Always the way. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Arwen smiled again, though it was more of a quick uplift of her lips than something sincere. Sliding from his bed, she headed downstairs and into the kitchen. Nuala quickly moved in, offering an entire menu of options to choose from for breakfast, but Arwen kindly brushed her aside and said she intended to make it herself.

It helped her, to have something to do. To not sit there impatiently and be served on. Ensuring not to spill anything on her nice sleep set, Arwen made a buffet’s worth of food, knowing that Mor and Cassian would be down at any moment. Eggs, bacon, toast, arranged fruit. It took her at least an hour that she was more than happy to spend on it, almost disappointed that it came to an end.

“What’s this?”

Half-turning to the kitchen’s entrance, Arwen greeted Cassian with a soft smile. “Breakfast. Use your eyes General Commander, or I might recommend the position go to someone with more cunning observation skills.”

He returned her taunt with a mocking sneer and sauntered into the kitchen, gazing across the selection of food laid out on the island table as she filled a jar with juice. As she moved closer to place it down, he drew her into a side hug and kissed the top of her head. “Happy birthday, kid.”

“How old do I have to be until you stop calling me kid?”

“When you’re older than me.”

Arwen muttered something about the impossibility when Mor turned into the kitchen as well. It was like a beacon of sunshine, with the tossed golden hair bouncing at her shoulders with each step.

Even with all the warning of her opening arms, Arwen still grunted as she was pulled into a tight embrace. She ensnared Mor right back, savouring the comfort of her cousin. Nothing could ever replace the warmth of another female’s presence.

“You’re here early,” she noted. It was a pathetic thing to say, as Arwen knew well how early they always came on this day. She had the buffet of food to prove so. But there was an unyielding need to say something and nothing else came to mind in time.

“I wanted to be the first to give my favourite cousin her present,” Mor replied, handing over a brown package.

“Oi.” Rhysand leant against the archway, frowning at being placed below her.

“Get over it, Rhysie,” Mor crooned.

Arwen smiled—truly this time—at their continuing banter and tore part of the package open. Then promptly crumpled the tear close. Mor left Rhysand mid-insult to meet Arwen’s flaming cheeks and grinned. “It’s for you and you alone.”

Arwen, ever-so conscious about what was most likely scandalising lingerie in the package of a dark, azure lace, blushed even harder. For her alone? Wasn’t the point of it to show off to someone else? She looked down at the package again. It would show her body. Scars and all.

For her alone. It was for her to feel good in, for her to revel in her own skin. If she could.

“What is it?” Cassian pried, attempting to look over her shoulder. Arwen held it closer to her chest.

“For Arwen and Arwen alone,” Mor repeated firmly.

Cassian took a moment to figure out what that meant, before frowning at the package. Arwen didn’t look at Rhysand for her own salvation of dignity. “Thank you.”

Mor tipped her head, accepting the short words of gratitude for the weight that Arwen carried them with. It wasn’t lingerie. It was a movement toward acceptance of her body.

Finally moving into the kitchen, Rhysand declared, “Remind me to thank the twins for the feast.”

Arwen didn’t intend to argue with the assumption, but Cassian said, “Actually I think Arwen is the reason for our stomach’s oncoming delight.”

She pursed her lips, making a small nod of confirmation as their eyes turned on her. “You made this?” her brother inquired. She nodded again. He gave a soft laugh. “I know you’re spoilt on a normal day, but usually even more so on this one.”

“I felt like it,” was her answer. Taking one of the stacked plates for herself, Arwen loaded on her breakfast as those around her began to follow suit.

“What are we going to do today?” Rhysand inquired, leaning past her for the juice.

Shrugging, she said, “I think I’m going to read for a few hours. Maybe finish that sketch I started the other day.”

“That sounds rather… placid,” he noted with bemusement. “Why don’t we go into the city for a few hours?”

“Maybe later. I’m actually a little tired.” Arwen turned her lips up into a smile again as she finished gathering her food and looked to her brother. He didn’t return the gesture, which had her own faltering. “If you need to do some last minute gift shopping, don’t let me stop you.” She heard his light laugh as she turned around and headed into the dining room.

It was in there that she was given her presents from Cassian: a new sketchbook, an assortment of different pencil types that she had been moaning about growing short on, and a textbook of the anatomy of Illyrians. Arwen frowned at the last one, until Cassian made a silent gesture between her, the sketchbook then at himself with flexed muscles. Mor nearly snorted out her egg. Rhysand promised that she would have his present later.

After breakfast, as Arwen intended, she lay across the lounge in the sitting room with the romance book she had picked up a few days prior. She was prompted once more to spend her day outside, Cassian even offering to return to the teashop but Arwen wanted nothing more than to laze around like a house cat, not even changing from her nightwear.

As she came near to the end of her current chapter, a shadow appeared at her shoulder which was pushed against the arm of the lounge. “If you’re tired, maybe you should go take a few hours sleep,” Rhysand murmured in her ear. “I have something planned for tonight and I don’t want you barely keeping your eyes open.”

Arwen’s nose flared with a quiet exhale and closed her book. Maybe she would. It would be a shame, for both her and his efforts if she couldn’t enjoy the coming night. Before a response from her could come, however, the town house’s front door opened.

Arwen sat up, head snapping in its direction with a hammering heart.

Amren strode through. Her heart calmed. “Happy birthday girl. It took me over a month to track one of these down.” The ancient being thrust a small box towards her that was no larger than her palm. Rhysand’s curious gaze told her he had no idea what it was either.

Arwen pried the box open. Inside, perched on a maroon bed of velvet, was a ring. It was silver and set with a single gemstone, light and almost opalescent. Moonstone. “Thank you,” Arwen murmured. It was truly beautiful, simple as the design was. In fact, she rather liked how delicate it was.

“It’s enchanted,” Amren continued, arms loosely crossed over her stomach. Arwen looked back up at her, then down at the ring.

“Enchanted?” Rhysand echoed.

“It can dampen magic.”

“You mean—”

“Yes. You shouldn’t be falling through anything with it on.”

Arwen clutched the box tighter. It had happened twice more since her waking underneath the house. Once when she was in the city, falling right through one of the bridges and into the Sidra again, and another time when they had been eating dinner. Arwen still hadn’t even been able to go up to the House of Wind in fear that she might plummet right through the mountain itself.

“Think of it like training wheels. It won’t take your power away and doesn’t enhance it, but it will pacify it. It can’t hold stronger magic down either but once you’re that strong, you’ll be able to control it yourself.”

She slid the jewel onto her finger. There was no shimmer of magic, or shiver through her body to signify it was working, but Arwen trusted that Amren had some idea what she was doing. “Thank you.”

Amren nodded.

The day past unusually slowly. Arwen couldn’t tell if it was in anticipation of what the night would bring or is the world was following her wish of slowing down so it wouldn’t come at all. Not that she didn’t look forward to her brother’s efforts, which never ceased to be beyond her expectations, but there was a part of her today that felt like it was wrong to be celebrating.

In the evening, with a warning from her brother to get ready for a night out, Arwen stood in her chamber. She lingered at the foot of her bed, looking down at it where she had her dress of choice laid out. A velvet black with a dangerous slit along the front of both thighs. The neckline was generous but appropriate for even the most formal of restaurants and the sleeves were skintight to her wrists. It was the perfect choice for anything that might come her way that evening.

A soft knock broke her from staring. Arwen welcomed them in, smiling as Mor slid into her room. The blonde grinned at the dress. “I was hoping you’d wear that one.”

“Considering you chose it for the Starfall before last, I’m not surprised that you like it.”

“Why haven’t you put it on then?”

Arwen pushed her tongue to the back of her teeth. “Because once I do, I’ll be ready to go.”

Mor placed a hand on her back. “Cassian is getting impatient.” Arwen managed a second-lasting smirk. “Rhys is also worried,” she added. “I told him you were just tired.”

Arwen tipped her head towards her cousin. “Rhys is always worrying.”

The blonde chuckled and made a flashing agreement with her eyes before they sobered. “Do you not want to go tonight? I know you’ll enjoy it so at least come see but you can leave at any time.”

“I know I’ll enjoy it,” Arwen said, leaning down to pinch the end of the dress skirt. “It’s just… Once we leave for whatever he’s got planned, then we’re gone.”

“And Azriel won’t be there.”

She turned to Mor. For all that she had tried to hide that thought from even herself, Arwen was relieved to know that Mor could see the confliction. “He said he wouldn’t miss it.” The lingering in the town house, the desire for the day to not pass—all in hopes that he wouldn’t suddenly turn up at the door. Once they left for the evening, it would only confirm that he wouldn’t be coming.

Mor squeezed the back of her shoulder, then swerved in front of Arwen. A finger lifted the half-Illyrian’s chin as a blaze of confidence swept across Mor’s face. “This is your day, Arwen. You control it. I did not teach you to let some Illyrian males be in command of what you feel. My gift to you was not for the pleasure of a male—it is for you to take acceptance of yourself. We do not let men take command of us.”

Bittersweet tears ran fresh to Arwen’s eyes. She nodded, slowly at first, then hastily. “Cauldron,” she muttered, wiping fiercely at her eyes so the water did not ruin the kohl lining them. “I’ll try telling Rhysand that next time he gives me an order,” she chuckled.

“I’d love to see that.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

Now dressed, Arwen adjusted the silver chain around her neck with a teardrop diamond. It was no surprise at the light shuffle of a new pair of feet at her door. Rhysand smiled, hands deep in the pockets of his pants. He was dressed impeccably, with a black tunic with silver tendrils at the collar and trimmings, his trousers the same shade.

“We’re matching,” Arwen mused, deliberating whether she should put on earrings as well. She had shoved thoughts of certain people out of her mind, determined to enjoy her night as Mor requested her to. “It’s embarrassing. Go change.”

Rhysand scoffed and moved beside her so she could see him in the mirror as she hooked the earrings that matched the necklace into her earlobes. “And here I thought we looked cute.”

Arwen hummed in amusement. “I’m coming down in a minute. Tell Cassian if he’s that impatient he can meet us there.”

“I let him visit my wine collection to mull him over,” he said. “Take as long as you need.”

Leaning back straight, she shrugged. “I’m done now.”

Rhysand leant closer to her ear, winking softly. “Almost. I haven’t given you my present.” He extracted his hands from his pockets, one tightly furled to hide whatever was inside. “Well, I can’t say it’s entirely from me as it was never mine to give, but I did spend over a year trying to track this down for you.”

Arwen’s lips parted, a sudden swell of interest not letting her eyes move as his hand stretched out closer to her. His fingers unfurled and what they revealed had air catching in her throat. It was a silver chain. It was long, not linked as a necklace would be. Every inch along it were silver leaves hanging in a way that made it look like a vine.

It was her mother’s. Given to her by their father soon after the completion of their mating ceremony. Over the years, she had worn it less and after she died, Arwen couldn’t find it anywhere. “For me?” she could only croak.

Rhysand chuckled. “I did try it on, but I don’t think it suited me.”

Arwen shook her hands, not yet taking it from him and turned back around to the mirror. She divided the hair that had been hanging over her chest into three sections. Taking the chain, she weaved it into two and braided her hair.

“I know it’s small,” he said as she tied off the end. “But—”

“It’s perfect.”

He stood just behind her shoulder, their smiles mirroring in the reflection. Her braid had the thin chain threaded throughout, the small leaves a vine of silver. “You look like her. I think that every time I see you.”

Arwen’s tilted her head. “I’m sorry to be a reminder.”

He smiled wider. “A good one. Come on, no doubt the night has already started without us.”

The partial Inner Circle, including Amren, strode through the city of starlight under the blanket of its namesake. Arwen prodded them with questions but her only answer was that she would see it soon enough. They walked through and past many places that she considered—restaurants, theatres, clubs. They kept walking across to the far side of the city to…

To the Rainbow.

Arwen heard the music before she saw it all. It was the light, quick music meant for dancing and celebration; merry and wild. The Rainbow was always open into the night, as all parts of the city were, but never quite like what lay before her.

It was a festival, with dancers, musicians, artists, faeries of all kinds roaming the Rainbow. Coloured faelights were strung, staining the walls in different shades. Market stalls were sprawled along the streets, artists selling wares, jewellers showcasing their latest designs. A serving boy served her wine who seemed to have a never-ending supply of it, others walking around with treats and delicacies on silver platters. Children ran between legs, chasing each other with streamers on wands.

It was a beautiful celebration of art. Not just a day for her, but one that all could enjoy.

“So how did I do?” Rhysand inquired, sipping at his own dark drink. Arwen danced on her toes, squealing as she moved from one vendor to the next, admiring artwork posted on display. Rhysand laughed to himself as Cassian clapped his shoulder.

“Should have saved this for her two-hundredth,” he said, earning a look of agreement from the High Lord.

“Don’t remind me.”

Rhysand was barely able to keep her moving along, and although he had ordered the festival to live far into the night, he didn’t want her energy to fall before they made it to the epicentre of the Rainbow. The music grew louder to the point that had had to acutely raise his voice to be heard and took Arwen by the hand to keep her by his side.

The epicentre of the Rainbow, a large, open plaza underneath a grand gazebo hosted a band that was almost a complete orchestra. Faeries danced in the centre, both with and without partners. Rhysand had prepared something to say to mark the highlight of the night of her birthday, but all that came out was a small yelp as she hauled him amidst the dancers. Cassian and Mor joined in with them, falling into a lively dance. Amren decided to find a quiet seat.

Arwen laughed as she barely kept her feet on a twirl, purposefully stepping on Rhysand’s toes whenever he danced too rough or fast. The music was never-ending, barely giving them a chance to realise a song had closed before another came.

She was sweating, her throat hoarse and her heels were a terrible choice. But by the Mother, she loved it all. Her ears prized every note, her feet moving in steps that she couldn’t even remember learning. They stopped for another drink and even Cassian had become subjected to pants and tied up his hair to remove it from his neck on the warm, summer’s night.

Arwen gave him approximately five minutes to catch his breath before she yanked him into the dancing bodies. He was even harder to keep up with than her brother, his bulky movements hardly graceful or trained. But Arwen kept up with him and laughed nearly the entire time.

Once they had both reached their end, well after Mor and Rhysand returned from a single dance, Arwen was limping. “You alright?” Rhysand questioned, gesturing downwards with his brows. They sat against a stone ledge that hosted the perimeter of a risen garden bed.

“Stepped on my foot,” she said, jutting her thumb to the general, albeit a grin made any other sign of pain disappear. “Don’t worry, I got my heel in his toe.” Arwen sat down next to Rhysand and peeled off her shoes. Redness at her heal signalled the beginning of a blister, and a bruise was already forming just under the bone in the middle of her foot.

“Didn’t feel a thing,” Cassian sang as he sat between Mor and Rhysand’s other side. Arwen grinned wider as she caught sight of him turning his head to Mor, mouthing words of pain.

With a loud sigh, she leant against Rhysand’s shoulder, a round of exhaustion looming in the corners of her mind. She didn’t want the night to be over, but there was only so much dancing one could do. And there was still more of the festival to see.

“I’m going to make this an annual event,” he said to her as the other pair went off in their own conversation. “We don’t have to come each year, but I liked the idea of the Festival of the Rainbow and seeing how much you love being down here, I thought your birthday would be a perfect date to mark the occasion. The people are enjoying themselves as much as you are.”

“I’m not sure I’ll get the energy back by next year.” She laughed through a pant. “But this is… This is amazing. Thank you, Rhys. Really. I…” Arwen had no words left but he was satisfied with her breathlessness and squeezed her knee. “Can we go flying tonight?”

He opened his mouth and she sensed a refusal moving to his tongue, but he stopped and looked down at her hand where the moonstone ring sat. “I suppose we can now. Any destination in mind?”

“The mountains.” Somewhat vague, but she longed for the sweeping rocks beside her and the white clouds settled in their heights. Rhysand nodded and stopped drinking his wine, murmuring something about not flying drunk. Arwen laughed and tapped the rough part of her heels lightly against the stone ledge underneath her as they watched the festival continue around them.

A sea of people parted at the end of a song, their shoulders slouching, and laughs bubbled from their stomachs that they held. Behind them, Arwen saw a shadow. She sat forward, watching as the shadow eyed the multitudes of people around it, stoically moving around them.

The shadow was dressed in Illyrian leathers, all seven azure siphons on display. With his tanned, chiselled face and black hair sweeping across his forehead, he looked like one of the artworks on display that had somehow been enchanted to move.

Arwen slid from the ledge, not saying anything to the others and kept her eyes set on Azriel as they headed toward each other. In his hand was a small box, no more than an inch deep, but wide and flat. He had come after all.

They met just off the dance floor as fresh fae joined for a new song. He stood before her, his chest rising high but silent.

“You’re here.”

Finally, a crack on the otherwise stone face. “I said I wouldn’t miss it.”

Arwen’s own chest rose in an urgent need for more air. Slowly, she turned her upper body to look back over her shoulder. Rhysand sat still, watching them with a lifted chin. Cassian and Mor were still talking, but their eyes flickered in the pair’s direction every few seconds.

“I wasn’t sure I’d be welcomed,” Azriel continued as she turned back, eyes returning from where he too observed their reactions.

“They don’t get a say on my birthday.”

“It wasn’t just them I was worried about.”

There were no signs of the fight she heard that he went through with Rhysand, but it had been a month and with Illyrian healing, many of the bruises would have left within two days. “You’re family. Fights or no fights, this is your home.”

A tongue swept over his bottom lip, followed by a slight shift of his weight on his booted feet. “Can we talk about things? So, I can explain… why I said what I did?”

Arwen bit the inside of her cheek as she shook her head. “No,” she whispered, surprised she was heard over the music which had all but seemed to drown out around them. Azriel swallowed, head angling off to the side. “No, Az. I spent so much time wondering why you had said them and now I don’t want to know. If it’s something I don’t want to hear, then I might spend the next few years wondering again.”

After she finished, he placidly nodded. Then, seeming to suddenly remember the shallow box in his hand, snapped it up towards her. “For you,” he added if it weren’t obvious enough.

Taking the box, Arwen peeled away the crimson ribbon tied around it, the bow near perfect that it was a shame to dismantle it. Lifting the lid, her lips upturned as she marvelled at the gift inside.

It was a circlet. Quite the opposite of her other, which was a band of gold with a pointed apex that sat low on her brow. This one was silver, and the bands were thinner, bent around each other like loose whorls.

“I know you like the other one, but you save it for more formal occasions. I thought you would like one that you could wear whenever you pleased. I took a risk with the silver, but you’ve been wearing more of it lately and…”

He kept talking but Arwen’s attention drifted to the shallow, downturned peak. A jewel hung, no larger than her nailbeds but it wasn’t the shape or cut that drew her attention. She lifted it with the pad of her finger to catch the light more and confirmed the shade.

“… I spent a good part of the past month finding it,” his voice tuned back in. “Amethyst, but it was difficult to find the right one.”

Her eyes. It was the exact shade of her eyes. Not that Arwen was so self-obsessed that she would know that straight away without comparing it in a mirror, but looking into Rhysand’s every day, she knew the colour anywhere.

Azriel didn’t make a sound as she enveloped him in her arms. Still barefoot, Arwen was on her toes to meet his towering height and perch her chin over his shoulder. His arms soon followed and her eyes squeezed together as they tightened around her waist.

But she refused to hold it for long, and dropped back onto her feet.

Something had lifted off Azriel’s face, and she knew that her acceptance of his gift must have been weighing on him, deciding whether he should come tonight or not.

“Will you dance with me?”

Arwen’s forehead tightened in response. She looked towards the dancing circle, then down to the circlet she placed back in its box. “Yes.” Swivelling around, she trotted back to Rhysand and held the box towards him. “Safe keep this.”

He took it. “Is everything alright?”

Arwen nodded, not in the mind to answer with more than that, and turned back to Azriel.

Rhysand watched as she went back to the spymaster who took her arm and they migrated onto the plaza floor. At Cassian’s nudge, he noticed the general’s curious gesturing towards the box and opened it. Rhysand didn’t take the circlet from where it sat but thumbed the jewel. He looked back to Cassian, wondering what he was thinking.

“Females and their jewels,” is all he said, keeping the true thoughts hidden.

Mor tipped her head and made a pointed tap on his thigh where an intricately carved knife sat in its sheath. One that he carried everywhere, even in his unusually formal attire for the night. “Males and their weapons,” she drawled back.

“That’s different. This is for protection.”

Mor threw her weight back on a single palm, the other holding a new glass of wine. “Yes, the people in Velaris are so dangerous.”

Cassian grumbled something about always being prepared but didn’t bother with bickering on that particular argument.

The box in Rhysand’s hand disappeared as he sent it with magic to her room. Turning his eyes back to the crowd, he sought the dancing pair out again. Arwen was smiling, barely keeping up with the fast tune and Azriel’s surprisingly skilled grace. Mor had joined too, with a handsome High Fae requesting her hand.

“You look like you’re using every last piece of patience to not go over there and tear them apart.” Cassian plucked a small desert off a passing tray as he said it, the fae breaking Rhysand’s stare at the same time.

“I’m not,” he answered honestly. That urge died the moment he saw her smiling at him. “I’m just glad she’s happy. She is, isn’t she?” he asked after another moment of pause, now frowning at the dancing couple. It was hard to be sure, especially after their slow day. Arwen was getting better at faking.

“Can’t remember a time when she’s looked happier than she is tonight,” Cassian replied. “You did fine, brother. I’d say too well. You’ve set a bar that you’ve got to keep for next year. And many more after that.”

“Fortunately, I have the wealth of a High Lord,” he crooned. “Except my vaults might dry up if I have to keep repaying for entire buildings that members of my court decide to destroy.”

Cassian held up a single palm. “That building had it coming.” Rhysand chuckled and crossed his arms. “Did you manage to convince them to lift my ban yet?”

“I didn’t even bother trying,” Rhysand admitted, the pair falling into a pit of deep laughter. When it simmered, the High Lord bent forward, forearms crossed over his thighs. “Do you remember when she was like this every day?”

Cassian pursed his lips and gaze along the dancers. “You need to stop doing this to yourself. Arwen couldn’t have a better life given the circumstances of what has happened. She knows that. Don’t burden yourself.”

“She had most of her world torn from her, Cass.” He straightened again, seeking out a new drink despite his earlier desire for sobriety. “I’m just trying to give it back to her.”

He downed a generous sip before a large weight clasped on his shoulder and shook for his attention. Cassian leant close, looking him dead in the eye. “Coming from probably the only person other than you she tells everything to, you are her world, Rhys.”

Arwen’s eyes grazed everywhere. From her feet, to the path ahead, to the dancing bodies around. Anything to not look directly at his face, yet she couldn’t pull herself away. The ‘yes’ had been instinctive, a chance to be close with her mate, but in hindsight it would have been better to retire back to the rest of her family and see more of the festival.

His hands were stone on her waist, keeping her pace and position in check even when she barely registered her own body moving.

“Do you think your brother still wants to cut off my wings?” Azriel questioned a smirk hinting in the corner of his lips as she finally looked to him. “Or my… other parts?”

Arwen bit her lip, failing to contain a smile. “Which one would hurt your pride more?”

“The second.”

Their laughter matched. It took a moment of afterthought to put together his reasoning. Azriel hated his Illyrian heritage—hated what it made him, and what Illyrian culture and people have done to him. “I want you to know that I didn’t tell him so he would hurt you. Really, I didn’t tell him at all,” she added bitterly. “I’ve never wanted anything to come between the three of you, especially not coming from me. Some days I forget that you three have been brothers longer than I have been born.”

“And I never wanted to come between you and Rhys.” Arwen tilted her head, unsure of the implication of how he would do such a thing. Azriel’s hazels—which were a shade closer to gold than Cassian’s were—shot over her shoulder as they spun. “If he…disapproved with the mating bond, had we chosen to go through with it.”

“He disapproves of his family being unhappy,” she pointed out and reset her lips into the practised smile. “Which we are not, so there is nothing for us to worry ourselves over. Our High Lord has enough on his plate that he doesn’t need to deal with turmoil inside his own court.”

Azriel showed his agreeance with a trained smile.

Arwen and Azriel lasted two dances before she was too tired to keep up, swaying as they stopped. She placed her palm to her forehead, closing her eyes to let the sensation fade.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded, then regretted it. “Danced too much. Or drank. Probably both.” Though it was at the bottom of her pool of desires, she might have to decline her flight with Rhysand if it didn’t ebb away.

A hand on her back led them both to the stone ledge.

“You’re walking side to side, princess,” Cassian jeered. She didn’t listen to him and pushed her hands into the ledge to take the weight off her feet. “Need a bucket?”

Arwen lifted her head which was pre-set into a pale glare but couldn’t find the energy to hold it for long. Rhysand reached for her arm, but she leant back into Azriel instead, his body taking her leaning weight. He steadied her with a warm hand on her hip.

“You don’t look good,” Cassian continued.

“I don’t feel the best,” she admitted. Arwen placed a hand on her stomach, but she didn’t feel sick. Not the vomiting or the feverish type. In fact, the last time she had felt this way was…

“The ring is working,” Amren said, appearing from nothing. “This is what happened last time when the magic surfaced but didn’t release.”

“Last time she was like this,” Rhysand growled, “she fell out of my arms when we were flying hundreds of feet in the air.”

“Because it released eventually,” Amren crooned. “It was still learning how to. The ring is preventing that but containing magic comes at a cost to the user. It’ll pass.”

Arwen searched with her hands for the ledge and sat down, holding her head in her hands. The familiar presence of her brother’s daemati powers touched her mind, seeking permission to enter. She opened the gates and let him prod around as he pleased, easing the part of her that consciously acknowledged the sensation.

“I still want to go flying,” she declared, earning a soft chuckle and her brother’s promise.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23

Arwen peeked her eyes open to spy the rumbling storm clouds in the distance. They were such a lively, vibrant grey that she knew that by the later afternoon Velaris would be under pelting rain and lightning.

“Close your eyes,” Amren’s shrill voice snapped.

Arwen nearly leapt from the top of the hill they were perched on, forgetting that she was being watched. Tightening her folded legs, she placed her hands on her knees and closed her eyes once more.

“If you don’t do as I say, you’ll never learn.”

Arwen formed a wrinkle in her brows and with her eyes still closed, asked, “Were you this mean to Rhys when you were training him?” Arwen had been around when Amren assisted Rhysand in honing his power, and even more so now that the power of the High Lord of the Night Court transferred to him but she had never seen their training sessions. He had come home one day though, grumbling something about how Amren was lucky he didn’t mist her. Not that Arwen was sure that was possible.

“Worse,” Amren answered. “Consider yourself lucky.”

For what it was worth, she did. Amren continued instructing her breathing, then for her to remove the moonstone ring. Arwen did so blindly, not yet receiving the order to open her eyes but told to let the magic take hold in her. She waited, and waited. And waited.

“Ouch!” Arwen opened her eyes again, reaching to clutch at her chest. The guilty weapon—a stone the size of her fist—had dropped into her lap. “Why did you throw that at me?”

“If you were doing as I told, it would have gone right through you and you wouldn’t have felt a thing.” Amren opened her palm and the rock appeared in it. “Now close your eyes.”

Arwen gave the area on her chest a second rub of discontent but was too terrified to say anything more. Even Rhysand wouldn’t protect her from Amren’s wrath.

Her day had begun with training reinstated. Not that she was given any warning, other than the five minutes that morning when Cassian barged into her room and demanded for her downstairs and ready to go. It was quickly evident how out of shape just a few weeks of missing training had made her as Cassian drilled her into the ground. Rhysand and Azriel had joined too, but kept to their own training on the other side of the rooftop.

As if they would be in trouble for her not being in shape.

Arwen had barely gotten a quick snack in before Amren came to claim her for a different type of training. They stayed on the barren hilltop for hours. Though Arwen debated convincing Rhysand to send her back to the prison, by the end of the day, she had a margin more of control. Enough that half the time that rock was pegged at her, it went straight through. Commanding her body back to something tangible, however, came with more difficulty.

By the time Amren allowed Arwen to leave, her chest had a bruise qualifying a healer’s soothing balm. One that she knew they had run out of since they used it almost every day with training. So Arwen, practising her winnowing, took herself into Velaris in search of Majda’s healing quarters.

The winnowing was a somewhat success, landing in the district close by. The thunderclouds were now directly overhead, leaving the city under a haze of gloom. By the time she reached the green-painted door, light pattering rain formed beads across her hair.

Directly inside the healer’s quarters was the main treatment room. It was wide and square, with cut off areas with privacy sheets. There was a back-end chamber where Madja stored her remedies from the apothecary and another chamber for patients she kept overnight.

It was particularly empty this day, with only one other High Fae male being treated. Madja, the ancient but kind woman who Rhysand favoured over any other healer in the city, tended to the male, instructing the use of a cream. The male, handsome with long brown hair that was braided on one side to his head, nodded, smiling coyishly. The apron with stains on it told her that he was a baker. His left hand was bandaged. 

“Arwen dear,” Majda called. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

“No rush.”

Arwen sat down on one of the cushioned chairs and watched the baker and healer. The male glanced her way then back at the healer. Then back at her. Arwen continued smiling, making a raise of her brows and looking down to his hand.

“Burnt it,” he said as Madja finished informing him. He held the cream in his uninjured hand. Madja shuffled over to Arwen who just asked for the bruising cream they so often purchased from her. “My mother thinks I’m incapable of using the oven and like always, I think she’s right.”

Laughing, she said, “They always are.”

The male made an expression of exhaustion but laughed with her. “So what brings the Princess of Velaris down to Majda’s?”

Her jaw unlocked. “Princess of Velaris? Is that what people are calling me?” She’d have to knock Cassian up the backside of his head if it was him that got the title spread around. It was rather ridiculous.

“It’s what I’m calling you.”

“Ah.” She grinned. “So it is flattery.”

He grinned back. “You sound like you abhor such a concept.”

“Everybody that uses flattery has something to gain from it. I just intend to know exactly what.” Arwen leant back into the seat, crossing one knee over the other. “So tell me, what is your excuse for flattering me?”

“Because you’re exquisite.” She barely smothered her bark of surprise. The baker, whose name she still did not know, at least seemed to gain a sense of consciousness and ducked his head, a blush cresting his pointed ears but a laugh informed her that he wasn’t entirely shy.

“So it is my attention you are after,” she crooned. The idea wasn’t new, having males press themselves into her company, hoping to be the one she laid eyes on and be welcomed into the inner workings of her brother’s court. It was a careful game she had to play, and one that she never thought she would again after the mating bond. But seeing how that had worked out…

“I’m sorry,” he said, still smiling. “I’m not usually a forward person. But I figured that if I was going to talk to the Princess of Velaris then I wouldn’t hold back. I assumed once you walk out of here, what are the chances of running into you again?”

“Considering I live in the city and make public appearances, probably not as low as you’re imagining.”

“You’ve been a recluse for quite some time now.”

Arwen glanced down at her shoes. She couldn’t tell if he had pieced together why that had been, but thankfully he never said so aloud if he did. “There’s no such thing as a Princess in the Night Court, you know?” she said, veering the topic elsewhere.

“I’ve heard the General Commander call you that before.”

Rolling her eyes, she leaned her head against the wall behind the chair. Of course that was Cassian’s fault. Arwen had no title other than third in charge—a conversation she and her brother specifically had. She did not desire to be caught in politics beyond association. She helped with duties here and there to ease their shoulders when in need, but it wasn’t a burden she wanted to personally bare. There was a freedom to not have responsibilities of court on oneself. Being called a princess by Cassian had started as a taunt, but if people of the city started to call her as such, they’d put importance on her name. An importance she did not want to carry.

“Cassian has nicknames for everybody that he meets. He thinks I’m spoilt so that became mine.”

“Are you?”

“Most certainly.”

Arwen and the baker threw their heads back in laughter as Madja returned from her back-end chamber with three pots of bruising balm. Balancing them in her arms, she angled her head towards the baker to say goodbye, but he was on his feet and brushed past her, holding the entrance door open. The rain was growing heavier, a clash of thunder echoing somewhere in the distance.

“Thank you.”

He gestured down to her bundle. “Do I want to ask why?”

“Illyrians are trained not to hold back even in training. We tend to end up with a few bruises along the way.” She was not going to admit that a tiny female had been pegging a rock at her chest for two hours and done nothing about it. 

The baker anchored his hands inside his pockets, walking alongside her. Arwen was headed towards the townhouse, unsure whether he was following her or conveniently going in the same direction. “Do you train with them?”

He was full of questions, this one. “I do,” she answered. “I’ve taken a few breaks recently but I’m just starting to get back into it.”

“And does the General Commander train you himself?”

“He’s in charge of my training, yes. But also with my brother and Azriel.”

“You spend much time with them—the spymaster and the general?”

Arwen stopped in the middle of the street and turned to him. “I’m beginning to think you’re a spy, baker,” she mused, humming behind her lips. “Asking me questions about how the Inner Circle spend their time together.”

He leant forward with a slight bend in his knee, lips twisting. “If I was spying, I would be asking about the High Lord, too.” She continued staring at him, not following the insinuation she was sure was there. He coughed a laugh. “You’re close with the General Commander. I’m asking whether you and he are—”

“Oh!” Arwen broke into a fit of laughter, stepping back to regain her balance. Her chest cried in pain at the movement. “No, definitely not.” She leant down, wiping her left eye with her shoulder.

The male nodded with another coy smile. “The laughter was a good indicator. Just wanted to make sure he wouldn't cut my ears off for talking with you.”

Continuing walking she asked, “So is that the latest rumouring? That the General Commander and I are wooing each other into bed? I’m not sure what he’d make of that.”

“You’re shockingly blind, I must say.”

She stopped again with an upfront expression. “Excuse me? I know Cassian far better than you do. And I can say with the utmost certainty that he does not feel that way about me and—”

“But I do.”

“Excuse me?” Arwen wasn’t sure why it had come as such a shock. She even came to its conclusion within seconds of their initial interaction, but the thought swept away as they started talking and the flattery died out. It always happened that way; moving the conversation to the male members of her family, forgetting that she was anything but their gateway. Something she would entertain for as long as it amused her. But this baker, whose name she still did not know, was only enquiring into her circle to see if she was without a companion. His attentions were actually on her. “I’m sorry,” she blustered out. “That was rude.”

“No, no. I was obnoxiously forward.” He gave a wince for show, then blinked up towards the sky which was freely opening down on them. “I… I was thinking about going to Rita’s tonight. I know you go there often so I was wondering if maybe you’d be there tonight?”

“Oh, I wasn’t planning…” Arwen shut her mouth, then opened it again. “I might fit it in my schedule.”

“Good.” He smiled, rolling his lips inwards. “So I might see you there?”

She nodded twice, twisting her own lips into a smile. “You might.”

“Good,” he repeated, then began to step away in a new direction but still facing her. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Arwen rested her weight on one foot, jutting out her hip, still carrying the jars in her arms. “Still a might,” she reminded him through a chuckle. The baker bowed his head in acceptance and slowly pivoted to face his path ahead. Arwen remained where she stood for a moment more to watch him, strangely baffled by the interaction. “Wait!” He stopped, turning back to her on his feel. “What’s your name?”

His lips widened into a charming grin. “Come tonight and I might tell you.”

Not waiting to see her reaction, he turned back around and started to jog out of the rain down the adjacent lane. Arwen stood there dumbly until a large droplet of water in her eye broke her daze and she winnowed to the town house.

Chapter Text

Chapter 24

Cassian looked utterly miserable. Arwen hadn’t expected him nor Azriel to be at the townhouse, never mind that they were dripping wet. Azriel didn’t seem to mind it, standing off to the side of the sitting room near the hearth, beads still clinging to his hair and making strange patterns on the waterproofed leather. Cassian, however, moped.

“Please tell me Amren has taught you to use your magic?” he bemoaned, sitting against the lounge. His wings were slightly spread, allowing him to lean deep into the cushion without too much discomfort. Wet, black tendrils of his long hair clung like whisps to the fabric.

“I didn’t spend hours getting chastised to learn how to dry you off,” Arwen rebutted. Rhysand and Mor evidently were not home, who would both have quickly whisked away the water before the Illyrians soaked their living space. “But I did bring you this,” she added, tossing one of the potted balms in his direction, placing the others down on a table. Cassian snorted and placed it to the side. “Why are you two here, anyway?”

“Azriel received some information from one of his sources down in the Spring Court,” he answered, voice edging darker. “We were going to talk to Rhys about it but he’s not here and I’m not flying through another storm.”

Arwen slowly moved towards the hearth, crossing her arms and turning her back to the flames to dry off her hair as she stood. “The Spring Court?” she echoed softly. “What’s happening down there?”

Cassian did not say anything at first, looking first at Arwen, then at Azriel. Arwen followed the turn of attention to the spymaster a few paces to her right. Shadows engulfed him, curling widely rather than the usual rest she would see them with. One stretched along the wall, over the sharp corner of the small shelf above the hearth and towards her.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he told her, voice low but soft. “Just that they might reach out to Rhysand and we wanted to give him a warning.” Arwen frowned but his gaze remained soft and retreated. By ‘they’, she guessed he meant him.

“Two of Beron’s sons were killed,” Cassian interjected, answering the lack of substance Azriel offered her.

Tipping her head, she blankly said, “Praying for Eris.”

Cassian snorted again and Azriel turned his head away, all three of them with full awareness of the potential heir of the Autumn Court’s history with Mor. Something that was neither easily forgotten, nor forgiven.

“No,” Azriel murmured. “Lain and Créan.” Arwen could only shrug, not knowing them personally. “His youngest, Lucien, abandoned his court and fled to Spring. Beron sent three of his other sons on a chase after him. Tamlin and Lucien each killed one, the other bolted.”

“Lucien?” Arwen whispered, smothering her wince at the High Lord’s name. “I remember him. He attended one of our balls in the Court of Nightmares a few years ago. I actually liked him.” Not to mention he was quite handsome. It was a pity he had fled south instead of north. “If the Spring Court—” she couldn’t bring herself to say his name— "has just killed two of Beron’s sons, they aren’t going to be on good terms.”

It had been hard, being the face of something maleficent and knowing that the person receiving it wasn’t aware of the mask when you wanted nothing more than to remove it for them. Of course, she never risked it, lest he say something about her softness to his family. They had to believe how dangerous they could be. How she wasn’t a weakness to Rhysand—which people knew she was, or the dead High Lord of the Spring Court would not have come after her and her mother to get to Rhysand. But Arwen couldn’t let that happen again. She couldn’t let people think that hurting her would be easy.

“No,” Cassian drew out in hearty agreement. She imagined he would toast to her if he had a drink in hand.

“And you think they’re going to reach out to Rhys?” she circled back, unleashing a chest sound of haughtiness. “For what? An alliance? He’s mad if he thinks Rhysand will agree to that.” Arwen smiled maniacally at them both, but was met with solemn expressiona. Her chest dropped. “Rhys wouldn’t, would he?”

Cassian sighed and leant forward, arms across his thighs. “Of course he wouldn’t, sweetheart.”

Arwen looked to Azriel for confirmation, not trusting that Cassian wouldn’t just say that to comfort her. Azriel nodded. “He wouldn’t think of it. Which is why I want to give him the warning, so he has time to come up with a diplomatic response.” 

“Why would that low life even consider writing to my brother?” She tightened her arms across her chest and turned her front towards the flames. “They haven’t spoken in a decade after he betrayed Rhys.”

“Pressure,” Cassian suggested behind her. “He’s still a new High Lord by many people’s accounts. He’s just lost any alliance he might have had with Autumn, it’s rocky with the other seasonal courts if Az’s sources are correct.”

Azriel snorted as if to say they are always correct. Arwen admired the trust he had in them.

“He doesn’t have any standing with Dawn or Day Court. Helion isn’t High Lord yet but you remember the hysteric he went into when he saw you for the first time after…”

His voice died early. Arwen turned around, offering Cassian a smile to tell him that she wasn’t wounded by the memory. “So he’s throwing a fishing line into a shallow pond then. Someone has to be pressuring him to do something. Someone in his close court. He never wanted to be High Lord—was never good at politics either.” She had met Tamlin a few times, mostly when he and Rhysand had been training together and she watched from a distance, hidden on a high tree branch. And admittedly eavesdropped on a few conversations.

“Maybe he’s hoping to convince Rhys that he wanted no part in what happened,” Azriel suggested.

Arwen spun her glare on him. “He must have forgotten then that I was there that day and I’m still alive. He must have forgotten how he was the one to pin my body down while his brother cut my wings out from their roots.”

Azriel remained rigid, a line of muscle rippling underneath his tanned skin.

“You told Rhys that Tamlin never touched you that day.” Arwen broke her long stare at the spymaster, half-turning her head back to Cassian who had risen to his feet.

She shrugged one shoulder. “He already felt betrayed that T-Tamlin told his father of our plans and for what his family did. Telling him that Tamlin was the one to hold me down would have changed nothing for me but Rhys was so distressed… It would have ruined him. Sent him over the edge. It wasn’t worth telling him.”

There came an era of silence between them, one that Arwen was comfortable letting simmer as they divulge her new information and she divulged theirs. A tickling touch drew her gaze down to her arm where the shadow reaching for her earlier now snaked from her wrist to her shoulder. Protectively. Possessively. As if leashing her to its owner.

Low and dark—the side of him that was reserved for times when he was a spymaster and not a friend, Azriel said, “Maybe we shouldn’t give Rhys the warning.”       

“It’s almost like you want anarchy, Azriel,” she crooned quietly. He made no visible sign of response, but the shadow tightened its coiling and the tail end licked up the side of her neck, exploring underneath her hair. “I’ll be out tonight, but Rhys and Mor should be back in a few hours. I think they said something about visiting temples. Keeping up with their images if my guess counts.”

Like a pinch to a flame, Cassian followed her signal and flipped his expression. “Out? Is there alcohol, because you have my company if there is.”

“I don’t remember asking for it,” she hummed.

He threw his arms out to the side. “How come I’m not invited? I’m invited to everything. Where are you going?”

“Out,” she repeated. “Despite what you may think, I’m not obliged to tell you everything.”

Cassian narrowed his eyes, now pulling his arms across his chest. “But you do tell me everything. So why not this?” Arwen pulled a face. He pulled one back and then pointed a finger at her. “I’ll tell Rhys that you’re sneaking out.”

“Seriously, because I want to go out alone you are going to tattle on me?”

Azriel shuffled to her side, facing towards the flames where she now faced the rest of the room. He leaned to her ear as they stood shoulder to shoulder. “I’ll distract him. He’ll forget all about you.”

Arwen smiled, eyes thinning at the rise of her cheeks and nudged him with the point of her elbow as Cassian groused, overhearing. There was a part of her that felt guilt for avoiding telling him that she was going to meet another male.

Not that it should matter.

“Would you like an escort?”

Arwen glimpsed back up at him, surprised to see his face entirely turned to her. “I’ll be fine. I’m not leaving the city or anything. Besides, it pouring outside and I know how sensitive you boys are to the rain.” Grinning, she reached up and lightly swept her fingers over his fringe, small water droplets spraying from it at the movement. Azriel continued staring at her, not even flinching. She held it, forcing her chin to pull it away like removing something from mud. “You also realise that you both keep clothes here that are dry. You think the fire is going to dry you off standing back there?” She flung her arm out at Cassian’s drooping shoulders. Laughing, she turned back around to face the fire. “Idiots,” she muttered.

Beside her, Azriel smiled under the shadow of his bowed head.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25

Arwen had waved to Mor and Rhys who returned home moments before she left for Rita’s. Cassian immediately pointed at her and accused her of sneaking off. Arwen smiled and told her brother she would be in town, needing a break from them. A vigorous gasp came from the warrior at Rhysand’s smile and request to stay safe, not even a question of where she would be. Mor only scented at her new perfume, asking to borrow it another time. Cassian had then attempted to follow her out the door, insisting that he came along as he would be the life of whatever she was going to. Feigning forgetting something, she turned back around. He remained right at her shoulder, barely missing stepping on her heels but she managed to pass a look to Azriel who slipped into action and distracted him as she pretended to get something from upstairs. Then bolted.

Wrinkling her nose at the still storming sky, she opened her parasol, heels clicking along the stone street. Winnowing was now a potential transportation, but there was a bundle of nerves for the night ahead that Arwen wasn’t confident it wouldn’t rattle her off course. Rhysand promised her that they would go through training together, but he had been occupied for some time now and she didn’t bother him when he did have the time to relax.

Lowering and shaking the parasol off as Arwen entered Rita’s, she was met with a wave of warmth that came from the bodies packed inside. The weather turned more people inside to enjoy their night. Dancers paraded themselves in front of the musicians and others lingered in their seats. Hanging the parasol on a walled hook, she ran a hand through her hair to tame what the wind had dishevelled.

Arwen waved at Rita, then stumbled back as two fae too engrossed in each other to notice anything else crossed her path. Laughing it off, she searched the crowds for the baker. He was sitting near the bar, alone but chatting with a server with a drink already in hand, the other still bandaged. Instead of the white apron with stains and singes, he donned a beige tunic tucked into brown trousers of fitted make. Simple, but handsome.

Alone. She reminded herself that. She was here to meet another male alone.

Had it been actual interest in him that brought her here, or just that he seemed friendly that she didn’t want to turn down the invitation? The latter wasn’t a terrible reason—Arwen obviously wanted to be there.

A casual glance around had him seeing her on approach, brows and a smile raising. “Arwen,” he greeted as she approached. It struck her that it was the first time he had said her name. “Let me buy you something to drink.” He gestured to the server who waited.

“My mother always told me never to let a stranger buy you a drink and mothers are always right,” she said, leaning her side against the table separating her and the inside of the bar area. The baker paused, taking a moment to mull over her suggestion.

He smiled. “Prius, my name is Prius. I’ve been waiting here a while, I’ll have you know.”

Arwen took the seat next to him and gave her favourite drink to the server. “I don’t remember you giving me a time to arrive at. And I never promised to come at all. You might have been waiting here alone for the entire night had I decided not to.”

“But you did,” he pointed out. He sat facing her, elbow braced on the bench and had what seemed to be a permanent, boyish grin.

Arwen laughed and nodded to concede that she had indeed come to meet a stranger that she met that same day. “You’re lucky that I managed to come alone. You might be in a meeting with Cassian if I hadn’t gotten him off my back. He didn’t like the idea of being left at home while I went into town.”

Prius licked his lips, tipping his glass to peer inside of it. “Can’t say the idea of being interrogated by the General Commander doesn’t terrify me. Does he know that you’re meeting me?”

“No.” She laughed. “Then you’d be under investigation and I wouldn’t be here until a full-scale report was given by Azriel.”

“So you didn’t tell the General Commander because you knew he wouldn’t let you see me?” Prius drawled the words out and she could see the examination of his own position sitting there happening.

Arwen laughed again and shook her head. “I’m overplaying it. I didn’t tell them because they would probably be all up on our business right now, wearing some kind of stupid disguise and sitting in a shadowed corner. Besides, it’s not Cassian that you would have to worry about meeting.”

“Should I take that as a warning?”

She paused. Her implication had been Azriel, but that certainly wasn’t a conversation that she was willing to explore. “My brother is a High Lord,” she crooned over the music. The server placed her drink down in front of her. “I’m surprised that was not the part that intimidated you.”

Prius chuckled and took a long swig to finish his drink. “I think Rhysand is a wonderful High Lord but seeing as I have intentions with you then yes, your entire family terrifies me. Cassian has just come up more as he has a... louder presence.”

Arwen’s heart missed a beat at his words and she turned her head away to hide the soft blush that came with them. Turning back, she took her own sip for liquid courage. “I’m inclined to pre-apologise if I bring my family up a lot tonight, but I won’t. They’re everything to me.”

“No,” he said. “No, I think it’s wonderful. I’m happy to listen to you talk about them all night.”

The words hit her hard. There weren’t many people that she talked to outside of her family to the point that talking about her family to them sounded exhausting but still every fibre of her body desired to. Prius offering to sit there and let her babble about the one thing she held unrelenting passion for felt…warm. It felt warm.

So she did. More drinks came as they drank over stories. At one point they abandoned them to merge onto the dancing floor, loosely dancing as a pair. Starting to sweat, Arwen took his hand and led him back towards a table. With enough alcohol in her system to lose thoughts of guard, and her fingers already latched with his, she perched on his thigh instead of taking the opposite chair.

“Make yourself comfortable then,” he said, grinning.

“I’m the Princess of Velaris,” she sang. “I don’t need your permission to do anything.”

“Ah, so it does exist when you reap the benefits of the title?” Arwen wound a loose arm around his neck and played with the loose strands on the unbraided side of his hair. His outside hand lay gentle on her thigh, the other at her lower back, making light strokes with the pad of his thumb. “So I can call you princess then?”

“No. No, definitely not. Not sweetheart either—that’s reserved for family.” A name used upon her since before she could remember. “But I’m sure given enough time you could choose one yourself.”

Prius smiled at her, their faces level. “I’m glad you said yes. Well, you said you might, but you came. When I told my brother I was meeting you, he didn’t believe me.”

“I’m not untouchable,” she whispered, the music dying out before another song started. “Even Rhys is in here at least once a month, talking to strangers. He enjoys that barrier being broken down. It connects him to the city.”

“I think it would be easier to ask the High Lord into courting,” he snorted. “I see how they protect you. It does make you untouchable.”

“They’re not here now,” Arwen murmured. “So you can touch me.”

“I can.”

Her lips twitched upwards as the hand on her thigh slid under the slit of the silk emerald, caressing bare skin. It curved around to the outer muscle, tightening and nudging her closer—deeper—into his lap until she could feel the response of his body being so close to hers. Arwen breathed deeper, expanding her chest upwards. His gaze shot down to appreciate, then slowly trailed back up. She lifted her unoccupied hand to the side of his face and leant closer. He stared at her lips but didn’t move.

Arwen adjusted her hips in a feign for finding comfort.

He leaned in and—

And sniffed her.

Arwen blinked, opening her eyes which had fallen shut on his approach. He sniffed again. Prius’s eyes shot wide, his pupils dilating to their widest berth. Before she could ask what was wrong, he uttered, “You have a mate.”

Oh.

Oh.

“I can smell the bond.”

The sweat from dancing must have worn off the perfume. She hadn’t even intended to hide it, not having thought about the scent she didn’t register, for years. “I know,” Arwen responded quietly. “But we’re not together. We never have been.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?”

“If it’s someone in another court that doesn’t even know this city exists, then perhaps not but if they’re here then yes, it most certainly does.” Arwen bit at her lip and slouched. It was answer enough for him. “I’m sorry, Arwen.” His hand slid back out from her dress and he urged her off his lap.

Arwen raked her hands through her hair, watching him extract his coin purse and tip out enough gold to cover their unpaid drinks. “Azriel wouldn’t hurt you. I would make sure of it.”

Prius froze, icy eyes lifting from his hand to her. “Azriel? As in the spymaster and shadowsinger?” She only swallowed the lump in her throat, wishing she could rewind time. A maniacal laugh followed. “Cauldron, I need to bathe and get your scent off me. You need to get mine off you.”

Finally breaking from her own frozen mind, Arwen threw a hand out. “Are you seriously going to run because of some Illyrian that doesn’t even want me? You asked me here knowing they already protected me.”

“And I could pray that they’d at least have some logical sense if they’re intelligent enough to run a court.” Prius tapped his head. “But when it comes to mates, logic doesn’t exist. It has nothing to do with you, but I’ve seen what males do to protect their mates. They go feral. There are enough stories of what this court’s shadowsinger has done while he’s under complete control to make me shiver. I can’t be on the receiving end when he loses that control.”

There was no moment for her to say anything more, to convince him to stay. Arwen wasn’t sure she wanted to if he ran at the first sign of trouble. A slap in the face reminder that she didn’t know him at all.

She turned away from the table, then back to it, fingers re-tangling in her hair to pull taut at her roots. Should she just leave? What would she say to the others when she returned home? Prius was at least right in suggesting that his scent was on her—and they would smell it. But admitting that she had someone abandon her, leaving her alone at Rita’s was… Mortifying. Rhysand would look at her and she would see a brief flash of fury, and then the pity would come. A mate that doesn’t want her. A mating bond that scared off anybody else.

“Mother above,” she muttered and wiped her hands down her face in an act of resetting herself. Turning her body back to action, she gathered her arms around her stomach and set her eyes on the entrance to Rita’s on the far end of the building.

Hot bodies danced through the height of the night. Arwen twisted her shoulders through them, stopping and curving around other wandering patrons.

She stumbled back, nearly twisting her ankle with her shoe’s wobbling heel as a solid force knocked into her side.

“Whoa,” the voice followed. “Hey there. So sorry about that. I think someone dancing knocked into me.” Arwen looked over the High Fae male that had stretched out his hands towards her, catching her arm. He had pale skin, and striking blond hair down to his chest. A frozen dagger stabbed her heart.

She pushed his arm away, staggering backwards.

He looked like—

He—

He looked like Tamlin.

It had to be the conversation she had earlier that was still reeling in her mind. But the torment of the similarities shattered any composure she had left. The male reached out for her again, a soft smile turning into a frown. Arwen’s throat tightened, as did her back. Pivoting, she bolted towards the door.

A wave of bodies from a newly entering group surrounded her, limbs crashing into every part of her. She swiped at them, clawing her way out as faceless bodies surrounded her. Touched her. Trapped her.

“Move!”

The bodies scattered at the dangerous command. Arwen stood still, her arms pulled tight to her chest.

Before her, the only person now daring to be anywhere within reach was Azriel.

He was the first to move closer, though Arwen waited no longer than a second after. His wings flared out, despite the risk of being barged into. His arms opened and Arwen fell into them. She ensnared his waist, hiding her face into the space under his chin. One of his scarred hands threaded through her hair, firmly cupping the nape of her neck, the other spanning across her lower back. At a strange stillness in the world, she tilted her head to peek out. Azriel’s wings encircled them both, cutting the rest of the world out. Arwen tightened her arms, fisting the back of the tunic he had changed into.

“My back,” she wheezed. “They were—”

“I know,” his low voice cut in with the softness reserved for his family. His chest rose against hers, just as hard, as if her panic was his own.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26

Arwen wished she could laugh at the sight before her. Just outside of Rita’s, Azriel stood next to her, holding her mint green parasol over their heads. Next to him, she was turned into her side, still evening her breaths. His arm hung loosely around her hips, forming a ring of warmth around her.

“Why don’t we go home?” he suggested. “Get out of this rain.”

She could only shake her head.  His shadows swarmed them like a blanket against the rain. A cloak against the world. In her early youth, Azriel would send his shadows to her. They would snake around her, prodding and tickling, all while hushed murmurs filled the other end of the room as he talked with the others.

“How did you know?” Arwen lifted her head from the side of his shoulder. “H-how did you know to come here?”

There was not a hint of shame, nor uncertainty that might appear if he had been spying. “I felt your panic,” he said. “Your heart. My shadows… like you and searched. I’m not sure they’re ever far away.” At the end, he added a small frown, his voice trailing like the observation hadn’t been meant for her to hear.  

She used to feel his heart too.

But those feelings—that connection… She shut them out long ago, forcing them to numb until only the faint tug of the bond remained. Hadn’t he done the same? “Thank you.”

Arwen lay her head back down, nestling her cheek against the curve of his shoulder. At her hips, his hand made a gentle squeeze before he slowly turned into her front until they faced each other. She kept her head in place, watching the silver splashes cascade down on the stone road over his shoulder. Her forearms lifted to rest on the rigid lining of his belt, fingers loosely curling around the fabric of his tunic. They stood there, silent and fighting the cold together.

“Would you like to go somewhere?”

Arwen lifted her head after asking but didn’t let go of her gentle hold. It wasn’t something she could do often, and wasn’t prepared to yet give it up. Azriel nodded. “Wherever you desire.”

She watched him for a moment longer, waiting for any sign that he wanted otherwise. Their time alone had become so few and far between that she was never sure what to do around him anymore. But there was nothing but patience lining his tanned face. Nothing but searching hazel eyes that waited for her to respond.

So Arwen tightened her grip and they disappeared.

Her ears twitched as the sound of the rain changed from soft patters on the road to metallic drumming. They had appeared exactly at the intended destination, upon a small pavilion right near the edge of the Sidra. Azriel peered upwards and lowered the parasol, smiling at the setting. Arwen stepped away from him, meandering to a bench seat near the outer edge that was still dry.

Eventually, he followed over but leant against one of the white beams instead.

Splatters of colour rippled across the river, the rain dismantling any clear image that might have been there. It was darker there, away from the lights of the town and with no moon to grace them with its soft luminescence.

“Was that the first time you’ve been inside Rita’s?”

Azriel turned his gaze from the river to her. “Yes,” he said.

“What did you think?”

“I wasn’t thinking much of it.”

“Would you want to go back one day?” she asked, turning to sit sideways along the stone bench to face him properly.

A slight smile pinched at his lips. “You could convince me,” he answered. Arwen laughed and muttered something about doing just that. “Cassian won’t talk to you for a week if he finds out that’s where you went without him.”

She snorted. “So will Mor.” Then they would revive her to learn what she was doing going there alone. Not that they’d condemn it unsafe, but because she had never gone alone before. There was never a reason to. Arwen wasn’t exactly the drink alone and mope type of fae. And her company brought up another issue. Twisting her fingers in her lap, she said, “Azriel, I need to tell you something. Two things, really.”

Then she felt it. A second beating inside her chest. It was nowhere near as strong as her own, an echo of something not inside of her. Azriel’s heartbeat. There was a small rise in its pace, before returning to a steady pattern.

She shut it out.

“You can tell me anything.”

That was a dangerous line to test.

He remained still, unnaturally so even for a fae. The only movement was the wind’s force against his hair. Her stomach churned. He didn’t want her so it should matter what she did in her free time. But the bond was instinctual—no matter what he desired beyond it; the bond would turn his body against him. It was rather horrible, to understand that truth.

Arwen bit the skin underneath her lip, unable to look him in the eye. “I went to see somebody. A male.” Mother above, she was going to have to—

“I know.” A weight that she didn’t expect, pulled her insides towards her feet. She looked back up, Azriel’s gaze only holding hers for a moment before it turned to the Sidra. “I can smell him on you. It’s stronger than anything else.”

Was that why he stood away from her?

She waited. For something else for him to say, or just to turn back so she could read his face, she wasn’t sure. When it was clear that the boundary was set and firm, she added, “He’s a baker.” Arwen immediately scolded herself for the useless information. “I didn’t want to tell anyone because…”

“I know why.” The cartilage in his throat bobbed. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” No, she agreed. But she still wanted to. “What I would like to know is why your company for the night decided to abandon you in that place alone. Even in Velaris, there are still dangers and he should have known better than to leave without ensuring your safety first. If I hadn’t felt your panic, you would have been left alone among strangers.”

Coughing to loosen her tightening throat, Arwen said, “I’m not sure he was in the mind to think about my safety at the time. Which is part of our problem.”

Azriel stared at the river a moment longer, then twisted his head towards her. “Problem?” He scanned her and she felt naked underneath the observation.

She nodded and looked back down to her twisting hands. “He… He knows that I have a mate.” A silence lapsed and she dragged her gaze back up, waiting to see how he took such information. Arwen took a moment to remember that they had never, in the decade it had been in place, officially talked about the bond together. Azriel remained steady; unreadable. “He knows that it’s you.”

His lips thinned and widened, not quite a smile but a movement of thought. “Does he think I will hunt him down?” A bite of mirth.

“I assured him you wouldn’t,” she replied sharply. “Considering you do not care whom I see and what I do with them.”

“I care very much.” The tone, sharp as steel but a husky warmth, shot right through to her core. Her cheeks tightened, eyes levelling in a stare with the spymaster. His shadows grew restless, snapping around him like whips. “You are my mate.” Those four words had her glued to the stone bench. Arwen never thought she would hear them, never thought that he would admit them allowed. Azriel looked away. “I care about everything that you do. It is not easy to stand here when I know another male had his hands all over you. I can practically smell from here exactly where he has touched your skin. It is not easy, Arwen and I don’t know why you have the impression that I would not care. But I don’t see how that gives us a problem. I am here, not pinning him down with a knife to his throat which I would very much like to be doing.”

“Because he will speak,” she said, swallowing down every physical reaction her body had to his words. “And people will begin to know that I am your mate.” The bond could be smelt by anybody who paid enough attention, but there was no way to identify who the other side of the bond belonged to by scent alone.

Azriel blinked at her. Then his nose flared in a harsh sigh. “I understand now.” His voice had fallen back to a stinging coldness. “I will ensure that he speaks of this to nobody.”

Arwen thinned her eyes at him. “Don’t make it sound like I’m asking you to cut out his tongue. And it is not me that I am thinking of protecting—it is you. Keep your tone even around me, shadowsinger.” How dare he turn that attitude on her?

Her own, matching harshness seemed to rattle him as he looked at her. The hazels had broken from their stoic hold as if remembering indeed that he was talking to someone that was of higher rank than him. They both knew one word from her and Rhysand would hang him by his balls over the mountain.

His lips parted with a breath. “Protect me?”

Her chest beat with a huff. “Don’t start with the lecture about not needing protection. The people of Hewn City despise you, just as they do me. If word of the bond manages to spread and they know that it has not been accepted after so many years, they will suspect a fragment between us. We are Rhysand’s court and I will not allow us to represent a weakness. So no, I guess I’m not protecting you. I’m protecting my brother. But they will use us in order to get to him. So we ensure that word doesn’t get out, even here in the city.”

“Or maybe it’s because you’re protecting yourself.”

Arwen couldn’t deny it completely, but she knew her intentions were for the better of them all and couldn’t understand why he said it with such accusation. As though she was hiding something. “Azriel, I appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight, but you are toying with the line of insulting me and I’m not even entirely sure what the insult is.”

Azriel’s boot toed the ground. “It is not you I am insulting,” he muttered.

She examined him again; his slumped shoulders, the tightness of his arms across his chest, the hovering shadows which threatened to suck him into their Void. “Then I’d appreciate it if you made it clearer for me who you are so I know that we are both understanding this conversation.” Her voice had turned soft, prompting an answer without provoking him.

He swallowed and unlocked his arms, extending one to her. “Come, Arwen. It’s late and you’re getting cold.”

Arwen rose to her feet, but not for the acceptance of his offer. Azriel took a step forward, not realising the look that spread across her face. “Why do you always do this?”

Azriel paused. “What?”

“Run,” she breathed, her chest squeezing as it concaved on itself. “You hide so you don’t have to face things and you always have.”

There was a long moment of nothing between them other than shared breathes. His jaw clenched, then loosened. Her heart pounded uncomfortably and not in a steady beat.

“When will you learn to look at the world from another’s perspective?” he returned. Arwen’s lips cracked apart, rightfully offended at the insinuation of her close-mindedness. “When will you see how it felt for me to feel the bond snapping into place with you? What it meant that the Mother saw you as my equal.”

Tears gushed to her eyes, but she refused to acknowledge them. Her body shut down, limb by limb until her chest barely moved. Her entire body processed those words, every fibre of her being engraved with them.

When a crack finally appeared, she whispered, “You sure do have a way with words, Az. No wonder you’re in charge of torturing our enemies.” Turning towards the Sidra, she didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking upon her crestfallen face any longer. “Go home. You’re no longer needed.”

A heavy sigh came from behind her. “Arwen—”

“GO.”

The response that came was the beating of his wings and the slight sway in her dress’s skirt at the sweeping breeze from it. How in the world did she let herself get hurt by two males in one night?

Chapter Text

Chapter 27

Arwen barely spared a second to use her arm and clear the sweat cascading down the side of her face before it reached her eyes. Her fists were raw, having purposefully used only half the bandage that she would normally wind around her knuckles and fingers.

That morning she had awoken with the sun and lugged her weight out of the bed. With the remnants of a nightmare still lingering in the back of her mind, she headed to her brother’s room. Only, he wasn’t there. Finding him was easy enough, as Rhysand made a ruckus in the kitchen putting something to eat together as the twin wraiths were sent elsewhere.

“Morning,” she mumbled to him. He didn’t respond. There was only a flare in his nose and a swift glimpse in her direction before he managed to get the stovetop to alight and moved into a search for their pans. He was just as terrible a mood as she was.

It wasn’t until Cassian appeared no more than half an hour later that she learnt why. The letter from the Spring Court had come quicker than Azriel anticipated, and her brother received it right through the middle of his stewing fury. The fury that they let him boil in so when the letter was supposed to arrive a few days later, he’d be over it. Before Azriel had left to find her the night before, he had convinced Rhysand to not respond for a few days. Apparently, her brother tried anyway, the quill piercing right through the parchment and the ink bleeding across it.

Knowing it was best to let him deal with his thoughts alone, Arwen took Cassian’s offer to join him for training at the House.

She punched his padded hands in rapid succession, eyes never leaving their target. Until she decided to take him by surprise and sent a low cut to his bare stomach. Cassian hunched a little at the blow, his brows arching. “You want a fight?” he asked, not even berating her for the jab.

Arwen stopped, then nodded. Cassian tossed the pads aside and braced his body into a fighting stance. She was certain, at that moment, that her Illyrian blood was no longer in hiding. It surged through her, seeking nothing but to punch and kick and stab and bite. Was this what the males felt every day—this uncontrollable need to break their bones against something? Or break something with their bones?

“You alright there, sweetheart?” he breathed out through a small chuckle. Ducking, he avoided her sharp punch aimed at his face.

“Stop talking,” Arwen demanded. “I’m imagining someone else’s face.”

His leg swept out, catching on hers but she managed to fall into a controlled roll and return to her feet. “I think I’d rather you remember it’s me with the way you’re punching,” he said with a slight grin. Nevertheless, he didn’t say anything as they continued to spar.

Mor arrived on the rooftop near the end of Arwen’s energy reservoir. She wore her own leather pants and a loose top, stretching and saying something about using a blade.

Arwen held up a shaking arm to signal the spar to end. Cassian stretched his shoulders and wiped his brow. A bruise was forming on his jaw, just by the corner of his mouth. “Get what you need?” he asked.

She nodded, too exhausted for words and looked down at her hands. There were small spots of red beginning to show through. Her hands hadn’t taken that much brunt in a long time. Her fingers tremored as she reached for the binding on one hand, barely able to command herself to pinch the white fabric.

“Here.” Cassian took her hand in his, gently peeling the wrap away. “I take it that wanting to fight means you don’t want to talk?” The question was soft enough that Mor would not overhear from where she was stretching. Arwen continued to watch him unravel the fabric until it fell from her hand and revealed the gnarly forms of her knuckles and fingers. Bruises sprouted up and down her digits, the skin cracked over points of the bone and left open blisters that began to weep.

“I can’t think of what you would want for your birthday,” she said quietly as he took her other hand and repeated the process.

His lips quirked. “My birthday isn’t for two months.”

“Gives me plenty of time to hunt anything down that you would want.”

Cassian bundled the soiled cloth and tossed it off to the side near her water bottle. “Two-hundred and seventy-seven. I think I’m starting to feel the age.” Resting his hands on his hips, he leant back and opened his chest, flexing his arms. Adding a twist, the skin pulled tight at his stomach and emphasised the rigid muscle there.

Arwen huffed, smacking the back of her hand (regrettably) against his abdominals. “Stop being such a muscle-head.” Her lips shot up into a tired smile at his grin. “I’ll just buy you more shirts that cover it all to keep you level headed.”

“Don’t pretend that you don’t drool when you stare.”

“You’re delusional. Now I see where the arrogance comes from.”

“I was wondering when you’d show your face.” Cassian and Arwen clipped their bantering short to glance at Mor who had her head tipped in another direction. Following the female’s gaze, Arwen found Azriel wandering onto the rooftop, dressed in his fighting leathers.

He smiled at Mor.

Arwen’s stomach shot through with a stab of something more painful than Cassian’s fists.

Then Azriel looked towards her. Arwen looked back to Cassian. “I think I’m done for the day. Can you take me home?”

Cassian took half a step towards her, his gaze drifting from where it still lingered on the spymaster. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Sure.” He bent at the knees as she threw her arms around his neck, barely with the strength to hold on. With a strong flap of his wings, the rooftop grew further away. “Something happen with Azriel?”

Arwen settled her temple at the front of his shoulder, watching Velaris through the arching gap of his jaw and neck. “I don’t care about him. Not anymore.”

A few more beats of his wings passed before he said anything more. “He told me to come down and check on you this morning. Seemed to know you’d want my company.”

“I always want your company, Cass.”

The soft laughter through his chest warmed her. “That’s nice to hear.” She smiled as his nose nudged the hair near her temple.

He left her at the entrance of the town house, having his own work for the day already piling up. Rhysand was nowhere to be seen, which meant that he was holed up in his office. With her day free, Arwen retreated to the sunroom, her sketchbook in lap and spent hours crafting an image of Velaris from a distant memory. Though she couldn’t be certain, she was sure that it came from sitting on the stairs to the House, looking over the city until sunset came and night followed. The slight citrus scent that accompanied the memory told her it was likely her brother that flew her. But it was so distant that it may only be a memory created by her imagination.

When the hour of lunch rolled around, Arwen placed the half-finished sketch aside and listened for any movement in the rest of the town house. Still nothing. Her bare feet padded softly downstairs, fingers curling around the cool silver knob to the office.

Rhysand sat hunched on his seat, his desk a host for what looked like a hundred pages of a book torn and strewn across it. She couldn’t even be sure what he was currently working on. Arwen quietly moved around to his side, smoothing a hand across the back of his shoulders and leant down to his cheek to press a kiss. “Have you eaten yet?”

His shoulders lifted with a deep breath. “No,” he confessed and slumped against the back of his chair.

“If you don’t eat you’ll never get through this. Food is for your mind as well as your body,” she informed him matter-of-factly. Arwen leant forward, one hand still placed at his back, the other light scraping through the paperwork.

“I think I remember telling you the same thing once,” he murmured distantly.

“And now I’m telling you.” Thoughts of Azriel left. Thoughts of her nightmare left. Today it wasn’t her that needed their hand held; it wasn’t her that was being dragged down by the weight of their woes. “I’ll make you something to eat if you organise this by the time I’m finished. If this is what your mind looks like at the moment then it’s no wonder you’re not getting anywhere.”

Rhysand rolled his neck, a hand wiping down his face. She saw the makings of thoughts churning their way into words, then losing them. “Thank you,” is what he settled on. Before she even left the office he was picking up the papers.

Arwen moved around the kitchen, cooking and slicing thin pieces of chicken then carefully layering it on some bread across two plates. Cutting an apple, she placed half the slices on either serving of lunch and then returned to the office. Fortunately, she could now see enough of the desk’s wood to place the lunches down.

He groaned at the first bite. Arwen chuckled, sitting on the edge of the desk to face behind his chair where a frosted window shone with fractured daylight. “Is there anything I can help with?”

Rhysand sighed, holding the sandwich close to his mouth as he blinked towards his desk. “Nothing that needs to be on your shoulders,” he said.

“Rhys,” she said softly. “Just because I don’t want to be titled beyond being your third doesn’t mean I don’t wish to help. I can take the burden of answering a few letters from Keir or the camps or looking at some contracts that merchants want reviewed.”

Her father of course, never taught her any of this. What use was a female in the ruling of a court? But true to her prying nature, Arwen would be at her brother’s side whenever he was at one of their homes. She would watch everything he did, point (and smudge) his writings as he learnt how to maintain a court until the day came he would take it from their father.

“It seems like you want the distraction.”

Her lips tightened as her brother met her gaze. She hadn’t admitted that fact to herself yet, but she may as well now that it had been announced. “It will help us both,” she answered.

Rhysand regarded her answer for a moment then placed his near-finished lunch aside before picking up the top piece of parchment from the tidy pile. Arwen took it, noting the broken but familiar wax seal. Her heart sunk down and her legs tingled with lightness. From the Spring Court.

“I’m not sure what to do,” he admitted. “I’m not asking you to… I don’t know. But I want to know what you think.”

She didn’t answer, prying the two folds open. It wasn’t the handwriting she expected. Her eyes jumped down to the signature, brows raising at the name. “Lucien,” she hummed. “He’s the Spring Court emissary now?”

“I know you liked him,” he noted. She nodded in affirmation.

Lucien, speaking on behalf of the High Lord of the Spring Court, was requesting a presence with Rhysand in order to officiate any alliance or trade agreements between their courts. A very political courteous request. “How about he starts with an apology,” she snorted.

Rhysand laid a warm hand on her knee. “If we do meet, I would demand one out of him in front of the entirety of Hewn City before he even thinks about talking politics. And I’d make sure he knows he is not forgiven. He never will be.”

Arwen offered a tired smile and placed the letter aside. “Taking my feelings out of it, it might benefit to look at continuing our trade agreements. Our fathers had them even after the war because they knew it benefitted our people. They have the best produce and the price of flour has gone up here since we don’t import it from them. Not to mention Keir has been on your back about it for months now.”

He watched her carefully, the thumb of the hand on her knee tapping against the inside bone. “You think I should meet him? After what he did?” He gave a short and sharp laugh. “You must have a lot of faith in my restraint not to rip his head off.”

“I think—” she smiled and tapped her finger to the name on the bottom of the letter— “that maybe it’s worth inviting his emissary to visit the Court of Nightmares. You can have any discussion through him. Strictly on politics, no personal feelings need to get involved. You don’t even need to acknowledge who he represents only what.”

“You would be alright with me meeting with someone on his behalf?”

Arwen gave a soft, inaudible sigh and nodded her head. “You didn’t burn the letter the moment you received it which means that you know the benefits of trade between our courts. Not to mention that Tamlin will be making moves with the other High Lords.” Rhysand’s eyes flashed with a startle at her use of the name. “You’re a High Lord and in the game. Be a player. You will slip through their defences, crush their courts, and annihilate their bloodlines until only you remain as King of Prythian and eventually all the lands!”

Rhysand buried his face in his hands as he laughed. Arwen grinned, giving a few satisfied swings of her legs. “Alright,” he said, nodding softly at the letter as his laughter softened. “Alright, I’ll reply with the offer.” He stood, placing the letter in a draw on the underside of his desk then drew her into an embrace.

Her cheek squished against the front of his shoulder as she attempted to return to gesture. “What’s this for?”

A kiss was placed against her crown. “Sometimes you surprise me with how mature you are.”

“I’m offended that it’s not the general consensus.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 28

Arwen hid her grin behind her glass of wine as Cassian stared at Rhysand’s wrist. They sat around the dining table at the House, enjoying a family meal. As her brother leant his elbows against the table, the black sleeves of his tunic shifted back to reveal the threaded bracelet. The one that matched hers. Cassian turned his gaze to her, the mock offence and gesture at his empty wrist enough to send her into laughter.

“I’ll make you one too,” she promised.

He chuckled and winked at her before they turned their attention to the rest of the table. “So, whose heading with you to Hewn City?” he asked. Lucien would be arriving at the end of the week on the night of the Autumn Equinox. Hewn City would host a ball to mark the turning of the season.

Rhysand clasped his hands in front of his chin. “You and Azriel,” he answered Cassian. There was a brief flash of relief across Mor’s face, a weight sliding from her shoulders.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Amren inquired, an arm slung over the back of her chair. “Maybe you should bring me. I have more restraint, but I’m twice as intimidating.”

Cassian rolled his nose in a snarl in her direction and Azriel simply looked to Rhysand for his response. Arwen held her hands in her lap, running her nail against the grooves of her other nails.

“You are,” he agreed with a smile, “but I don’t want them to think I’m intimidated enough to bring more of you. They will be in my realm and they will know that despite these negotiations being… mutual, that it will be under my control.”

“They?” Azriel echoed.

Rhysand nodded. “Lucien is going to be accompanied by Ianthe who has recently been made a High Priestess.”

“Isn’t she a bitch?” Arwen mused, taking a moment to realise that the words were said aloud.

Rhysand didn’t bother to smother his smile. “That is one way of saying it,” he answered, taking a sip at his wine. “She has been Tamlin’s friend since they were both children so we know she is going to be difficult to deal with.”

“Why is a High Priestess coming for negotiations on behalf of a court?” Mor wondered.

“Maybe Tamlin doesn’t trust Lucien yet,” Cassian offered.

“Or she has something to gain from it,” Azriel pointed out and looked to Rhysand again. “You always said she was a viper for power.”

Arwen tipped her head in agreement. “It was mentioned before that perhaps someone is pressuring Tamlin to reach out to the Night Court. I doubt he would do it on his own whim so perhaps Ianthe has a hand in it.”

Rhysand gestured to her with his wine. “If that’s the case, then she’ll be the one to look out for. Not Lucien.”

“I should come.” Eyes around the table turned to Arwen. She knew if she spared the time, each one would be sending her a different story of thoughts. Instead, she only looked at the head of the table. “A female knows how to read another female far better than any male does. You know that Ianthe can be dangerous and she knows you’re a daemati so she will be careful.”

“Then Mor will come,” he concluded.

“But I’m the one that wants to.” She leant forward, naval pressing into the table. Rhysand avoided her eyes, his head shaking in a way that she wasn’t sure he noticed he was doing it. “Besides, if I’m there, it sends a message. It will remind them both not to cross a line with you because they will know what their High Lord has done.” Arwen splayed her hands on the table and waited. But he never answered. “Rhys.” Finally, his eyes. “You asked me for my opinion on meeting them and now I’m telling you I want to be there. Involve me.”

He blinked; thrice and slow. “If that’s what you what,” he conceded.

Arwen leant back with a small nod. “Thank you.”

They finished the rest of their meal avoiding talks of politics.

~

Arwen stood beside the throne on the dais, her posture turned towards her brother who graced it, but her eyes scouring the crowds. Cassian, covered from his neck to his feet in his leathers had a sword strapped to his back, crimson siphons blaring with the threat of release. People eyed him, pretending to hold themselves steady until he wandered close enough that they stepped out of his path.

Azriel was almost invisible, if not for his own azure siphons that were lanterns in the shadows. There was a circle around him, where he leant against a pillar, that nobody dared enter. A ring of death, Arwen liked to call it.

Finding her attention stuck there, she tore her gaze away to look down at her brother. His head rested in his hand, a façade of boredom oozing from him.

It was the night of the Equinox Ball, held in the honour of autumn’s arrival. They had arrived the previous night to handle Keir and ensure that tonight was to the High Lord’s liking. A dress of black velvet clung to her skin, the plunging neckline down the front sharp, stopping less than an inch from her bellybutton. And the back… The back of the dress revealed everything there was to be seen. It plunged deeper and wider than the front, allowing every pair of eyes that wandered to see what she had for so long hidden.

“They’re late,” she murmured, resting her thigh against the armrest.

Musicians played a symphony of notes that caressed the darkness of the throne room. People mingled with wine and some danced on the open floor in the middle. The glossed floor echoed the amber hues of the torches struck alight.

“Maybe they’ve decided not to come after all,” he muttered back. “I wouldn’t accept if they made the terms to be on their soil.”

“Yes, because Cassian sneezing at every flower he passes isn’t exactly an image of intimidation,” she crooned, rolling her lips to hide the mirthful smile. The image in her head was quite the opposite to the unleashed power he displayed tonight.

Rhysand smirked, flicking her thigh to display his own amusement. They sat there for some time longer, speaking hushed as people continued to enter, bowing before the throne. Finally, Arwen tipped her head in curiosity as a head of fire made its way through the sea of shadow. At Lucien’s side, a blonde female dressed in the robes of a High Priestess. She examined the new attire of the emissary, the green jacket clasped neatly at his front with gold embellishment. A true Spring Court representative.

Lucien’s eyes dropped before he reached the dais. “High Lord Rhysand,” he greeted, dropping to a polite bow. When he rose, those amber eyes switched to Arwen. “Arwen.”

Ianthe swept in a curtsey, her eyes fluttering low but lifting back to settle on Rhysand. “High Lord,” her steady voice sang. “It is a pleasure to meet with you again.”

Arwen moved her weight back to her feet to offer the throne and its High Lord the proper image it deserved. Unimpeded and utterly lethal. Her chin lifted, meeting Lucien’s gaze and made the smallest nod of greeting in return. There was a façade she could not drop—one that she wasn’t sure she desired to anymore around him, with what he represented. But it did not entirely obstruct the impression of him that she had made years before.

Ianthe on the other hand…

“I’m glad to see you’ve finally found your way,” said Rhysand, playing with a ball of lint between his thumb and forefinger. The crown sat perfectly on his head of raven hair.

Ianthe did not bristle at the accusation of their lateness, but Lucien turned his attention back to her brother. “My apologies. My companion wanted to ensure her… presentation was going to be to your satisfaction.”

“And you did not think to ensure your own was?”

Lucien balked. While he may have been a son of a High Lord, Arwen knew that he never thought he was capable of being High Lord one day. Never took on the reasonability of preparing for it. He was younger than she was by a few decades. This was a world he had only looked on, before. Now he was a part of it.

She gave a light tut and rested a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Tonight is a celebration. The Autumn Equinox. I’m sure that this night holds some importance to you, Vanserra.” Rhysand softened under her hand, a sign that he was content to let her reign the rest of the conversation.

“Yes,” he answered. “I have spent every year since my birth celebrating it.”

“Then don’t let us break that tradition. There is a ball, if you have yet to notice.” Arwen gestured with her lifted chin to the chamber beyond them. “Enjoy tonight but I’d warn you not to indulge yourself too much. We can begin discussions in the early morn and see what your High Lord has to offer us.”

Lucien nodded to her with a slight glance behind him. Glad to accumulate to his surroundings before he was put to the test. With a bow, he turned and weaved his way into the crowd. Ianthe let him brush past her robes before stepping to the side and taking the centre position before the throne.

“Rhys,” she called. Arwen gave a silent ‘humph’ at the name. Ianthe tilted her chin, letting her lashes dust under her light brows. “I desire an audience with you tonight. A private one.”

Rhysand gestured outwards. “As you can see, I’m quite otherwise occupied.” Yes, Arwen thought, sitting around looking pretty. “I’m sure anything you need to discuss can be done so in our meeting tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid this is not something that can be spoken in front of an audience. Even of your closest circle.”

Arwen narrowed her eyes at the tone. Despite the request for privacy, there was no smallness in Ianthe’s voice. Nothing meek, nor entirely urgent. Rhysand settled deeper into the throne. “There is no one close enough to overhear us now. If there is something you need to inform me of, then feel free to do so here.” Ianthe parted her red-painted lips, eyes moving across to where Arwen stood. Rhysand hummed and followed the line of sight, but Arwen did not relent her stare on the High Priestess. “Whether it is spoken in front of my sister or not she will hear what is to be said. It is up to you whether you wish for it to be your own words or my re-telling.”

Ianthe’s shoulders rose in an extended inhale, albeit her composure remained entirely even. “Perhaps I will catch you at a later time then, Rhys.” Before she could be formally dismissed, her robes swept in a sharp turn as she too joined the crowd.

Arwen grumbled, dropping to sit on the arm of the throne. “She did not even greet me,” she noted bitterly.

“But you have done exactly what you wanted,” Rhysand countered softly as a wave of courtiers passed in front of the dais. “She is very much aware of your presence. She hated that you were here. Hated even more that I wouldn’t send you away.”

That at least, brought a smirk. “Did you see what she wanted?” She had her suspicions but having them confirmed would be a nice boost to her confidence.

“I have a feeling,” he muttered.

Arwen sat there for a few moments, watching the dancers. Her eyes trailed to Lucien who stood with a goblet to the side of the throne room. “I think I will join the celebrations. And perhaps you should double check the locks on your room tonight, brother. You wouldn’t want any uninvited guests seeking… an audience.”

She slid from the arm of the chair, eyes set on the new emissary when a hand caught her wrists. “Arwen, keep to Cassian and Azriel whilst we’re here. I will keep an eye over you in here, but do not be alone without one of us nearby.”

“I know,” she smiled. “It is the same every time that we visit.”

Rhysand bowed his head and let go of her hand, letting Arwen join the rest of the ball.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29

Arwen plucked a glass of wine the shade of blood as she meandered through the throne room. The High Fae looked at her, some moving out of her way, others remaining in place until her shoulder knocked into theirs and finally they bowed their heads and shuffled out of her path. But it was the eyes on her back that was new. It made her skin itch as though she was feeling the pressure of their gaze examining the marring of her skin.

They knew the story. Most of the Night Court did and those that didn’t hadn’t been around long enough to hear it.

Arwen reached Cassian who adjusted his shoulders at the sight of her, but she only passed him a sly smile before continuing. Her lips remained with their uplift as she careened herself to Lucien’s side, joining him in watching the rest of the court.

“You may find this place cruel, but you have to admit that at least we know how to throw a party,” she said, glimpsing at him from the corner of her eye.

“I’m afraid I must say that it will never compare to what my h… What the Autumn Court throws tonight. Every person takes to the streets to celebrate.”

“I would never seek to compare it,” she replied. Lucien offered her back a tight smile. “This is a party, you know. You do not have to stand here and brood the entire evening. My brother is kind enough to allow you to enjoy yourself before things become dirty.”

Lucien kept his eyes glued outwards. “That is your idea of kindness?”

“Does it look like there is much kindness in this place?” Arwen huffed and crossed one arm against her navel, holding it in place with the elbow of the arm still holding her wine. “It was kindness of him to not go down to the Spring Court upon receiving your letter and cut off the head of your High Lord for thinking he was even in the position to want to arrange a meeting. And trust me, he contemplated it.”

Lucien finally looked to her, and at the empty space around her shoulders. The last time they had met, she had wings. He opened his mouth and Arwen knew an apology was rising from it. But he could not apologise for his High Lord. Nor could he, so new to the role, make known any disagreement to his new master.

“I am glad that you left your court,” she declared. “It was about time by my mind. It’s just disappointing which way you went.”

“Glad?” Her cheeks tightened at the strained word of response. She unfolded her arms as Lucien turned to her. His throat bobbed and the tips of pointed ears redden to the colour of his hair. “I didn’t just stroll out of my home. I ran because my father slaughtered the female I loved right in front of my eyes. I had nowhere else to go but Spring. Tamlin was the only one brave enough to take me in and risk my father’s fury following.”

Arwen’s throat turned dry, a hand clenching her stomach. But before she could say anything, Lucien turned away from her and marched out of the throne room. She watched him go, disappointed in herself for not making her feet follow.

Losing her appetite, she placed the barely touched wine down on a servant’s tray passing by. No one approached her as she stood there just off the main dance floor, even as she watched them gracefully glide around.

As one song ended and another began, couples moved off the floor for respite, others taking their place. Through the gaps of their forms, Arwen caught sight of the azure glow of a siphon. With a flaring nose, she turned her head away. But something pulled it back.

Ianthe stood next to Azriel, her front almost to his side. She was speaking to him, but Azriel looked in a distant direction, with only short, muttered responses. Ianthe’s hand rose, long fingers sensually moving to dust over the front of his leathers, across his chest. His shadows swirled in the way that Arwen knew them to whenever he was uncomfortable. Ianthe touched the siphon embedded there which flared in response. Azriel looked down at her, a snarl forming.

And Arwen was already halfway to them by the time it happened.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Arwen sang lowly as she approached. Azriel’s head snapped to her, and Ianthe turned only her eyes away from the shadowsinger. “Azriel has promised me my first dance of the night. I hope I’m not interrupting but he always keeps his promises.”

Arwen did not look at the other female’s hand as it possessively drifted down to his stomach. “I was just asking him for one myself,” the High Priestess said. “Perhaps he will take you after he’s satisfied me.”

Arwen stepped forward, not yet touching Azriel but close enough to state her position. “Be careful, Ianthe. Desperation is a horrid scent.”

Ianthe straightened, a blaze of red crossing her cheeks. Arwen grinned, claiming a second victory tonight as the High Priestess’s hand dropped from the stomach of Arwen’s mate. “I believe Azriel can speak for himself.”

Arwen turned her head in silent answer towards him as Ianthe formed a gaze of longing desire. Azriel looked only at Ianthe but moved the half-step closer to Arwen. A hand slid around her waist and she turned closer into his side, placing her hand exactly where Ianthe’s had been seconds ago on the cool leather at his stomach. “I can,” said Azriel.  

As Ianthe read the loss of her situation, Azriel’s fingers made small strokes at the bare skin of Arwen’s lower back.

“I see,” Ianthe murmured. “How many males here have you as their charm, hanging from their arm?”

“Just the three,” Arwen answered through a smile. “You may try on Cassian next if that is your wish. I shall rather enjoy seeing it.”

Her eyes glistened with a flame’s reflection. “I do not care for that bastard,” she spat.

Arwen’s jaw rippled with a clench. At the flex of muscle under her hand, she pushed against Azriel’s surge forward, keeping him planted at her side as Ianthe slithered away. “It is not worth a fight,” she whispered. “Cassian does not care for the opinions of people like her.”

“I should inform Rhys,” he muttered as they turned towards each other. “She is a guest here at his will.”

“A guest with purpose,” she reminded him. “Trust me, Rhys is aware that she has ulterior intentions for being here. It seems you and my brother have become the tokens of her attention. If it gets out of hand, he will do something. Until then, we have restraint.”

Azriel glared over her shoulder, his hand still resting on the hollow of her back. “Thank you. For coming over.”

“Trust me, it was my pleasure.” Azriel continued to stand close to her, the hand on her back with enough pressure to tell her that he desired her closeness. “Azriel, are you alright? Did she say something to you?”

“I’m fine, she was just… touching me,” he admitted, and Arwen sighed in understanding. “Would you like that dance?”

Blinking, Arwen glanced around and listened to the slowing end of a song. Lucien had left. Rhys still sat perched on his throne, talking to a courtier or lord. Cassian was occupied sneering. “You wish to dance?”

“I do.”

They hadn’t spoken properly in days. Not beyond passing comments. But that had been the pattern for the past ten years. If she was going to live with him, she would do it as happily as she could. Arwen opened her palm in the narrow space between them. “Then lead the way.”

He slipped his scarred hand into hers and led her onto the main centre of the floor. They fell into a smooth rhythm, both accustomed to the type of dance it called for. She was always and continued to be, surprised though at how natural a dancer he was.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said.

Arwen tightened her lips. “Please do not bother with flattery, Azriel. I do not need it from you.”

She caught his frown as they swept past other dancers. “I merely wished to compliment you.”

“I do not need that either.” She set her eyes to the side, watching the path of their oncoming steps. “It becomes confusing, whether you mean them or not. It is easier to simply believe that you do not mean them at all than figure it out.”

“I’m… I’m not certain where this is coming from.” Arwen felt the search of his eyes along her face. It almost drowned out the sensation of the eyes on her back. “I don’t know where you have gotten the idea that I have ever lied to you.”

She spun under his arm, facing his back with only a hand clasped until he followed the steps to turn and face her. “Then you only make me more confused. Why bother telling me I look beautiful then? What good does it do either of us?”

His hands spun her around until her back pressed against his chest. “Because you are beautiful, Arwen. And I fear that it is not a thought you have of yourself enough.”

Confusion prickled on her face. But not just confusion; frustration too. “What is it then?” They stepped forward, then back together. “If you think I am beautiful, do you think me not kind? Am I not graceful… Or is there someone else that I do not know of?”

“Not kind?” Azriel spun her back around, his face as fretful as her own, mouth parted. “I think you are one of the kindest souls this world has to offer.”

Arwen tore her hands from him, stopping their dance. Bodies glided around them, ignoring the disruption. “Then why?” She had refused to listen to him before, but now she had to know. It was now—and she would demand it—that he would give her the answers she sought. On her own terms. “I remember that day, where you fell to your damn knees and begged to the Mother to change her mind. I have come up with many reasons why but I am at a loss, Azriel.”

‘Arwen.’

She blocked out her brother’s call. He could watch. The people of Hewn City could watch. Arwen didn’t care anymore. They saw the scars on her back, the deepest marks of shame she carried. Her mate’s rejection was nothing.

As she stared at Azriel’s face, panting, and waiting, something broke on it. A sorrow, a guilt—maybe both. His voice was hoarse. “I begged to the Mother because I did not want to accept what it meant. What it meant for you.”

“Me?” she croaked.

“Mates are equals. Equal in every way.” He was pleading with her now. It was like her heels had melted into the stone, unable to move away. Azriel moved closer, his fingers dusting over her forearm. The dancers around them kept moving, the music preventing their voices from being carried. It was a wonder how Rhysand noticed them from afar.

Her brows pressed into a downwards point. “You do not consider us equal?”

Azriel looked away, his own shame bubbling across his face. “I cannot accept that you are equal to me. Not you, Arwen, not with what I have done. I have too much blood on my hands.”

Not you. Anyone but you. Not Arwen

“You consider yourself inferior to me,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if the crack in her throat or her heart were louder. “You do not wish to be my mate because you think you are not good enough?”

Azriel only breathed out and nodded.

Arwen rolled her jaw. This was not the place for this conversation. “You stole that choice away from me.” He remained deathly still, as if he knew that moving a single inch might warrant her order of execution. “I am the only one who gets to decide what and who is good enough for me. You have denied me my mate by making an assumption on a choice you never gave me a moment to consider myself. Enjoy your night, Azriel.”

She turned, people parting out of her way as she headed back to the throne, thoroughly over the temptations of the party. Rhysand waved his hand in dismissal to his current audience, his attention already diverted to her.

“Do I need to ask what that was?” he inquired lowly as she settled at his side.

Arwen looked down at him, waiting for the probe in her mind and when it came, she opened the memory for him. Rhysand stared at her as he played through it, then looked back out to the throne room.

“I will talk to him. But… But it does make more sense to me now.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, her voice sore and rasping. “I don’t feel anything for him beyond the bond. It is not worth making a fuss over. I just wish he had given me the choice of opening up to it. Perhaps given me the chance to learn if I might love him. He fucked up, Rhys. I will not spend my time trying to convince someone to accept me.” At least know she knew it wasn’t a flaw of her own that was the ignition for their demise.  

He took her hand, squeezing the length of her fingers. “Why don’t you find Cassian? Keep him out of trouble for the night.”

“I think I will retire instead.” Arwen strode forward to the edge of the dais, turned back and bowed. “Goodnight, brother.”

Rhysand bowed his head with a soft blink. It brought a smile, for what it meant. I bow to you just as you bow to me.

Chapter Text

Chapter 30

Arwen wandered through the long halls in search of her room. It shouldn’t have taken her so long to reach it, but with her mind lost in its own way, there may have been a few misturns taken. Turning into a new hall, before her is a long passage of shadow casted walls. And a head of long, flaming hair.

Lucien appeared to be quite lost, his steps indecisive.

“I’m afraid I must have neglected my duty as a hostess,” Arwen called down. How long had he been here? It had been some time since he left the throne room. Lucien turned to her, his lips pressing together. “Let me show you to your room.”

“I can take myself if you’ll offer me the direction,” he offered.

“Nonsense.” She lifted her shoulders and gestured with her head to follow. “Besides, there are things that I must speak to you of.”

Her tone left little for negotiation though she wasn’t doubting that he may try. Lucien bobbed his head and conceded to her request. They were alone this deep into the palace grounds. Not even the ghost of the music reached here.

“No one enters this part of the palace without my brother’s permission,” Arwen informed him. “If they do so he will have their head and plant it on a spike. You will be safe here.”

“Call me ungrateful but that is not the most reassuring thing I’ve heard,” he muttered.

She stifled a snort. “You think that is cruel, Vanserra? I hope you never have someone pin you down while you have a piece of your own body cut out from you, because that is what your High Lord has done. Rhysand was his friend before he was betrayed. Tamlin killed my mother that day too. Just because his court is filled with flowers does not mean they are not poisonous.”

“I cannot speak on his behalf, and I won’t defend what I do not yet fully understand. For either of you.”

Arwen glanced over him. “That is fair.” A few steps of silence passed, footsteps echoing down the corridor. “My intention was to speak with you about my choice of words earlier tonight. To apologise for them.” She took his silence as an invitation to continue. “I meant what I said, but not in the way you received it. I am glad that you have left the Autumn Court, to not be in your father’s clutches anymore or beside your brothers. I wasn’t aware of the circumstances you left under.”

Arwen slowed their pace to allow more time for their conversation before they reached his guest chamber. Lucien swallowed as he looked ahead, then finally down at her. “I’m not surprised. My father would have made efforts to keep my acts of disgrace to him a secret. She was a lesser faerie.”

“I am sorry. That is true cruelty, and as much as I despise Spring, I hope that you find some happiness there. Some freedom. I think you deserve that much.”

They arrived outside of his designation chamber; a simple but spacious room with its own sitting room and private bathing chambers. Lucien inspected the inside as Arwen waited just inside the door. “If there is anything you need, there are a few servants around. That bell on the table will summon them. They will not enter this room without that permission until you leave.”

Lucien nodded as he looked over the silver bell sitting on the end table near the lounge.

“Do you like it here?” he asked, catching her by surprise. At her frown, he clarified. “Do you like Hewn City?”

“No,” she answered. “I don’t think anybody with a decent heart would.”

“Then why do you stay?”

Arwen bit the inside of her cheek, moving her gaze around the room. There was a line she was approaching that she could not slip over. She could not speak of Velaris or give hint of the beautiful city’s existence. “Because I live the opposite of what you have, Vanserra. The Autumn Court has a pride-worthy beauty, but its ruler has an ugly heart. My court may not be beautiful, but my family is. I would not leave them for anything.”

“You don’t seem anything like them,” he said, making a few steps of wandering through the room. It was beautiful, with the bed lain with a spread of golden silk and sheer drapes curtained its length. The sitting room was adorned with mahogany furniture, a tray of silverware polished enough to have hints of her form in the disrupted reflection.

Arwen smiled, leaning against the entrance threshold. “No?”

Lucien shook his head, his softly redden lips beginning to move into something resembling a smile. “Your brother wouldn’t have apologised to me.”

He took his time to find a seat in the sitting room, making a small gesture to invite her further in. Arwen pushed off the doorway, meandering across the chamber and took the plush single-seater across from him.

“That General you have is a brute,” he continued.

“Careful,” Arwen warned, though she had a brimming smile that was only continuing to rise. “This is my family you are talking about.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed over her, releasing a short breath at the deduction of her eased composure. “Are you aware that my brothers hate you?”

“Oh,” she said through an airy chuckle. Arwen let herself sit deeper into the chair, settling her arms along each armrest. “Do entertain me with the details. I’m hoping Eris has a particular set of thoughts.” In their last meeting, which had been a short interaction, she had made it known how uninvited their presences were. Before that first interaction, Arwen only knew of the Vanserra sons through the others’ stories, particularly Mor’s.

Lucien’s shoulders jostled in a laugh. “Yes. I’m glad to see we share the same sentiment about him. He spoke of seeing you to be his wife at first. The daughter of another High Lord would be the perfect broodmare to breed, or something along those lines. I rather enjoyed watching you threaten him with a pen knife for stepping too close.”

Tipping her cheek towards her shoulder, she offered a small shrug. “My brother doesn’t let me carry anything larger. I make too many bloodstains around here otherwise.” They shared a laugh at her jest. “I’m not sure whether I find it strange or endearing that our bonding point is a shared distaste towards your family.”

He pursed his lips inwards, making a soft glimpse across the chamber before he spoke. “I’m not sure what else we would have in common.”

Arwen smiled again, her chest dropping with a quiet sigh. “To know what more I have in common with you would not be something I protest. But I understand that you do not enjoy this place so I will let you rest and hopefully by tomorrow evening you may be on your way home again.” And so she may as well. “What I said earlier stands true. You are safe here, even if you do not believe it.”

Lucien’s gaze followed her as she stood, adjusting the skirt of her dress. “Would you be willing to bargain that?”

Her lips curled upwards. “I would,” she answered. “But bargains with members of the Night Court come with a marking.” She drifted a finger along the one encircling her bicep to mark the bargain with her brother. “Are you brave enough to be marked by Night, Vanserra?”

He eyed her skin, wondering perhaps what it stood for. “I think I’ll settle on your word. Will you be present tomorrow?”

Arwen gave a small, confirmative nod. “I shall be. So I shall see you in the morning.”

Turning, she strode towards the entrance door when Lucien called her name. The velvet skirt swept across the polished stone ground as she turned back.

Lucien no longer held a smile or sign of entertainment at their small conversation. Arwen noted this and dropped her own. He took a few moments to form the words to whatever was on his mind. “Tamlin informed me that if I was in any danger here that I should strike at Rhysand’s weakness.” Each nook in her spine grew rigid, her undivided attention pinned on the emissary. “He said that was you.”

She considered the words carefully. Was he threatening her to ensure his safety, or was this some sort of warning to keep her family in check—to know that her own safety was at risk if they did not? Perhaps Lucien expected her to relay this to her brother so he would make decisions accordingly. “Entertain me,” she said. “How would you do that?”

Lucien did not even blink before he answered. “Threaten your life.”

Arwen let out a quiet breath. “That is a sure way to end your own, Lucien. I implore you to keep that to yourself and my promise of your safety will stand until the moment you leave this city.” She did not believe he told her to frighten her—not after tonight. It might have even been a warning to not join them in the morning. “Goodnight.”

He said nothing more as she left his chamber and the shadowed halls welcomed her into their embrace once more. Arwen only stopped at her personal chambers to change into a matching two-piece set of loose pants and a shirt before once again wandering the lonely halls.

The door of her brother’s private chambers welcomed her even though he was not inside. It would burn the hands of anybody not permitted to enter. The fireplace lit itself at her presence, and filling a kettle, she placed it over the flame to boil. His room was far more extravagant than any other. The bed was large enough to host at least three people with room to spare; perfect for when he wanted to stretch his wings in sleep.

Settling down in one of the armchairs, Arwen opened a new romance novel and read for another hour until the door handle jiggled and the hinges gave a soft whine. Quietly closing the book, she looked up to Rhysand who gave no sign of surprise at seeing her there. They said nothing as Arwen rose from the armchair and headed back to the hearth, removing the long-boiling kettle. A tray of silverware was already awaiting on the rounded table with a small pot of tealeaf. She kept her eyes towards it as he moved around behind her, silent except for the shuffle of clothing.

With two perfectly made teas, Arwen turned back around just as he wandered into the sitting room, now changed into looser clothing as she had. The mask was beginning to peel from his face, his shoulders losing their rigidness and the exhaustion replacing it. He took his tea and fell into the other armchair, slouching. She retook her own, legs curling underneath her body. “Talk or no talking?” she asked.

Rhysand tipped his head back against the spine of the chair and sighed. “You talk,” he answered.

Sipping at her tea, she thought back over the night, deciding whether to discuss Lucien or something other than the events in Hewn City. “I’m thinking of getting Cassian a blanket made for his birthday. One with slats for wings. I know how annoying heavy quilts can be over them sometimes.” Rhysand didn’t need to know what Tamlin had ordered of Lucien. Nothing good would come of him knowing. “It’ll keep it in place through the night too. I’m just trying to figure out what material he would like most and I know it will take a few weeks if I order some of that really nice wool Reiger brings on his shipments from Vallahan.”

Her mouth kept moving, some of her topics utterly senseless but with each minute, her brother’s true face reappeared, losing everything he had to become in this place. She couldn’t tell where his mind was, but he never looked away from her. Arwen suspected he was fighting thoughts of the next morning. When she got down to the last dregs of her tea, she finally stopped.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she murmured, taking his own empty cup away.

“Goodnight, Arwen.”

Smiling as much as she could offer, she left his chamber to return to her own. Despite changing out of heels, the arches of her feet ached. There was a small throb in the back of her head too, just above the nape of her neck. Turning into the corridor that held her chamber, her brows raised at the sight of an Illyrian a few steps away from her door.

“Cass,” she greeted tiredly. He was still in his leathers, suggesting that he had yet to return to his room or still had intentions to be awake for some time.

“Where have you been?” he inquired, the low voice lost of all growl it had shown through the night.

Arwen made a lazed gesture over her shoulder. “Rhys.” Twisting past him, she opened the door to her room and tilted her head for him to follow in. “I was telling him what I was thinking about getting you for your birthday.”

“Oh yeah?” Cassian shut the door behind him, making slow steps as she kicked off her shoes and carefully pulled out the silver chain in her hair. “Care to tell me?”

“Earmuffs.” She sent a lethargic grin over her shoulder. “Bright pink so we don’t lose you in another snowstorm.” Her fingers slipped a few times over the thin chain, making her nose flare in frustration.

He made a show of shrivelling his nose as he folded his arms and leant up against one of her bedposts. Then his face smoothened, hazel eyes flickering to the black, velvet dress thrown over the trunk at the foot of the bed. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

The corner of her lips tightened; a show of her effort to smile but it wouldn’t form. It wasn’t a compliment to her appearance. It was of her composure. Arwen sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the sliver of fabric she could see from her spot. “I didn’t feel it.”

Cassian didn’t say anything to that. Taking two strides, he stood in front of her, then dropped to a crouch. Arwen braved holding his gaze. She held it for Rhysand, she could hold it for him. But there was something behind his—something too damn kind and too damn knowing.

“I can’t do it again…” Her throat burned with each word, a fluttering restraint against tears. “I can’t do it again tomorrow.”

He nodded calmly, as though it was exactly what he suspected her to say. He placed one hand on her knee, the other to the side of her face over her ear and cheek. “You were brave tonight. Braver than I could have been.”

Arwen licked her lips, looking now instead towards the door beyond him. “I don’t want to worry Rhys. He was proud of me and I don’t want him to know how hard it was.” It was shameful. Shameful for even now ten years later she couldn’t show her scars in comfort. She could already feel the nightmare that would come as though it was creeping into her reality. 

“Rhys is proud of you because of how hard it is,” Cassian said. “It is not a shameful thing to struggle.”

Turning her head out of his hand, Arwen harshly wiped at the bone under her eyes with the ball of her hand. “It has been ten years, Cassian. I should be over it.”

“Hey.” He leant forward, reaching towards her face again and Arwen returned it by leaning further away. “Hey,” he repeated, catching her cheek. Turning it back, he placed one knee on the ground and lengthened his spine until they were near the same height. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart. Time isn’t a measure of healing. Ten—twenty years, it doesn’t matter. Rhys still has nightmares about that day too.” Arwen’s eyes shot up from the mattress where they sunk to, her cheeks hot and stinging. Cassian nodded his head at her questioning belief. “He doesn’t tell you because he thinks it won’t help. Ten years and it still haunts him to have seen the aftermath.”

Despite the warmness of his hand, it cooled her burning cheek that she assumed had grown patching redness. In all the thoughts of her gratitude towards him, she could only say: “I’m not getting you pink earmuffs.”

He let out a long breath. “Thank the Cauldron,” he muttered and broke into a laugh with the warmth of a blazing fire, however soft it was. Arwen leant down, wringing her arms around his neck. Cassian welcomed the embrace, catching the backs of her legs and holding her to him. She knew by the way he held her that he understood exactly what it meant to need it. What it felt like to crave touch. When she finally had enough to lift her head, he had fallen to sit on his haunches. “How about we play some cards? I asked Azriel but he was all mopey.”

Arwen rounded her shoulders in a stretch. “Sure.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 31

Arwen tugged at the long, midnight blue sleeves to straighten the slight folds at her elbows. The neck sat like a high collar, close to her neck and there was not a single slit in the fabric.

She was late. Not enough to be obnoxious, but enough that Rhysand sought out her mind to inform her that they were awaiting on her presence. Ianthe was pushing for them to start without Arwen. And that wouldn’t do.

Upon reaching the ornate wooden door with obsidian vines of metal swirling across it, she strode into the council hall. Each wall in the long room inside held bookshelves and cabinets filled with maps and artifacts from centuries of High Lords meetings and conquests. Not that anything of significance would ever be kept there in the Court of Nightmares, but there was enough that foreign emissaries such as the one they hosted would easily note the collection of victories.

Extending well into two-thirds of the chamber’s length, a marble table. The black stone had flecks of silver, a mirror of the night sky. Sitting on one side was Lucien and Ianthe, both stiff and becoming even more so at Arwen’s entrance. On the other side of the table, Cassian and Azriel sat on either side of Rhysand. Her brother, the theatrical male he was, had his crown adorning his head and one of his best coats on his shoulders.

Ianthe’s attention on Arwen lasted a mere second before shifting back to the male directly across from her. Azriel.

“Sister,” Rhysand greeted coolly, something between a performance and true annoyance at her tardiness. But he wouldn’t reprimand her in front of them—they had an image of being united, after all.

“You may place blame on Cassian,” she replied, a hand settling on her brother’s shoulder as she arrived at his side. “He had me up all night.”

Cassian bared his teeth in a grin, a flex in his wings to lengthen them. Arwen kept her smile trained and moved from one side of Rhysand’s chair to the other, looking down at Azriel. Then at Ianthe directly across from him.

“Azriel.” Azriel cocked his head to the left where she stood just behind his shoulder. “I believe I’m always seated to Rhysand’s right.”

A generous lie. Though sometimes that is where she fell, out of comfort and familiarity it was by no formal measure her designated seat. In fact, Azriel was quite right to have taken it where Amren is not present as his Second. But his shadows had been twitching around his arms and curling around the legs of his seat. Protecting him.

Azriel’s lips parted. “My apologies.” The words were calm edged with darkness. He stood, pulling out the chair enough for Arwen to comfortably fall into it, the heat of his body still lingering on the wood. He took the seat on her right, offering her a slight bow of his head that might have read as another formal request for forgiveness, but it was quite the opposite. Arwen had just become the central figure between both her brother and mate.

Arwen could not give him a smile, instead, turned her head straight and reached for his arm underneath the table. Finding it, she gave his wrists a quick squeeze before letting go.

“We were just discussing the celebrations last night,” Rhysand announced, diverting the table’s attention.

A light tickling caressed her ankle, twisting up her underneath her dress along her calf. A shadow’s touch. “Vanserra was informing me last night that we stand no comparison to the Autumn Court’s celebrations, but I do hope we still held a night worthy of travelling remarks,” said Arwen. She upturned her smile even more, her eyes moving to Ianthe who was glancing between Azriel and Rhysand. “Ianthe, you are wearing the same scent you did as last night. I must know what perfume you are using.”

Beside her, an airy cough.

Ianthe leered at her. “It’s natural,” she replied with strained politeness.

Arwen hummed. At this point, it may have been easier to lose all fake pleasantries and get straight to the biting. Lucien was the only one in that room who may not be informed of Ianthe’s diverting attention.

“Yes,” Arwen murmured. “I do believe that.”

“As entertaining as this conversation is,” Cassian began. By the tone of his words, there was no lie in them—earning a roll of Arwen’s eyes. “We have trade to discuss.”

Lucien, who had been silent since her arrival, said, “You need your entire circle to make discussion about trade, High Lord Rhysand?”

Rhysand smirked, looking towards either side of him. “Not my entire circle. I’m still missing two. If you feel threatened that I have more companions, I am more than happy to dismiss them until we are at equal numbers.”

Lucien examined the table once more. When those amber eyes turned to Arwen, she read thoughts behind them. The threat—or perhaps warning—he gave her last night. To threaten her life if he felt endangered and ensure he could escape. Rhysand had to be present. If he asked Rhysand to dismiss two of his Inner Circle, it was almost with certainty that she would be one to leave, and with it, his potential leverage.

But if it did come to that (not that it would, but Lucien couldn’t be certain), then threatening her with the General Commander, spymaster, and High Lord present was a very dangerous tactic. Just her and Rhysand on the other hand…

“No,” Lucien answered. “I wasn’t aware they would be joining us is all.”

And so began three hours of tedious discussions that made Arwen wish her brother has waved her out.

~

Rubbing at her temples, she attempted to massage the small headache out of her skull. Lucien and Ianthe disappeared, heading towards the eastern wing of the palace where their quarters lay and readying to winnow themselves back to the Spring Court after a small feast for lunch.

It hadn’t been the best outcome, unable to agree on the extent and price of what their courts would offer to pay. The Night Court’s silver mines had enough value in them that the other courts competed for their output at high prices. But Tamlin wouldn’t offer over half Spring’s produce without a deal of cheap silver ore in return, with priority over the other courts.

But that wasn’t what gave her the headache. It was Ianthe’s probing flirtatious remarks the entire meeting. Rhysand had done the best in ignoring all that came his way, but Azriel had struggled to remain composed, making small movements in his seat at each one sent his way. Cassian had become incensed upon realising that he was being completely ignored.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in such a graceful catfight,” Cassian mused towards her as they wandered down the corridor. “I was almost turned on.”

“Excuse you,” Rhysand muttered just a stride behind them.

Cassian raised his palms. “I said almost.”

“Such a distinction,” Arwen crooned, nudging him with the point of her elbow. One of Azriel’s shadows was still wrapped around her calf, the tip of the tendril now sitting at the back of her thigh. It seemed to offer him some sort of comfort—an anchor, if one would. So she said nothing to draw attention to it. And it was… nice. It was nice to have that sort of contact with someone that her body recognised as safe. “And you can’t say anything about that when you practically had Ianthe’s scent crawling along the table to you. I regurgitated in my mouth a few times.”

Rhysand shook his head with a wrinkled nose as she looked back at him. “Still not the same.”

Arwen wrinkled her nose right back.

Cassian and Rhysand veered off before they reached the private dining chamber, stating they had someplace else to be before lunch. Arwen decided to continue towards it, knowing there would be food to nibble on before the main meal was served in an hour. Azriel trailed along with her.

They perched on a black futon in the far corner of the dining chamber with a small, lowered table near their feet. Arwen held a silver platter of grapes and cheeses to her lap, sending Azriel a mirthful warning each time he reached for something on it.

“Are you alright, Az?”

The azure siphons made a slight blaze as his dark brows twitched together. “What?”

Arwen stretched out her right leg, enough to draw the spymaster’s eyes towards it to see his own shadow at her ankle before it disappeared underneath the fabric. “She’s leaving today.”

He was still staring at the sliver of skin when he said, “Thank you.” She smiled and nodded, despite wondering if he could even see it. “I’m not sure why it bothers me so much.”

Azriel was no stranger to a female’s company. Especially in Velaris where his reputation held more truths. And emotionless sex had been a common time until the past few years. Arwen had been terrified that it would bother her when he continued his regular activities and she would have to scent it but the day never came. Either he abstained completely or took precautions so that she would never know. “Because her attention is not something you want,” she answered for him. Then tilted her head. “Unless I am assuming wrong, and it is something you want but you have thoughts keeping you back.”

He looked aghast at the suggestion. “No.”

Arwen chuckled softly. “I’m glad to hear. I think I’d tear her eyes out if she was around any longer. Do you remember that female that thought one fuck with Cassian meant a lifetime of clinging to his arm?” It hadn’t been a lack of communication on Cassian’s part, who vehemently tried to inform her that he barely remembered her name.

Azriel’s lips curled. “Yes,” he said, even his low voice lightening. “I thought you were going to push her off one of the balconies at the House. I’m beginning to believe you don’t want any of us near other females.”

She couldn’t help the laugh. “Trust me, if there is someone that Cassian chooses to be his partner in life then I will be the first to accept them. And probably leash them to keep them around until they learn to deal with his bullshit.” He cracked a laugh that had her smile moving into her eyes. “But I won’t let him settle for anything less. Same with Rhys and the same with you.”

Her last words left a silence between them, but Arwen offered forward her tray of goodies to show that she was intending the silence to be awkward. He could take his time to read into her words how he intended.

Azriel looked down at the tray and took a small cut of her least favourite cheese. She hadn’t realised he liked it and would have brought more over if she had. “What’s this I hear about Cassian keeping you up all night?”

“Ah.” Balancing the tray on one thigh, her other hand was free to stretch out and gave a light tap to his nose. “We were playing cards because he was sulking that you didn’t want to play with him.”

Azriel blinked at the tap, then again. “Child,” he muttered, his smile growing.

“He certainly was when he lost,” she sang.

He cocked his head to look at her. “From what I remember, you are infamously terrible at all card games. Are you certain you are remembering last night correctly?”

Arwen picked up a cracker and then slotted it through his open lips. Azriel coughed, eyes widening with amusement as the cracker stretching his lips. “Stop ruining my fantasy,” she told him. “Here I am, trying to make sure you’re alright and you repay me by reminding me of how terrible I am at those stupid games. I didn’t even want to play! Do you know how hard it is to try and win a game of strategy against a war general? A war general who is nearly a hundred years older than me and would rather cheat than lose? I’m trying to save a bit of my pride here and you come in and squash it like an ant under your boot.”

By the end of her short spiel, he was laughing and it was one of the most beautiful sounds in Prythian. It was rare and wonderous and Arwen couldn’t help but nurture and coddle the slice of warm pride it brought to her heart. Azriel continued to laugh as he broke the cracker with his teeth, cupping underneath his chin as the flakes flew out. “I’m sorry,” he choked out eventually, patting his chest as the dry food likely stuck to his throat. “Didn’t realise I would hit such a wound.”

Rolling her eyes, she handed him the tray and left the futon to head toward the table. He remained behind as she poured a single goblet of wine. With her back towards him, she felt the shadow climb higher along her leg. What was before just the ghostly end against her thigh was now the length of its tendril, the tip flicking against the small protrusion of her hip bone. How the shadow fit between her skin and dress she would never know—but then again, it was a shadow.

Returning, she took the tray back and replaced his empty hand with the drink.

“Thank you.”

There was another shadow around his ear, as it always would be whenever they talked to him. Did he realise what the one around her leg was doing, or was it a stray that had yet to return? But as she watched him, still standing, and his eyes flickered down across the scape of her clothed body, Arwen could see in his eyes that he knew.

I cannot accept that you are equal to me. Not you, Arwen, not with what I have done.

Azriel had not spoken of his feelings. He had not said that he did not feel anything for her, only that his own sense of worth kept him from accepting the bond. Arwen knew that she did not hold that type of love for him. Not the one of romance in her books. She hadn’t allowed herself to. But there was undeniable affection that was reserved for him.

Curiosity flittered through her. What did Azriel feel for her, if anything at all? He was hardly the open romantic which only made it harder to tell. And with his composure trained to deathly stillness, there was hardly a chance of reading what he did not want to be read.

But she could be certain that he cared for her. To what extent remained a mystery, but his affection for her was there. She had seen it before, even before the bond.

As Azriel drank, Arwen found it in herself to sit back down. Closer than before. Pulling her knees onto the futon, she faced him entirely, her side leaning against the back of the chair. He already faced her, the length of his wings preventing him from sitting straight comfortably. With a slight shift of her weight, her knee touched his upper thigh, less than a hand’s length from his hip.

The shadow tightened around her like a coiled rope. The tendril’s tip now stretching across the lowest point of her stomach.

“You don’t have to join us for lunch,” she told him.

Azriel sighed lightly. “I will.”

Rhysand and Cassian returned before the chime of a new hour and were soon followed by Lucien and Ianthe. Rhysand had been talking with Arwen as everybody fell into their seats at the table, and seeing the opportunity, Ianthe snatched the one on Azriel’s left, Cassian on his right. Biting her lips to trap her remark about the movement, Arwen sat between Rhysand and Lucien.

They made amiable talk as they served their own plates, some things disappearing within a blink as she reached for them, only for them to reappear in front of her brother. She dug her heel into his toes. He pursed his lips to hide the grunt of pain and thumped her leg with the side of his fist. Arwen offered him a smile and removed her foot. And took food from his plate onto her own.

Their silent taunting of each other—a struggle to keep under the radar as they hosted unaware guests—kept her occupied enough to forget who else sat at their table for some time, even making talk with Lucien who seemed at the very least, lukewarm to her company. But he still acted as though she would leap at him like a rabid dog at any moment.

That response, however, was pinpointed on Ianthe. The desperate wench wouldn’t give up on her conquest of… Well, Arwen wasn’t sure what her ultimate goal was but apparently it needed a spymaster or a high lord.

“I’m becoming rather fond of the people here,” said Ianthe. She leant back into the furthest part of her chair, draping herself so her body, even robed, was open to see as the fabric clung to her. As she spoke, the words were particularly sent to Azriel who avoided looking at her altogether.

Cassian raised a subtle brow, looking to Arwen who was silently examining the situation.

“You have a peculiar way of living,” Ianthe added, now looking to Rhysand who only amused the topic with a flat smile. “I could get used to being underground.”

“One can get used to smelling shit if they’re around it long enough,” Arwen retorted. At a look from her brother, she shut her mouth. Insulting her own city wasn’t the smartest move to make. But beside her, Lucien covered his mouth with his fingers hanging from under his nose and the slight squint at his eyes gave her enough glee to be satisfied. “Forgive me,” she crooned instead. “I just mean to say that being underground after being in Spring Court must have been a startling new environment.”

“It doesn’t faze me. I’m flexible.” Ianthe’s lips rose as she trailed a single fingertip along the far arm of her chair. “Very flexible.”

‘Cauldron spare us,’ Rhysand sent to her mind. At Cassian’s chuckle in her head, Arwen smothered her own, realising that Rhys had linked the minds of the Inner Circle together.

But her amusement dropped when an image was flung into her head. It was more of a feeling than an image, really. The sensation of a barefoot running down the front of a leg.

Arwen wasn’t sure if Azriel meant to send that to them, and by the rigidness in his body, she wasn’t sure he was in the mind to restrain what was sent through the link. Her sharp gaze became set on Rhysand’s face. He had to do something.

“I might even request to stay another night, just so I can see more of this city and its inhabitants,” Ianthe continued, oblivious to the silent communication around her.

Rhysand glanced down at her for only a second as she felt the link narrow down to just them. ‘You’re looking rather ill, sweetheart.’ Arwen frowned at him—of course, she wasn’t looking like a perfect artwork at that very second. Her cheeks were already heating in agitation.

Then she caught on.

Arwen lifted her chest in a long sigh, leaning to rest her temple against her fingers.

“Are we boring you?” Rhysand inquired.

She made a slow shake of her head. “I do not think I’m feeling adequate for a vivacious lunch. I want to blame it on the lack of sleep but I think I may have eaten something earlier that hasn’t agreed with me.”

“We hardly want you pouring your stomach over little Vanserra now.” He flicked his hand lazily towards the entrance of the chamber. Lucien grumbled something, sinking into his chair. “Azriel will take you back to your room. I’m sure he can catch up on lunch later.”

“Of course,” Azriel obeyed.

Arwen feigned an ache in her stomach as she nodded. Azriel’s chair legs scraped against the stone floor. He strode around the table. Arwen didn’t move until he was at her side, taking the hand of assistance. She took a close position to his side, letting him leave the hand that came to the hollow of her back.

She offered a formal farewell to the rest of the table before making an exaggerated slow walk out of the chamber. As the door closed behind them, she dropped the façade in her face and stride but they kept walking until they reached the private-most part of the palace where their chambers were situated.

Arwen turned to Azriel. “Go home,” she told him.

The order puzzled him. “Home?”

“Yes, Azriel. Go home.”

He opened his mouth, taking a few seconds to come up with something to say. “Rhysand might need me here.”

Arwen smiled gently and placed a hand on his cheek. “Rhys is the one that is giving you the permission. Ianthe is out of line but it is easier to not cause a fuss when they are leaving today.” They risked ruining what little progress they made on their contracts today. Though if Ianthe would have her way, her leaving might not be for another night. “It is not right for you to have to stay here.”

Azriel’s brows moved together. “I don’t want to leave you here without me.”

The confession was so raw, so unfiltered by the usual security his words came through that it stunned Arwen into a few moments of unprepared silence. Gathering her composure, she said, “Cassian would love any opportunity to break someone’s neck here, so you don’t have to worry about me. The only ill that is coming my way is my worry for you so please help me destroy those by going home.”

The hazels of his eyes flickered around in a search across her face before a slow nod came. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Arwen stretched her lips wider and gave a small stroke with her thumb against the peak of his cheek. Then she stood back, jerking her head in an outwards direction. Azriel looked down towards his now vacant cheek, to the floor between their feet and finally back up at her. He said nothing, disappearing into a void of shadows that swallowed him and left behind an empty hallway around her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 32

Arwen stretched through a yawn then grabbed her book. She had just returned from giving Lucien a formal farewell and delivering the signed contracts as Rhysand became occupied with Keir. Their stay was to be extended another night because of some new minor lords becoming unsettled.

Striding down the lone halls of the private palace quarters, Arwen hadn’t been prepared to hear many voices—especially the female’s coming from her brother’s chamber. The door was cracked open, enough for a line of gilded light to stream out of it.

Her eyes widened, shuffling a step back at the idea of stumbling into something she really did not wish to see. But at the familiar tone, Arwen halted and turned her ear closer.

“I see the way you look at me, High Lord.”

Arwen’s brows shot high, quite sure her incredulous expression would earn a room of laughter as she listened to Ianthe’s seductive tone. A shadow shifted past the door—her brother.

“You see what you want to see,” he said. The door swung open, though he didn’t look back to see her standing there. “Get out.”

Ianthe, who was further in his room, only replied, “I heard you like to play games.”

Arwen mouthed to herself: ‘Snowball fights,’ and added a silent scoff.

“I think you’ll find me a diverting playmate.”

It was then that Arwen could imagine how Ianthe had positioned herself. Someplace on her brother’s bed by the direction he was looking, probably splayed out or in some type of silk robe she took from her guest closet.

Rhysand made a small glance towards the door and Arwen met his gaze of steel. She raised a single brow, her own scowl set on display. He made no acknowledgement that she was there, but did not tell her to leave either.

“I thought your allegiance lay with other courts,” he said, the firmness giving no room for the game she suggested.

“My allegiance lies with the future of Prythain, with the true power in this land.” Arwen could smell her now—unclothed for certain. Then a gasp and a light thump against the mattress. “Do you know what a union between us could do for Prythian, for the world?”

“You mean yourself?”

So that was her ploy. Of course, it was rather obvious in hindsight but Arwen couldn’t have been certain. Azriel was powerful, both in magic and status. But he was a toy-thing compared to Rhysand’s.

“Our offspring could rule Prythian.”

A splinter of amusement appeared on Rhysand’s face. “So you want my crown—and for me to play stud?”

Ianthe’s voice turned more strained but still that rasp of desire remained. “I don’t see anyone else worthy of the position.” 

Arwen held another scoff, determined to stay undetected so she could entertain herself with the obnoxiousness of the entire conversation. It wasn’t even on behalf of the Spring Court she accompanied Lucien for. It was her own greed and most likely that of the other High Priestesses who were putting their talons in the other courts.

Rhysand’s voice had turned cold and hard. “Get out of my bed. Get out of my room. And get out of my court.”

She prepared to move herself out of the way, not keen to be in the path of Ianthe’s exit of shame but the sound of movement inside was slow. Purposeful. Bare feet on the stone floor was the only sound until Ianthe emerged into Arwen’s line of vision in front of the door. The High Priestess was entirely naked, her body perked at attention.

“You have no idea what I can make you feel, High Lord.”

Arwen began to roll her eyes, unable to believe that Ianthe had yet to notice her standing there. Or perhaps she had noticed but did not care. Either one was agitating. But the languid movement cut short as the High Priestess’ pale hand lifted—and reached between his legs.

Hot blood shot to her face. Arwen had crossed the four steps in less than a second, Ianthe’s short yelp breaking her from the trance. And she was glad she fell back into full consciousness because she wanted to see every second of what was to come. Arwen had yanked Ianthe’s wrist away from her brother, then hauled her back towards the door.

She placed the High Priestess’ hand against the threshold, reached behind her for the door, and slammed it shut.

Ianthe screamed.

Screamed so loud that the entire mountain echoed with its sound. It came along with a sickening crunch. She fell to her knees as Arwen let her wrist go. Ianthe held the hand to her bare chest, a distinctive line of mangled flesh and bone marking just underneath her knuckles. Not just broken but shattered.

Tears were already pouring down the female’s cheeks, the screams morphing into heaves for air.

Arwen dropped to a crouch, her face set flat. “You’re lucky,” she told the female. “If you had actually touched him you wouldn’t have a hand to heal.”

Ianthe only glared at her, seeming to restrain against withering in agony. Her eyes darted behind Arwen who stood once more, feeling her brother’s presence at her shoulder.

“I don’t think my sister approves of the proposition,” he crooned, the words like a dark and dangerous dance. “You might have succeeded better trying to seduce her first.”

With a flick of his finger, Ianthe’s body was flung out into the hallway, her clothes soon following. The High Priestess held no concern for her bare body on display where anybody could walk through. She was far too busy sending a promise of death through her eyes. To them both.

“You will not touch another male in my court, Ianthe,” Rhysand continued. “Better yet, you will not return to it. My spymaster has a particular fondness for taking care of people who threaten us.”

In a blink, Ianthe disappeared.

Arwen continued glaring at the spot for some time until a hand settled at her side and she finally dragged her eyes across her shoulder. Rhysand tightened his lips. “You alright?”

“Me?” she whispered. “Boil me, Rhys. She was—she…” Her lips curled into a disgusted downturn, her stomach curdling at the thought of what might have happened if neither of them stopped her. “Nobody has a right to your body. Nobody.”

“Thank you.” He held the side of her head still and kissed her hairline. 

She gave a short huff. He hardly needed the help. He could have done what she did without lifting a finger. But Arwen couldn’t let herself stand back. Not when she knew how it felt to be violated and not have someone there. Perhaps that is what he was thanking her for. For just being there. “It felt good,” she admitted in a mutter. “Especially she had been trying to get into Azriel’s lap as well.”

“I doubt she’ll try and return here any time soon but I’ll ask Azriel to have his plants keep an eye on her, especially if she has contacts in Day and Dawn.”

Arwen looked back at the empty hallway even as the door shut with a silent lick of magic. Rhysand lightly flicked the hollow of her cheek, which she turned to glare at, expecting his taunting grin but was met with a face as solemn as hers. “Tea?” he asked.

Feeling a soreness in her throat, she nodded to give herself a moment to clear it. “I’ll get it.”

“No.” A hand slid to her shoulder as he veered around her. “I’ll do it.”

With no energy to protest, her reserve seeming to have leaked after Ianthe’s disappearance, Arwen only nodded again and found her way to the comfiest chair. It was his favourite, but that thought barely crossed her mind enough to contemplate moving. A minute or so ticked by before a steaming tea hovered in front of her. Far too quickly to be made without magic.

Rhysand sunk down into the opposite armchair, a muscular knot at the hinges of his jaw.

“Do you think it’s going to affect the trade contract?” she inquired.

He shook his head. “It’s signed. She was here for a different reason. Had been begging me for years to visit the city personally. And if she wants any access here, politically or otherwise, it’ll be through Tamlin. So she’ll keep the channel open.”

“That’s assuming she’s not pissed off enough to consider ruining it,” she countered. “I did just slam a door on her hand and shatter at least five bones.”

His lips twitched. “At least five?”

“It’s a good guess.” The tea had an overdose of honey, almost burrowing any other herb but the warm sweetness still did as intended.

Rhys cocked his head to his shoulder. “You’ve got something on your mind. Tell me.”

“You’re not going to just read it?” she challenged with a rueful smile over her tea. He only waited for her to continue. Arwen sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s nothing important. Ianthe was here to use her body for power. It just had me thinking about myself.” Her brother’s brows deepened over his eyes and she could see the concern for her where her trail of thoughts was heading. “I was never married off. As I came of age, I expected Father to auction me off to the highest bidder. It was clear that the Night Court was powerful and that it would be as well under your rule. Our closeness is well known across the courts. There must have been males dying to get their hands on me—and get access to you. Yet there was never a single courter, not unless it was me that engaged them.”

Arwen had never brought herself to ask why. For a time it had been under the foolish hope that her mother and father had somehow forgotten that she needed to be wedded to the most beneficial male available. But as she grew into her thirties, then fifties and eventually one hundred, it was clear that her parents never intended that for her. And still she never dared asked, terrified that the questioning would prompt them into action.

“Because I told Father,” Rhys said, “that if he tried to have you wed to someone not of your choosing, that you would do the exact same thing Mor did and I would let you. After I pointed out your affection for Cassian at the time—”

“You knew?” Arwen shrunk in her chair.

He laughed. “Sweetheart, Cassian knew.”

She let out a strangled moan, pulling the small cushion from behind her back to her chest, burrowing her face into the lining. “That’s mortifying.”

Rhys hummed in agreement and the cracked chuckled was enough for her to lift her head up and listen again. “I convinced him that you would pursue Cassian out of anger and he would reciprocate.”

“Father would have murdered him,” she muttered, shivering at the thought. “Not to mention Cassian wouldn’t have.” For numerous reasons, but especially since he regretted his time with Mor.

He lifted a finger from where it curled around his mug to point at her. “Father didn’t know that and wouldn’t take the risk. He thought it would be better to have a pure daughter unmarried than a tainted one.” 

She snorted into her tea. “Did he die believing that I was?”

Rhys shrivelled his nose and investigated his own drink. “I am also going to die with that belief.”

“And one day when I might be a mother?”

“A miracle from the Mother.” Arwen shook her head at his exaggerated expression of disassociation. “You seemed happy talking with Azriel earlier.”

Her eyes thinned, hearing the curious accusation in his murmuring tone. “Yes,” she agreed slowly. “I like when things are normal between us. Against what belief you might hold, I do consider Azriel my friend. Family, if that’s not too strange to label him as.”

Rhys smiled pointedly. “I wasn’t thinking that you weren’t. But I can’t imagine how hard—”

“Are we going to have this conversation again?” Arwen clenched her jaw and looked away. “I feel like we’ve had it a thousand times over and I give you the same answer.” She could almost hear his voice saying: Someone’s tetchy. “When will you learn to drop it, because I’m beginning to believe you’re incapable of such a simple task.”

Rhysand rose from his seat. Sinking deeper into her own, she shrunk down as his form hovered over her. The plane of his face was flat—unreadable. Instead of a scolding, he took the tea from her hands. “Go to bed.”

“What?”

“Go to bed and sleep today off. I don’t feel like being snapped at and I’m sure you don’t want to be in a snappy mood so off to bed.”

Arwen’s hands slapped down on the armrests, challenging him with a stare. She lost first, pushing from the seat. “I’m going to bed because I’m tired, not because you are telling me to.”

“I’m sure.”

Her face twisted into a scowl, unable to admit that he was doing what she could not. And she was tired. “At least I’m showing my emotions,” Arwen said under her breath. “You’re trying to act like Ianthe wasn’t in here five minutes ago trying to seduce you, asking about me instead.”

Rhysand tilted his head with a growing glare, turning on the spot as she veered around him. “I don’t want you snapping at me because I’m on the edge of snapping back. I’m keeping my thoughts to myself for your sake.”

Arwen bit a single point into her cheek. “How thoughtful of you,” she crooned quietly.

“What is with you right now?” he asked, sounding something between bemused and irate. His lips hung parted as she turned to stare at him—to see if he could see anything that she did. But Rhysand only stood there, waiting for her answer.

“You don’t even realise you do it, do you?” she inquired. Her brother’s confusion deepened into the map of his skin. Arwen held her hand out to him. “You ignore your problems, Rhys. You pretend that they are not there because you think it’s easier to do that than speak of them. Instead, you try to deal with mine.”

He curled all his fingers except one, pointing it like a marker to the ground between them. “If I spent every second worrying about my own problems every day like you do, then I wouldn’t be fit to be a High Lord.”

She felt something—just a small, almost unnoticeable flake—break off inside of her. And worse yet, Arwen could see the moment he understood what he just said to her, yet he only looked away.

Is that how they saw her? As some whining female that was stuck in her own reality of broken thoughts? Something that they had to deal with?

Arwen had never thought of it all that way before. Rhysand—these were his friends. He grew up with Mor, met Cassian and Azriel when they were still children and fought in a war together, even if not in the same battles. They had a mortal's life together. Nearly one hundred years before she came into the picture. It wasn’t a choice for them to accept her or to not. Rhysand felt the obligation and they did too by extension of their loyalty. If she had been a runt in the camps, would they have ever even looked twice at her? Felt enough joy in her presence to want to have her in their circle?

“I…” Her voice trailed off but as Rhysand opened his mouth, she interjected. “I think I’m going to head home tonight instead. I miss Mor.”

A sigh cracked through his lips. “Sweethea—”

“Don’t—” Arwen lifted her finger between them— “because I will snap at you. And we wouldn’t want you snapping at me, would we?”

He looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to bite back at her remark or try to apologise. Dropping her hand, they stood there with nothing but thick silence between them before she broke off and left his chamber. Two steps out, she winnowed home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 33

Arwen wished she had the mind to have bought lunch before she travelled such a far walk away from the restaurants and cafes. Instead, she leant against the marble column with a complaining stomach, watching the Sidra’s tide lap against the stony edge a few feet away. It was high tide, drizzles of white wash reaching over the top of the river’s edge—though she sat on one of the lowest points of the earth to sea level.

She had stayed in one of the city’s few inns that hosted merchants and their sailing crews the past night after hearing Mor around the town house. It wouldn’t have been easy to sneak past the blood-hound female, who would have loaded her with questions on what had come to pass in Hewn City. Explaining all that would have dumped Mor with Arwen’s own problems and as she recently learnt, that was something Mor already dealt with every day.  

Arwen curled her knees to her chest, staring at the water with a frown.

She tried not to focus on her disastrous mating issue with Azriel every day, but perhaps her shield against it wasn’t as reinforced as she led herself to believe.

Then there is the fiasco of becoming a celestian. Something Arwen still wasn’t sure she understood but the ring on her finger kept it under control to the point where she didn’t need to think about it until her training with Amren. But it had caused enough stress that Rhysand took her to the cabin for a week to give both of them a break as well as giving Cassian a break from them… From her. It had been to give Cassian a break from her.

And it had been ten years, yet she still could not find the strength to accept her body without wings. Mirrors were still daunting, shopping for dresses became too overwhelming that she could only do so once a year. Had her burdens become theirs as well?

Arwen stayed there, her desires moving from hunger to boredom, wishing she had her sketchpad around. Or even something to sew with. Her mother used to fill in her time making the most divine designs, some for Arwen or herself, others that were gifted to Rhys for his own future use as he pleased.

At a small, dark blip in the corner of her eye, she looked to the sky and squinted. Cassian, if she could guess by the outline of the flying Illyrian high over the city. He didn’t seem to be heading to the House, but it was also the wrong direction to the town house. Perhaps Rhys had him surveying something. Arwen wouldn’t know anything, having put that block in her mind before she even left her brother’s chambers. She might thank him later for the extensive training.

When the day grew old and night was being born, she finally rose from her spot against the marble column. The tide had retreated, only traces of moistness on the rocky edge. Her back ached from the position—something she hadn’t noticed until then. She had been too busy watching Cassian soar for over two hours across the city. He would dive down into the streets and reappear someplace else. It was mind-numbing; something to take her interest but need not a droplet of thought. Which was exactly what she needed.

But now she had her thoughts aligned and soothed enough that she didn’t contend with the idea of returning home. Though there was no rush in the endeavour, so Arwen meandered through the quiet streets rather than winnowing.

The town house was quiet upon her return, but not empty. Amren sat in the sitting room, playing with a bejewelled chain between her fingers. Arwen smiled. “Amren. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Amren merely glanced in her direction before focusing once more on the necklace. “Yes, well, I was rather bored sitting in my apartment all alone.”

Arwen pursed her lips, examining the town house. This didn’t seem much different from sitting in the smaller apartment, but she knew that understanding Amren would not be an achievement she gained her in her lifetime. “Alright. I’m going to make some dinner.”

She didn’t expect to hear Amren’s footsteps following, but it was no mistake of her senses. Arwen smiled over her shoulder again, moving into the kitchen. She would have asked one of the wraiths, but they appeared occupied elsewhere.

“How did the meeting go?” Amren inquired, lounging on one of the chairs at the island bench.

Arwen paused before she answered, wondering if any of the others had come down there at all to inform the female. How long had she been here alone? “It came to an understanding. There was some agreeance, some not so much. Lucien is earning his title if anything is certain.” Arwen grinned to herself at the thought. “Makes quite the emissary.”

Amren couldn’t have looked more unenthralled if she tried. “Interesting,” she muttered, tapping her nails against the benchtop. “And where have you been?”

“Down near that small pier. The one with the marble walkway.” Arwen cut into her carrots. “It has a nice view of the Sidra.”

Amren hummed. “You must have been down there for a while.”

Arwen tipped her head from side to side as she brushed the carrots off the chopping board and into a small bowl. “I suppose. I would have come home sooner but I just wanted some time alone.”

“It seems you could still use some time in quiet.”

Licking her lips, Arwen paused her movements once again and smiled at the jewel-hoarding creature across from her. “Yeah,” she admitted softly. “I don’t mind it. Not that I’m asking you to leave, you’re easy to have around.”

Amren gave a quiet snort and said, “You’re the first to think so,” before going back to playing with her necklace and Arwen to her cooking.

It wasn’t until her bowl of dinner was nearly finished as she sat next to Amren that their comfortable silence was ruined by the sound of heavy footsteps thundering through the town house. Arwen looked up from her food as Cassian stalked into the kitchen, his face stern and tight until he met her gaze.

“Ar—

“Cassian,” Amren interjected. Arwen curled her lips into a small smile towards the warrior as Amren’s tone suggested that he was in some sort of trouble. Cassian’s eyes widened, looking between the two females. “Excuse me, Arwen. I need to talk with the dog.”

“All good,” Arwen responded, clearing up the dregs of her soup.

Amren tugged Cassian out of the kitchen, then out of the town house. Arwen looked over her shoulder to see if she could see them into the window overlooking the garden, but they were out of sight. She kept her ears perked for any yelling—and any sign she should make move to stop her house from being torn apart by another fight but there was nothing of the sort.

Eventually, the pair returned, Cassian even with a small smile. He wandered around the bench, peering into the empty pot. “You didn’t leave me any?”

“I didn’t make you any,” she corrected with a chuckle. “I didn’t know you would be here. Speaking of being places, why the hell were you flying around for hours on end? Lose your favourite shoes or something?”

Cassian laughed, leaning his thick forearms against the bench. “Something like that.”

Arwen hummed. “I’ll make you some more,” she told him, sliding from her high-legged chair. Cassian insisted that she didn’t have to, but the act of service was the only thing she would let occupy her thoughts and brushed his insistences away.

As she leant against the bench, stirring the simmering pot, the town house’s front door opened again. Arwen’s eyes flickered over at the sound of more than one pair of feet. She pulled her bottom lip inward, realising that Mor, Rhysand and Azriel had all come down. Her quiet home had ended. Although she could contend that it ended with Cassian, even the warrior had been more placid than usual.

Amren sent a look to Cassian that Arwen couldn’t read properly, only watching next the short female’s chin jerk in the direction of the hall. Cassian nodded and patted the bench he leant against. “Smells good,” he said to Arwen, leaning over her shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Just as the voices in the hall were rising, something verging into an argument, Cassian veered around the archway out of sight. More shuffling followed as they moved to a far end of the house—probably the sitting room—and whatever discussion they were having became smothered under their breaths.

“You can visit my apartment if you need it, girl.”

Frowning, Arwen looked up from the soup. “What?”

“My apartment,” Amren reiterated. “As long as you come alone and keep quiet you may visit.”

Arwen wasn’t certain where the offer was coming from but thanked her with a soft smile and appreciative nod. A few more quiet minutes passed over before the Illyrians and Mor entered the kitchen—which was becoming cramped with the added wings taking up space.

She glanced over each one of them. Mor smiled then drew Amren into a conversation. Azriel stood like a statue guard, his siphons giving off a slight, pulsating flare. Rhysand looked… Well, he looked tired. Not a shocking revelation considering they had probably only returned from Hewn City that morning.

“It’s ready,” said Arwen quietly to Cass, handing him the ladle to serve himself. She was ready for an early night in her own bed. The inn hadn’t been all that terrible, but the emptiness of familiar heartbeats had put her in a cell of solitude.

Nobody questioned her as she departed from the kitchen and lower floor of the town house, her echoing steps the only sound to fill the void. A worm in her mind told her to question it, but she ignored the idea.

Her room gave a warm welcome, despite the cooling autumn days. Arwen took to her desk first, moving half-done sketches out of the way in room for something new. The piece of paper and paper-wrapped charcoal lay in front of her as she waited for an image to come to mind.

The knock almost became a welcome snapping from blankness.

Peeking over her shoulder, Rhysand stood on the threshold of her still open door. His hands were deep in his pockets and his hair looked as though he had just seconds ago run his hands through it. “What are you drawing?”

Arwen turned back straight. “Nothing yet.”

Footsteps sounded and soon he was standing behind her chair. She picked up the charcoal, tapping the end of it on the edge of the paper, leaving small, dark smudges that would irritate her if it turned out well.

“I don’t like when you’re angry at me.”

Her brows furrowed. “I’m not angry at you Rhys.” She craned her neck to look up at him. “I have nothing to be angry at you for. I’m sorry I didn’t make you dinner. Cassian was complaining because I made some for myself when he showed up and…”

“Don’t apologise,” he said as Arwen looked back down. Finally, her hand began working a curved line. “I’ll have Nuala and Cerridwen make something that Azriel can actually eat. Mor said you didn’t come home last night. And you didn’t let me in.” He tapped her skull with the light pad of his finger.

The prodding was slightly infuriating, wishing he would just ask whatever it is that he wanted. “I just wanted to have a night alone. I had no way of getting up to the House unless Azriel came down so I just found another spot to sleep.”

“You sure you’re not angry at me?” Arwen shook her head. “What are you drawing?”

“Lucien,” she answered. “He has a… captivating face.”

Rhysand leant his arm across the back of her chair, bending until his head was level with hers—and letting her see the scowl. “Don’t tell me you like him.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t,” she shot back. “He’s a reasonable male. Lived in bad circumstances. Unlike you, he just doesn’t think he has any power.” Her brother gave a slight frown at the comparison but said nothing. “And I think he liked me, even if he wouldn’t let himself.”

“Should I be worried about keeping my spymaster’s temper under control?”

She snorted at that. “I said I think he might like me—as in, can stand to be in my presence more than he can yours. Azriel was fine even after I went to meet that baker, so you’re underestimating him.”

Rhysand curved his face in front of her own. “You really think he was fine after that?”

Her glance at him was sharpened into a glare. That was not something she desired to know. “We don’t need to worry about all that stuff. But how is Azriel, after everything with Ianthe?”

With a sigh, he turned to sit on her desk, facing the opposite wall. “What do you think? He doesn’t want to talk about any of it. I’m not going to pry answers out of him.”

“How are you doing?”

“Ianthe is like a fly. Annoying, but can be swatted away.”

Arwen twisted her lips as she thought, forgetting her drawing momentarily. “Don’t underestimate her. You of all people should know that. She won’t do anything obvious again. Not with weapons bared. Ianthe will be sneaky, and I highly doubt she counted the night embarrassing enough to deter her.”

“I have reason to keep you around then. I’m sure she’ll never forget you slamming a door on her hand.”

She pointed the end of her charcoal at him. “Show that memory to Cassian. I want him to know my threat about stealing my sugar cherries was real. And Mor too, but just because I know she’ll appreciate it. Now shoo, I’m trying to remember Lucien’s face.”

Rhysand held his hands next to his chest, sliding off the desk. “I’ll let Azriel know why you won’t join us tonight.”

The charcoal stylus threatened to snap under her finger. “You’re not funny, Rhysand.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 34

Arwen lay in an abyss of darkness.

Voices above her were muffled like she was underwater, and the light creaking of floorboards signalled movement. She lay on her back, hands on her stomach, playing with a simple gem ring. It was claustrophobic and had taken her a while to still her fidgeting, but it would all be worth it in the end.

She waited a few more minutes, until a small whisper from Rhys came into her mind and Arwen shot up.

Her upper body flung through the floorboards of the town house, a ghastly cry making her throat itch. Cassian, who was standing just inches in front of where she appeared, screamed. He leapt towards the roof, booted feet thudding heavily back against the floor and laughter from around them ensued.

Azriel leant against the sitting room’s wall, head resting back with a loose grin and silent laughter racking his shoulders. A black sweater covered his arms, sinking down into trousers just as dark. Rhysand and Mor sat on the lounge, their crowing laughter uninhibited. Amren who elegant draped herself across the single-seater, offered a mildly amused tip in one corner of her mouth.

Cassian nothing, his lips tightly sealed as his chest rose in a long draw of air. Arwen grinned up at him. He pointed at her, saying nothing as red flushed across his cheeks and ears, then turned around and walked back towards the main hall.

“Cassian!” she drew out in a chuckle as he strode away, wings tight to the back that faced her. The others only laughed harder at his reaction. Arwen giggled and pushed to her feet, the floorboards around her knees. Unable to return to normal inside, she waded through the floor of the house to the dark street outside.

Closing her eyes, she imagined Amren standing in front of her—threatening her with the stone to return to her tangible body. There was nothing to feel, nothing to sense. But when Arwen opened her eyes, she knew. Placing the ring back on, she darted inside.

Cassian stood in the kitchen, one hand on the bench, the other on his hip. Still grinning, there was no falter in her step as she went to him. “Happy birthday. I did promise you a surprise this morning.”

He shook his head. “I’m not talking to you.” He too was wearing a nice, dark collared shirt and pants. Although his hair was unbrushed, it was loose and relatively tame.

“I think you put a hole in the ceiling with how high you jumped.”

His lips rolled inwards, turning his head away from her. They were preparing for a night out at Rita’s, and by Cassian’s demand, to get so drunk they don’t even remember it in the morning. Arwen decided that she wouldn’t drink too much, intending to remember his scream until the end of time.

“I’m not talking to you,” he repeated.

“Come on!” She lugged his arm over her shoulder to her front and tugged him out of the kitchen. “If we wait any longer, Mor is going to have a conniption.”

Eventually, they made it out of the door and decided to take the long way to Rita’s by walking. Cassian continued to ignore her, which only brought her more entertainment with his methods, even managing as she hung from the back of his neck.

“I’m not sure how we’re all going to get home,” Azriel said to her as they walked behind the other four. “I’m not sure how we do on any of our birthdays actually.” Arwen made a snorting sound of agreement and folded her arms against the cooling night’s breeze. It would be muggy inside Rita’s once they were there, so she hadn’t bothered bringing a coat. “I haven’t seen that dress in a while.”

She looked down at herself. The silver dress had a fitted bodice and loose skirt with a slit up to her mid-thigh. The back was made of three thin strands from either side weaving over each other, leaving the span of her back on display. Rhysand hadn’t asked about it either, but the look he gave her when she came down from her room was enough for her to nod at.

“I’m surprised you remember it,” she said. “It’s been a while since I’ve worn it.” It wasn’t what he was truly inquiring into, but she wouldn’t give him the answer he sought unless he directly asked for it. “You look handsome tonight.”

The smile came, however small. “Thank you.”

Arwen bit into her lip, still looking up at him as they walked. A tuft of dark hair that usually sat behind his ear had moved over it. Without permission, her hand stretched towards it, tanned fingers curling the piece behind his rounded ear tips. Azriel’s ears and cheeks twitched, eyes darting down to the road, then to her. “It was annoying me,” she told him.

The raw uncertainty morphed into something of smooth confidence. “My apologies for the inconvenience, princess.”

“Oh, don’t you start calling me that.”

“I thought it was starting to catch on?”

“Have you not, in your near three hundred years of knowing Cassian, ever learnt that he’s an idiot and not to follow in his footsteps?”

Ahead, Cassian whipped his head around with an ‘Oi!’

“I thought you were ignoring me,” she pointed out. Cassian narrowed his eyes, then looked forward. Arwen rolled her neck and smiled at Azriel. “Don’t follow in his footsteps.”

“Duly noted,” Azriel said.

Inside Rita’s they were ushed by a server to their favourite table near the back. Arwen waved them on, heading straight for the tap bar. Upon her return, she held a round dish with a drink for each of them, minus Amren. “First drinks are on me,” she sang.

Rhysand gave her an unamused look to which she only smiled back at. Arwen didn’t exactly have a personal account under her name. With her brother, Mor and Amren on one side of the table, Arwen slid in the opposite with Azriel and Cassian. She almost sat off the edge to give their wings enough room and not accidentally knock Azriel’s.

“Are you going to talk to me now, Cass?”

“I hear a buzzing noise.”

Arwen leant forward onto the table so she could see past Azriel’s form. Cassian smiled blithely at Mor opposite, ignoring her piercing gaze. “You have to admit it was hilarious.”

“I have never heard him scream like that,” Mor added.

“You are not helping my case,” Arwen muttered. Reaching across, she prodded the warrior with her finger. “Cassian. Cassian. Cassian.”

Finally, he looked at her. “You are like a mosquito. And you know what I do when a mosquito annoys me?”

She leant closer, her body hovering over Azriel who sat in between them. “You’re talking to me. You’ve forgiven me.” Arwen grinned up at Azriel. “He’s forgiven me.”

Cassian took a little longer to forgive her, but at the bargain of another drink it was like the joke never happened. The drinks kept appearing, so fast that Arwen had another lined up before she had even gotten halfway on her second, which already seemed enough for the night. Mor eventually dragged most of them into the dancing area, but Arwen retreated to the table early to sit with Azriel.

She shuffled closer to him, not out of seeking his presence, but because the backs of the chairs were low. Through the dancing, hands had brushed over her skin, feeling what even she had yet to brave and touch. Now she wanted the barrier back up and Azriel’s body was the only thing other than the wall to offer it.

“Is everything okay?”

Arwen turned her head towards him, her body facing outwards. The words were at the tip of her tongue. Azriel would understand. Of course he would. But she held those words for the same reason that she wore the dress in the first place. Rhysand was right—she spent far too much time on her own problems. “I’m fine.”

“It’s my job to know when people are lying and to get the truth out of them.”

He said it so nonchalantly that she took a moment to piece together an image in her head. “So are you going to torture me for the truth then?” She wiped her finger along her nearly empty glass, through the condensation.

“I won’t have to resort to it because you’ll tell me.”

Arwen gave him a hard stare which he only returned with quiet patience. He had his own drink—his third, if she counted right—in front of him. The small wine-red beads reminded her of one of the few times that she had seen their spymaster perform the truly horrid side of his duties. “I don’t believe you have the position to give me orders, Azriel,” she said, though there was a notable lack of accusation in her voice. Azriel huffed, a quirk of his lips revealing his agreeance. Arwen sighed, turning her head to gaze back out. Her brother was now at the bar itself, talking with someone she didn’t know the name of. Mor and Cassian were performing something akin to a dance, but she refused to call it as such with how ridiculous they both looked. Amren was talking with a bland expression to a serving fae. “I shouldn’t have worn this dress. It’s… Not right for dancing in.”

Azriel made no comment on her half-lie, but from the corner of her eye, she watched as he tugged on the end of his dark sweater. Returning her full gaze to him, he pulled the material over his head, shifting his wings until they too slid out from the fabric. Then he scrunched it up until he held the entire thing in his fists and stretched open the neck-hole. And then held it out to her. “Put it on,” he told her. An offer, but also an order.

Arwen sat frozen but her stiffness wasn’t read as refusal. He leant forward, aiming the sweater over her head. As soon as the fabric passed over her eyes, she snapped back to focus and guided her arms into the sleeves as he adjusted the rest over her torso. It was warm, perhaps a bit too warm for where they were but it held every bit of comfort that she wanted at that moment.

Pulling the long sleeves over her palms and resting her chin in her cupped hands, she scented him on it as well and her body flooded with ease. “Thank you.” Not for the sweater, but because he understood. He understood that she didn’t want to brave it through, didn’t want to hear him tell her to be strong and get over it.

But it reminded her again that Rhysand was right. Her problems had become so prevalent and linked with her identity that she did not even need to speak for them to be seen. The thought sobered her and the drink in front of her looked nowhere near as refreshing as before.

The others returned to the table, Arwen now cramped between Cassian and Azriel. She had to cross her knees to make room for theirs. Rhysand’s noticeably hazed eyes skimmed across the sweater, met hers for one moment, then left it be. Arwen pushed her drink towards Cassian who promptly forget any remaining ire towards her and downed it in a single go.

Her foot nudged Rhysand’s under the table which brought them into a war of shoes that the others remained oblivious to until she hid her foot behind Azriel’s which had one folded over the other. Rhysand frowned as he likely scanned the area and couldn’t find her. Arwen smiled behind her sweater-covered hands. She could feel Azriel’s calves, the side of her thigh pressed against his. As she felt the presence of her brother’s feet nearing through vibrations against the floor. St Azriel’s curious gaze, she let out a giggle and lifted her feet into the air, stretching them towards the wall, over Azriel’s legs.

Rhysand scoffed, sinking a bit in his seat to stretch his legs. Mor jolted and shuffled in her seat with an odd look to him as he did what Arwen had done and knocked her seat neighbour. Azriel, however, gave a small laugh under his breath. Arwen almost forgot about her unspoken game as his hands, hot and steady, smoothed across both her calves and guided them down onto his thighs so she wasn’t using her strength to hold them up. He moved underneath her, a scuffing underneath the table informing her that he had joined in the game and Rhysand now had a defence to get through.

Arwen laughed and pushed her legs further away from the other side until her knees pressed into Azriel’s stomach. Cassian, who she was now leaning back against, mistook her presence for wanting affection and loosely swung an arm around her chest as he spoke to an oblivious Amren (who Arwen was sure was purposefully not paying attention). Mor, finally catching on, joined in the battle.

Chapter Text

Chapter 35

Arwen held a tight grip on Rhysand’s wrist as she led them through the quiet street. She and Azriel were almost stone-cold sober by the time they left Rita’s. Mor, Cassian and her brother on the other hand… Not trusting herself to winnow them all to the town house in one piece, she succumbed to having to lead him across the city like he was a toddler on a sugar high. Amren had waved them off to return to her apartment. Cassian had gained the proclivity for flying aimlessly. Just a few feet off the ground but his drunken staggers were enough to send warning signals blaring through her mind. Fortunately, Azriel would tug him back down each to earth time. Mor, at least, was easy to deal with and Arwen would certainly be informing Cassian and Rhysand that her cousin held her liquor far better than them.

The sweater fended off the cooled breeze of the late autumn’s night.

“It’s strange seeing you like this.”

In wonder of what he meant, Arwen moved her gaze from the road ahead to Rhysand at her right. “Like what?”

He used his unrestrained hand to swipe a finger down the slope of her nose. “Stern-faced.” She huffed at his laxed tone—something that always came out on this day of every year. Cassian’s birthday certainly was a call for celebration.

“I’m just tired. And you dragging your weight doesn’t help.”

“I didn’t ask you to haul me along like a horse and cart.”

“I’m making sure you don’t trip over yourself.”

“It’s not your job to take care of me.”

Arwen didn’t answer at first. She just kept walking, her ‘stern’ face deepening into a now settled frown. Slicing her gaze to Azriel between Mor and Cassian, she deduced that he would be fine to handle both of them for a few minutes, and stopped walking, pulling Rhysand to a stop as well. He sighed, looking down at her like he already knew exactly what she was going to say and had an argument prepared. “Do you tell that to everybody?” she asked. He said nothing. “Because if you say that to everybody then there’s going to be nobody left to take care of you when you need it.”

He tightened his lips inwards. “I’m strong enough to deal with my own burdens.”

Arwen felt a burning in her eyes. She hadn’t expected it—hadn’t felt marginally upset until that very second. Frustrated—yes, just not upset. Perhaps she wasn’t as sober as she first assumed. “And you’d prefer that I just didn’t try to help you with anything?”

“I’d still be fine without you.” The burning spread like a plague through her throat and down into her stomach. Rhysand closed his eyes with a sharp breath. “That’s not… I’m in the right mind for this conversation, Ar.”

Certainly not if he was calling her that. It sounded like he intended to say her full name then drifted off at the end. “Nevermind it,” she muttered, pulling on his wrist again until they matched stride with the others who had moved ahead. Reaching the town house, Mor took herself up to her bedchamber. Cassian assured everybody that he was fine to see himself to bed, his feet thudding up the staircase.

Azriel looked at her. “I’ll follow him.”

Arwen hummed in agreement. Last time Cassian had drunk as much as he had tonight, he had found himself exploring through her wardrobe, trying to figure out with her nightgown wouldn’t fit over his shoulders.

She followed him up with Rhysand still under her control. Before she made it up three steps, a hard yank freed him and her fingers clutched air. Arwen turned back, a bit aghast by the harsh gesture. But Rhysand only replaced her empty palm with his hand. She waited for him to follow, to give in to the slight tension of their muscles.

“I don’t need you to take my burdens.” He squeezed her hand and Arwen felt the tightness climb her arm and into her heart. “I need you as my sister. To just… Be here. No expectations, no responsibilities, just be at my side.”

She remained silent, staring at an empty spot of black on his jacket. She wanted to tell him that it didn’t feel right to just stand back and watch him take the weight of loads he could share with her. That she didn’t want to just be there, because when she stood at the side there came an emptiness where purpose was supposed to be.

Part of her was terrified that it changed everything. That now they saw her as something that needed handling. Still a child.

Arwen took her hand back. “If this is your way of telling me you can get to your bed on your own, then fine. Go ahead.” She jerked her head towards the second floor.

He sighed as he took breached the first step, yet his height stood over her, bathing her in a shadow. “Your dedication to my safe journey into sleep has been appreciated.”

“But unneeded,” she filled in. “I understand.”

He took another half-step up, a challenging expression rising through his eyes but the exhaustion must have won out. “Let’s talk in the morning. I’ll take you down to that café along the Sidra. Just maybe not at sunrise like last time.”

Arwen didn’t give him a confirmational answer, only gesturing upwards again with her teeth clamping her lips. With a final sigh, he moved past her, his quiet footsteps the only sound in the town house other than an occasional, hard shuffling against the upper floorboards signalling Cassian moving around without an inkling of grace.

Following everybody else’s footsteps, Arwen returned to her room, changing out of the dress and into nightwear—a comfortable set of fleece pants and shirt. With a moment of thought, she put Azriel’s sweater back on as well.

She picked up the open letter on her desk, admiring the curved letters of her name. A trained hand, no doubt. It had come through a week ago, and she left it there to remind herself to send a reply to Lucien. He didn’t think of her as a child in need of help. Quiet the opposite in truth. Though he wouldn’t say it outright, she could read between the lines his struggle with adapting to a new court. The grief he still felt and the lingering pain f his own family’s betrayal. He never mentioned Tamlin.

Their shared letters were polite and courteous to the point where a stranger could read them and not think much of them. But Arwen knew that they were a way for them both to slip out of their life, if only for the duration of writing it.

Placing it back down, she ventured back onto the first floor of the town house in search of a warm drink to soothe her muscles. She wasn’t the only one.

Azriel stood in the kitchen, spooning raw sugar into a mug. “Want one?” he inquired, already reaching for another mug. Arwen nodded and curled her arms around her stomach. “Cassian is tucked in like a babe and will sleep till midday.”

“So he had his favourite type of birthday, getting drunk with his brothers and being unable to remember it the next morning,” she crooned, leaning against the bench next to him. Azriel chuckled and nodded. Her smile strengthened as she watched him stir hot water into their tea. “You’re allowed to join in with them. Amren and I are more than capable of ensuring you all get home. Or I’ll make sure you’re comfortable in the gutter.”

He smiled down at her. “I know.” She believed him. “And I do, usually when it’s just the three of us. I didn’t feel like it tonight. You’re allowed to, as well. You barely drank anything all night.”

Shrugging, she told him, “I didn’t want to either.” He handed her a steaming tea, holding his own close to his chest. Arwen sipped the concoction of sugar and herbs, the taste far more riveting than any alcohol she had tasted. Her eyes traced the length of his cotton sleeves. “You might have to fight me for this sweater back. It’s really soft.”

He examined the material hanging loosely from her. “You may have it if you want.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks—something she put down to the flooding of heat from the tea throughout the rest of her body. “That’s no fun though,” she murmured, smiling over her mug’s brim. “An Illyrian should care for when his things are taken without permission.”

He taunted her back, leaning forward with a growing smile. “Did I not just give you that permission?” At the roll of her eyes, he laughed. “I will ask for it back then. Tomorrow. I’ll be prepared to fight for it.”

Arwen twisted her shoulders to point one towards him and cover part of her lips. “Are you going to use Truth Teller to threaten me?”

His brows furrowed in a serious manner, leaning so close she wasn’t sure if she was still smelling his lingering scent on the sweater or something right off his skin. “Stealing from an Illyrian male is a grievous crime and you will be duly punished.”

“What if I steal that to?” Her lips careened into a cattish grin, moving her mug into one hand as the other moved silently between them towards his thigh where it was always safely lodged. It wasn’t visible, covered by his shadows but Arwen knew him too well to know that he wouldn’t go anywhere without it.

“I’d warn you against it.”

She tested it, her fingers grazing the clothed skin of his outer thigh until they edged onto the leather sheathe. Azriel remained still as death, everything about him pinpointed on her like a predator with a single prey in mind. But she wasn’t scared like the prey would be when they noticed. Her thumb skimmed across the wrapped hilt until she met the cold Illyrian steel of the pommel. Then dropped her hand away.

“Don’t worry.” She laughed under her breath, pressed onto her toes and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I know it’s off limits. Even for us.”

Taking a step back, she prepared something of a smirk but he snatched her hand. Arwen stumbled forward, droplets of tea spilling onto her wrist but the burn was nothing compared to that of his hand grasping hers. Azriel led her hand back to his thigh, fingers curling around hers and guided her palm around the hilt of Truth Teller until they both held onto it.

They stood together, her chest moving in small pants, their breath mingling between them.

“Nothing is off limits to you.”

Her heart, as painful as it was considering it was what was keeping her alive, pounded against her ribs so hard she felt the tremors through each individual bone. Her fingers flexed around the forbidden hilt, his with hers. Eventually, after it was almost becoming unbearably uncomfortable to stand there, he let her go.

If felt anything of the effects she did, he was skilled enough to hide it. “You need it, you take it,” he said. “Don’t bother asking me and I won’t ask for answers. When I’m sleeping it’s under my pillow. You wake me. Otherwise, I might hurt you.” Arwen nodded as though she was being given orders.

Her lips wobbled into a smile. “I might need it if Rhys continues eating my uncooked cookie batter.” It might work quite well when he recognises the blade—knowing he just became a worthy target of such a weapon. At Azriel’s characteristic silence, Arwen lifted her shoulders in a stretch. “I think I might read for a while. Get a fire going.”

When he said nothing still, she took her tea with another ‘thank you’ and set off to the sitting room. The fire was already alight upon entrance, meaning Mor or Rhysand had used their magic before disappearing upstairs. Arwen picked up her abandoned book on the small stand that she was well into. Sinking into the lounge, she pulled a loose throw-rug over her legs and bundled herself against the pillows then let herself fall into a world far away from Velaris.

The lounge gave under an extra weight. Azriel leant forward partially. Arwen glimpsed at him. “Here,” she whispered, handing him one of her pillows and gesturing towards his back. He placed it against his low spine, letting him lean back without the pressure against his wings. Kicking the end of her rug, she let it billow out over his legs but left him to adjust it as he saw fit.

“Thank you,” his hoarse voice came.

Arwen smiled and went back to the book in her lap, legs folded underneath her. Every few page turns, she’d sneak a glance back over. He just sat there, content to do and say nothing. Unable to stand his ability to remain so unnervingly at ease, she twisted around until her side leant against his resting arm. Arwen placed her cheek on his shoulder, never once removing her eyes from the book as she moved.

Azriel softened under her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 36

Arwen shared her morning tea with Azriel over the dining table. He had woken up on the better side of his bed that morning and even managed to break a few smiles at her lousy attempts of jests. She had woken in her bed that morning, but with no memory of returning to it, Arwen was left with only the impression that he had carried her up. And the thought of it—well, it was a warmth she tried to not acknowledge.

But she realised exactly what it meant. The lie she told herself, and Cassian. I don’t care about him. Not anymore. A lie bigger than Cassian’s inflated head. Because as she looked across the table, her mind reeling with something else to say that would lift his lips and offer her a hoarse chuckle, she knew she did care. A lot. And maybe it was just the mate bond or maybe it was something else, but Arwen didn’t find herself caring to define the difference.

It was either the worst thing to befall her, or the best.

She still wore his dark sweater, pulled over her palms to form a barrier against the mug’s heat. He had indeed asked for it back upon seeing her move down the stairs. Arwen promptly laughed, shook her head and darted around him. The narrowed eyes of warning informed her that he wouldn’t give up on the challenge so quickly but had yet to mention it again.

Rhysand was the first of the other three to show his face in the late morning in black slacks and a plain cotton shirt. “Morning,” he rasped, peering into the dining room. He lifted a brow at Arwen. “You want to go to that café for breakfast?”

She lifted her tea. “I’m not that hungry.” Arwen hoped he had forgotten the offer. To talk, he had said.

He glanced down at her hand. “Lunch then,” he decided.

She could read between what he said; that he didn’t want to leave whatever he had said to her last night as the end of their conversation. But Arwen knew she had heard enough. It wasn’t a conversation she wanted to sit through with anybody, let alone her brother. “I don’t feel like going out today, Rhys.”

Rhysand shifted on his feet, glancing at Azriel then back at her. ‘I want to talk with you’, he sent to her.

Azriel played oblivious, entertaining himself with his tea.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m fine and you’re fine,” she answered aloud. “Unless you’re not fine but then again, you have a habit of keeping that to yourself and wouldn’t offer to take me to lunch just to tell me such. So everything is fine, Rhys. We don’t need to talk.”

Azriel’s training in remaining stoic proved to serve him well, sitting there between them as if didn’t hear a single word.

Rhysand sighed again, this time in frustration. Rather than entertain her frustrating responses, he only tightened his lips before saying, “I’ll be in my office if you change your mind. Have the day off, Az. We all seem to need it.” He stalked off and Arwen looked back down at her drink.

“Sounds like you need to talk,” Azriel murmured, his eyes tracing her as though expecting a lash in response. Arwen was near thinking of giving it.

“He’s being a hypocrite is all,” she muttered back, certain that her brother could still hear the words. Rounding her shoulders as if to shed the past moments, she said, “Feel like training? I feel like training. Let’s go training.”

Azriel opened his mouth, the sound taking a few more seconds to follow. “Rooftop?”

“Where else?” Arwen placed down her mug, and he looked at it in surprise that she decided to move so fast. Following her lead, he placed down his own and rose to his feet. “I’ll get dressed,” she told him.

Darting upstairs, Arwen passed a languid Mor and slipped into her chamber. Stripping down and re-dressing into her leathers, she was back downstairs before Azriel had even cleaned up their small breakfast. Clutching his wrist, she took him with her outside.

Arwen couldn’t remember the last time they flew together. And that hesitance ricocheted of them both. He stood still before her, his wings in a slight flare that prepared him to fly. Swallowing the dryness of her through, she asked, “Would you rather I cling to you or that you carry me?”

His lips tightened into a small smile with a slow blink accompanying it. In answer, he bent at his knees and she let herself fall into his opening arms. Her own encircled his neck as her feet lifted from the roadside. Arwen’s nose brushed against his jaw, welcoming her with his cedar scent.  Her stomach cinched as he readjusted his arms under her. Her eyes fell to the way his fingers indented the flesh of her thigh above her knee.

In a single beat of his wings, they were in the air. Arwen tightened her grip, but as always, a smile rose as the city of Velaris grew smaller below her. Smaller, but so much wider as the entire expanse of the land filled her sights.

They didn’t speak the entire flight to the House, nor in the minutes after they landed on the rooftop. Azriel let her lead, assisting in her stretches and performing his own. When she began to bandage her hands, he cocked his head. “Is me or Rhys that you want to fight?”

Arwen twisted her lips into a smirk, void of true amusement. “Does it matter?”

“He seemed keen for your company this morning. Perhaps you would benefit speaking with him between punches rather than bites of delicate sandwiches.”

Tucking in the end of the bandage, she dropped her hands to her side. “I don’t want to hear what he has to say and it’s not your matter to speak your opinions on.” He bowed his head momentarily in submission. She couldn’t stand it. “He’s all I have.” Her throat stung. “Not that… Not that I think of you and the others so distantly, but he’s the only thing I’ve had since the day I was born that’s been mine.”

Azriel removed some of his leathers, stripping down to the bare skins of it. “So why are you pushing him away?”

Arwen chuckled bitterly. “I’m not the one pushing him away.” She shook out her hands as they veered into one of the training circles. “I just thought… That he needed me as much as I needed him. I was wrong.”

Her chest grew with a long breath. He stood opposite her, his fists unfurled at his sides and his dark brows burrowed slightly over his nose. Thinking. Arwen could see those thoughts rising to his lips, so she lifted her arms and feet into a fighting stance and sent a right hook.

He caught it and twisted her arm until he held it pin-straight against his chest, the back of her shoulder against the front of his. “He does need you,” he said into her ear.

Arwen twisted her way out of the hold with a well aimed kick of her heel to his knee. “In a reiteration of his own words, he just needs me to stand around. To be a painting he looks at when he wants to.”

“At least you know what to get him for his birthday.”

She dropped her arms as they stood apart. “That is not funny Azriel.” Despite herself, she laughed and he broke into a smile, hidden beneath his ducked head. Arwen took the opportunity to lunge forward but he was too ahead of her and caught the punch.

The rest of their training went on in with only grunts filling in the silence between. Arwen endeavoured to ensure that it was a strenuous session for him just as much as it was for her, making him work hard to get any strike on her and kept him in holds that had even the centuries-long trained spymaster pausing to contemplate his next move.

Panting as they lay in the training ring, Arwen waved her hand and a flagon of water and two glasses appeared between them. Azriel looked down at them with surprise. “New trick?” he inquired.

She shrugged. “My magic is finally showing itself. Seems I can do more than travel into the spirit realm.” Pouring him then herself a glass, she added, “This is far more useful.”

“Yes, I’ll admit I haven’t quite seen the benefit of your other little trick yet.”

“Other than scarring a decade off Cassian’s lifespan?” she crooned. He made a toast with his glass in agreement. Arwen sipped at her chilled drink, playing with the buckle on his leather boots. “I’m sorry if I’m tossing stuff on you about Rhys and me. I… know he means well but he thinks I’m capable of just sitting back.”

Azriel looked into his glass with furrowed brows.

“What?” she prompted slowly, seeing the edge of his thoughts seep into his face.

He gradually moved his gaze from the water to her, a pensive look etched into his skin. “Maybe that is all he needs from you.”

Arwen’s gut churned, the muscles in her jaw swelling at the skin as she clenched it shut. Was she truly being reduced to being a vase on a mantle—something pretty to have around and give the occasional water for the flowers? Did Azriel not believe her capable either? Not capable of being a confidant to her own brother?

“Arwen.” Her eyes cut back to the spymaster who seemed to have been calling for attention for longer than she had been listening. His gaze softened—something not commonly seen, but still all the more welcome. Azriel hooked his arm over his single raised knee. “You nearly died in Rhys’s arms.”

“Ten years ago,” she muttered.

He loosened a breath. “Ten, twenty. It doesn’t matter. I still don’t know today if he meant to, but Cassian and I were pulled into his mind when he found you.” Azriel rolled his bottom lip in, blinking as he glanced away and turning a shade paler. “Blood just kept pouring from you. More than I thought your body could hold. You were screaming but the worst part was when you went silent. When he kept shaking you but you wouldn’t respond. I thought I was watching you die.”

Arwen shook her head in a slight daze, a phantom pain burning through the scars. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Maybe that’s all Rhys needs,” he said, echoing his earlier words. “For you to be here. Alive. That’s all he will dare ask the Mother for. The Cauldron for. I know it’s all I do.”

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if she believed his assumption. But Arwen didn’t pour every ounce of her attention into thinking about her brother at that moment. Her lashes fluttered as she watched Azriel stare out towards the city, his eyes filled with some semblance of remorse. Remorse for her—for what almost became of her. “I need a bath,” she said quietly. “Care to take me back down?”

Fortunately sensing her desire to leave the topic on the rooftop, Azriel nodded and stood, offering her a hand. Arwen smiled as she took it, barely given a moment before he swept her off her feet. Literally and metaphorically. She admired the way his wings stretched as he took flight, smothering her temptation to reach and trace the line of an artery. His grip had significantly tightened compared to their flight to the House.

Their landing, almost directly in front of the town house, was graceful. Almost feline. Azriel took care in letting her take her foot before releasing her but Arwen let her hands linger on his shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For the training and… the advice. Who knew you would be good at it?”

He cocked his head closer to his shoulder. “I’m not sure why people find that surprising.”

Arwen didn’t battle her grin. “Suppose I’m just used to taking Cassian’s.”

Azriel choked on a laugh. “It’s a wonder you haven’t turned up in a ditch if you listen to him.”

She sang a hum of agreement, her thoughts only half on the conversation. The gilded sunlight honeyed his tanned face, which glistened with a thin sheet of sweat. His dark lashes accentuated the sharpness of his almond eyes and the utter handsomeness of the rest of his face. She had never seen another male come close to his beauty. “Thank you,” she said again, forgetting she had said it at all.

Azriel nodded gently, looking over her once and the way his eyes took her in was Arwen’s undoing. Forgetting her silent vow of a decade, forgetting all the nights she spent telling herself that the Mother or the Cauldron—whoever it was—made a mistake, she placed her hands on either side of his neck. And kissed him.

Even her Winter Solstice coco couldn’t compare to the sweetness of his lips. She rose onto her toes to relieve the straining of her neck, granting her a better angle in the process.

But there was no movement against her.

The realisation sent a tremor through her body akin to a shiver, only this one sickening and lingering. Arwen slowed her movements, a sliver of light peeking through her lashes as they began to part, terrified of what she would be facing.

Then a hand laid on her waist, then a second. And they kept her there, close to him. Azriel started to kiss her back, moving in ways she couldn’t anticipate. Arwen rose back higher onto her toes, tightening her arms around his neck. His fingers cinched the waist fabric of her trousers before one arm snapped around her completely, decidedly locking her to him. Possessive or passionate, she couldn’t and didn’t care to tell apart.

Before it could deepen, despite her desire for it, Arwen pulled herself away. Delightfully, Azriel seemed just as flushed as her. Rose dusted his cheeks and ears and the back of his hair had been scuffled by her arms. Tightening her lips, she said, “That could have happened a decade ago if you weren’t such a stupid prick.”

He paled, the cartilage in his throat bobbing.

Arwen sighed, releasing the energy that had just erupted inside of her. Saying nothing, she turned and headed into her home, letting him decide whether to follow or return to the House to be alone. Not hearing anything, she shut the foyer door behind her.

The town house remained unusually quiet, especially for a late morning, though Mor and Cassian were likely still languid in their chambers. Arwen didn’t particularly want to be with them at that time anyway. She made her way across the first floor, barely a creak sounding underneath her feet. Her fist closed around the cold brass of her brother’s office door.

Rhysand sat behind his desk, a foot propped against the edge of the wood and little work actually appearing to be performed. He said nothing at her entrance but waited patiently as she shifted weight to each foot. Then, as though her thoughts were as vivid as a painted sunset, he stood and spread his arms. Arwen marched across the small room and around the desk, enveloping herself in his embrace. She clutched the back of his jacket as he rested his chin against the crown of her head and he held her with the same desperation. 

“I wouldn’t be fine without you,” he whispered into her hair. “Not at all.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 37

Arwen wrinkled her nose at the morose gloom of Windhaven. It had been many years since she deigned to step foot in such a place, and if it wasn’t for the three Illyrians next to her, she wouldn’t dare. From neck to toes she was clad in her leathers. A sword was strapped to her back, albeit the length far more suited to her stature compared to Cassian’s great sword holstered in the same manner.

She observed the camp as they strode through it towards Rhysand’s small cabin. Delvon was aware of their arrival, the letter sent a week prior, but not of their true intention.

Rhysand and Cassian had been deliberating ways of bringing the females into training for months now. Years, really. It had never been done before in Illyria’s history and considering their kind’s history, it wouldn’t be a pulled-off in a day. Illyrians and Fae alike still tested her brother’s reign but now he finally had his claws deep enough into his court to begin this endeavour. And Arwen was finally ready.

They needed to plant the idea in the females’ minds first—show them that they were capable of training. She would be the demonstration; the test and the stick to poke the males with to see how they would react. How Rhysand should prepare when he brings in the official laws.

“Can’t say I missed this place,” she muttered. Cassian grunted on her right.

“I believe this is where you cut Cassian’s hair off once,” Rhysand remarked on her other side, his light tone still serrated with caution as they weaved around the other Illyrians. They stared; some scowled or growled snide comments.

Arwen’s lips tilted up at the memory he showed her. She had been curious, at her young age, whether letter openers were capable of cutting through more than envelopes. Her hypothesis was proven right.

“I was wondering why I had a sudden aversion standing next to you,” Cassian groused but a scant glance in his direction was met with a shadow of a smile meant only for her.

On Cassian’s far side, Azriel silently prowled alongside them, armed to the tooth and his siphons gleaming in warning. All seven on them. Arwen spied him for a few more steps but he was too occupied with studying every inch of the camp, shadows swirling around his arms, to notice.

They hadn’t spoken of their shared moment, but it hadn’t worried her. They both hadn’t a chance to sit alone. He had been called back to Hewn City, then he visited the Spring Court and Autumn Court to investigate the extent of their tempestuous relationship. At her own request he hunted down Ianthe’s location, who appeared to have remained in the Spring Court.

Arwen concluded that he needed the time that these tasks gave him, in any case. Azriel needed the space and seclusion to unravel his thoughts in the same way that she relied on company.

Her pace quickened at the sight of the warded cabin, the handle unlatching at her touch. She kicked the snow off her boots and slipped inside. She didn’t miss this place either. “Mother’s fucking tits it’s cold.”

“Language,” Rhysand drawled as he trailed in behind her.

Arwen shrugged. “Cassian says it.”

Cassian held his hands in surrender. “I withheld all foul language until she was twenty. After that I’m not responsible for what comes out of her mouth. Besides, you’re an idiot if you think that’s the worse thing she’ll hear here.”

Rhysand scowled as he waved through the air, their packs appearing. “Don’t remind me. Delvon has some… Issues he’d like to raise with me. I suspect I’ll be gone for most of the evening.”

Arwen held her arms, her lips shaking with an extended breath. Azriel, still silent as ever, took a gentle hold of her elbow and guided her a few feet across the room. The fireplace she had her back turned to had been struck alight with magic. “Thanks.”

Cassian leant against the end of the mantle. “Az and I won’t let her out of our sights,” he promised. He cocked his head towards her. “You sure you’re up for it, kid?”

She looked at him, then her brother and finally Azriel who remained just behind her shoulder. “If I say no do I get to go back somewhere warmer?” She frowned as three distinct laughs softly filled the room. Fine then. “We’re going over to the training rings this afternoon?”

Rhysand shook his head. “We’ll wait till morning when I’m done with Delvon.”

Arwen frowned again. “I trust Cass and Azriel with my life. We’ll be fine to go down—”

“It’s not them or you I don’t trust,” he interjected calmly. “But the camps are still… Getting used to my choice of court. If they start something, it might leave you vulnerable.”

She stared at him with a softened glare. It was true that they had predicted the uprise of certain Illyrians against their bastard-born General Commander and even against Azriel but Arwen knew they could handle it. And she could handle herself alone long enough until it had been dealt with.

It wasn’t her fear of Illyrians that founded her aversion to the camps, though she could not deny they played a part. It wasn’t even the camps themselves. But they were outside of Velaris and anything outside of Velaris made her uneasy. And perhaps Rhys felt the same way for her.

“Morning then,” she agreed. “What are we going to do until then?”

“Thought we could go shopping,” Cassian mocked. “Try on the latest leathers.”

“Stay inside,” Azriel drawled. “Where it’s warm and we don’t have to look at them.”

Arwen poised her brows high at him. “Someone’s grouchy,” she mused.

The corner of his lips twitched. “Not grouchy,” he murmured. Arwen almost snorted—she never thought she’d hear him say such a word. “Just not in the mind to tolerate animals making snide comments around every corner.”

“Inside then,” she said after a moment where nobody else responded.

Rhysand soon left, leaving them to their own. They lingered in the main sitting room together, first playing a board game which Arwen miraculously won before moving on to their own ideas of passing the time. Cassian took to sharpening his sword whilst Arwen extracted her sketchbook from of her pack and began etching in the light details of the cabin as she sat on the main lounge. Azriel sat next to her. For some time she was enraptured by her mind’s eye and didn’t care to pay attention to what he was doing until she decided to swap her graphite pencil for a stick of charcoal. He sat still, head turned so he could diligently watch what she had been doing.

“That’s a bit unnerving,” she muttered to him but revealed her play with a small smile. “I’m surprised you’ve never been noticed with your spying if that’s how intense it feels to be under your scrutiny.”

“I’m usually watching from a distance,” he said.

Arwen bit her lip to smother her chuckle that rose at his blunt answer. “Let me give you something a bit more interesting to watch then.” Abandoning the detailed sketch of the cabin’s sitting room, she flipped back a number of pages until she landed on a half-finished drawing.

Azriel snorted then lamely tried to cover it with a husky cough behind his fist. Cassian, sitting on the end of the dining table, foot perched on one of the chairs with his sword across his lap, glanced up at the sound. Arwen sunk deeper into the lounge, using her bent knees to angle the paper away from the warrior.

In her lap, marvellously detailed, was a sketch of the general. He had given her that book on Illyrian anatomy for her birthday after all. But in place of the great Illyrian wings with their hooked talon, she decided to take inspiration from a butterfly that had flown through the garden she was overlooking.

Licking her lips, she snuck another look at the spymaster. He still leant close to her shoulder, his lips almost white from pressing them together to smother the same grin she was. Humming in content of his reaction, Arwen picked up where she had left off on it.

“I’m not sure if I want to ask,” Azriel murmured into her ear, “but have you… Redesigned me?”

She swallowed a croak in her throat down. “Not yet,” she said, leaving the possibility hanging. “But I have drawn you once or twice if that’s what you actually want to know.” Craning her neck, she watched his face for the answer, knowing it wouldn’t be spoken into her ear.

Azriel focused on her but fleetingly looked back down into her lap.

Arwen handed him the book. “You can look through.”

It took a second for him to break from his stillness, but curiosity seemed to get the better of him as he turned his full attention to her drawings. His body shifted away from hers, settling back into the lounge, hunched over the images now displayed on his thighs. Arwen simply watched him as he explored the work of her mind. He stopped on every drawing, no matter how unfinished or plain the subject. He took in every line and shade, every smudge from her hand and every miss-stroke. 

“What’s so interesting over there?”

She tore her eyes away from her mate to roll them at Cassian. “Can’t help but stick your nose in everything,” she crooned. “It’s my sketchbook. If you want, I’ll spend the rest of the evening detailing each one for you so you’re not missing out.”

Cassian swiftly moved his eyes back down to his prized blade. “No, it’s fine. I’ll get something for dinner started.”

“That’s what I thought,” she muttered to herself as he slunk from the room into the small kitchen.

“There’s none in here of you.”

Arwen twisted her head back around to Azriel. “What?”

“You,” he said, making a small lift of the book’s spine in emphasis. “There’s not a single portrait of you in here.”

She laughed. “Of course there’s not. I’m not about to spend hours of my time sketching myself. There are far more interesting things to draw.”

“But you drew me.” Azriel looked down at the page the book sat on. It was something of a full length portrait but beheld the scene of the Sidra behind him. It was from the night that he pulled her from Rita’s and they talked under the pavilion as it rained. She hadn’t finished the details of the river, nor the garden around the pavilion but he was utterly complete.

Arwen could only shrug with an unsure smile. “Would you draw yourself?” she challenged.

He blinked towards the carpeted floor. “No. But you should.”

She laughed again, but the sound cracked. “I… I don’t draw things like that for the sake of it. I draw memories. Feelings. Things that I want to remember.” Patting her knees, Arwen pushed to her feet. “I’m going to help Cass with dinner. Hopefully Rhys is home soon.”

Rhysand didn’t come home soon. By the strike of the next hour, the warm scent of stew graced the cabin and there was no sign of her brother. So Arwen only put three bowls on the dining table as Cassian brought the serving pot over.

“Magnificent,” he declared, sucking off his forefinger.

Arwen tried to ignore the fact that he stuck it into the main serving of stew and tucked herself into his side. “Thank you, Cass. It smells wonderful.” She kissed his cheek. It wasn’t a compliment the dinner deserved—something he probably knew too—but she was holding to her silent promise that she would never speak ill to him when it came to his visits at the camps. Not when the moment he stepped outside, insults would be hurled at him and his position undermined. She would not let this space for him, safe inside the walls of the warded cabin, feel anything less than a sanctuary.

“Does it make up for the incident with the potatoes?” he asked.

Arwen laughed and shook her head as she moved around the table. “No, nothing ever will.” Taking her chair, she untucked it from underneath the table but noticed a distinct lack of movement from the sitting area. With a glance over her shoulder, she found Azriel still sitting with her sketchbook. “Az?” No answer. With her brows pressing together curiously, a small smile still stable on her lips, she wandered to the back of the lounge. “Azriel,” she said again, placing a hand on his shoulder. He jolted under her touch, gaze cutting over his shoulder to her. “Dinner’s ready.”

Whatever lingered of his thoughts swept away at her words, leaving her with no hint of what they had been. He left her sketchbook closed on the stand next to the lounge. Dinner was as normal as it was and she could almost forget that outside there were brutes who despised her existence. How ironic it was that they initially loathed the High Fae part of her history, and now wingless, they would dismiss the Illyrian part of her. But they were consistent in that they despised her equally through both sections of her life.

Arwen stood in front of the window. It was dark outside, save for the sparse licks of flames of mounted torches. They had just finished cleaning up their supper and there was still no sign of Rhysand. “I’m worried about him.”

“He’s fine,” said Cassian. With a scant look in his direction, she watched him tap his temple. “Told me so himself. Just running later than he thought.”

It did put some unease to rest, but Arwen still didn’t move away from the window. She wouldn’t admit Cassian or Azriel her thoughts, but she didn’t feel safe without her brother whilst she was inside the grounds of the camp. Arwen trusted Cassian and Azriel with her life—that had never been a lie—but if something happened, it was her brother she wanted around. “I’m going to stay up a while.”

“You’ll need your rest for tomorrow,” Cassian reminded her. “Which is what I’m going to get.” He offered a squeeze to her bicep before moving out of the kitchen, his heavy steps echoing down from the short hall.

“He’s right.”

Arwen glanced at Azriel’s reflection in the glass. “Don’t tell me not to worry.”

“I won’t,” he said. “But you can worry away from the window and closer to the fire where it’s warmer.”

She managed a scoff at that, but something unconscious in her obliged as she turned around. Azriel gave a low smile and walked with her to the sitting room, sinking down into the lounge next to her. “What had you so distracted before dinner?” she inquired.

“Nothing important,” he said. “Just how… You called me a prick.” Arwen baulked, her lips parting in a quick defence to tell him that she never called him such a thing. But she had. Weeks ago now, but she had. Azriel didn’t look at her as he continued speaking. “I have been. Something Cassian said a while ago stuck with me and that was that I haven’t only been denying myself a mate, I’ve been denying you one as well. I didn’t want to see it like that, but every time I imagine someone else as your mate doing what I have—saying what I did—I… I want them dead.” His low voice was honed with dangerous promise and she had no trace of doubt that every word was raw truth.

“Some people aren’t even lucky enough to meet their mates,” she whispered. “Some people aren’t lucky enough to have them as a friend. Some people aren’t lucky enough to know, that despite never speaking of the bond, he would do anything for me. And know that I would go to the ends of the world for him too.”

Azriel stared into the fire, blinking consistently.

Whatever the conversation was, he had spoken all he had intended to and Arwen took it as a victory. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted from him, whether she truly desired more from their relationship or just a reassurance that he cared. But it still didn’t worry her; because her words were true. Many weren’t lucky enough to have their mate as someone that they considered family. Some females may claim that she had the most fortunate circumstance, for Azriel never once set a claim on her. And now that she understood what had happened all those years ago, now that they had spoken of it, she was okay.

Arwen settled into the lounge, giving another look to the empty window next to the door before laying her head on a pillow, determined to wait for her brother’s return.

~

Arwen jolted as something dark hovered over her. The shadow moved and the sensation of a light pressure on her head lingered. Though she still couldn’t see as her eyes adjusted, she smelt him. “Rhys?”

A soft sigh came as the shadow lowered once more and he crouched before her on the lounge. The fire behind him was out and not a single light came from the windows on the moonless night. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’re so late,” she said, her voice dry with sleep.

“I know,” he whispered. “There were some things that came up and… I needed some space before I came back.”

Arwen sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” he whispered again. The word sent her into a haze of ire, but he must have had sight more adjusted for the darkness and seen her face because he added, “I’m fine, that’s not a lie. Delvon just likes infuriating me and I didn’t want to bring that back here. Why aren’t you in bed, or Azriel for that matter?”

Her eyes parted even wider as she looked to her side. Sure enough, the spymaster sat on the opposite end of the lounge, tipped against the pillow, but his legs stretched to the floor. “I was waiting for you,” she told him.

In her mind’s logic, she knew that it wasn’t any Illyrian who cut out her wings. But she had been in these mountains, between these trees just beyond the borders of a camp. The distinct scent of the earth here was the same as when Tamlin pushed her face into the ground, pinning her still. She supposed she should have felt safer inside the camp, where Tamlin and his family would never dare set foot inside uninvited, but it wasn’t the camp that she had run to.

“I wasn’t far.” His calloused hand, tainted with coldness from being outside, laid against the side of her face. It held her steady as he leaned forward, resting the slope of her forehead into the crook between his own and nose. “I promise.”

Arwen closed her eyes and concentrated on his touch. He was right. Nobody would touch her here. She was safe. And if she wasn’t, he was right in front of her. “I know.”

She felt the twitch of his skin and she opened her eyes again, faintly making out the smile. “Come to bed now that you’re awake.” With a heavy sigh, Arwen pressed off the lounge, but her eyes fell to Azriel’s still sleeping form. “I’ll wake him when I come back.”

She agreed with a loose nod and they padded down the hall towards the small room they shared. Azriel and Cassian shared the other, considering the small cabin only had two bedrooms. He left her at the door so she could change and he returned to awaken Azriel. Arwen’s lips tilted into a small smile hearing the spymaster’s deep grumbles of ache from his choice of position.

Until a bout of dizziness enveloped her. Arwen stumbled blindly, the room in complete darkness except for the silhouettes of shadows. She caught the lip of the dresser with one hand, the other lifting to her chest. She stood there in the dark until the door opened again.

“Sweetheart?”

Arwen stood straight, dropping her hand. “I’m fine,” she said, frowning to her feet. The feeling had moved on. “Goodnight, Rhys.” Walking to her bed, she slipped in and listened to his movements following. A headache lingered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 38

Arwen rounded her neck as they strode towards the training rings. The night’s sleep hadn’t rubbed off the strange feeling that had sent her dizzy. She hadn’t spoken of it, knowing that what she was walking towards had been months in the planning.

Her boots crunched the thin blanket of snow covering the land and her breath made clouds in the crisp air. Her leathers were warm though, insulating every ounce of warmth that her body made. It was Azriel today, who took up the spot on her right. They walked shoulder to shoulder, his shadows like a cloud around him.

“High Lord.” A muscular Illyrian clad in his own leathers stalked up to the thin fence that marked the perimeter of the training fields. Brown hair hung to his shoulders and his grey eyes examined them, falling on her. “Females aren’t allowed any closer to the training fields.”

They stopped a step short of the fence. Rhysand cocked his head. “What’s the point of being a High Lord if people are telling me what to do? Move aside, Ferir.”

Ferir did not step away, moving his eyes again along the line of Rhysand’s court. Arwen kept her ground, chin lifted and as stiff as the mountains along the horizon. Cassian gave a growl of warning, his wings shifting. “Your High Lord has given you a command.”

“It’s not my law,” Ferir growled back. “No females have ever been allowed past this fence-line. Surely the High Lord can respect our ways.”

“Well than imagine she has a dick between her legs, and you might manage to keep yours to yourself,” Cassian crooned, much to Arwen’s shock. She managed to keep her face even but even Rhysand on her left made a fleeting look to his general of wonder. Cassian took the two steps forward to meet the fence and Ferir who carefully eyed the glowing siphons. “Move.”

Ferir it seemed, wasn’t one to battle that challenge. “I’m only the messenger,” he said, looking past Cassian’s wide shoulders to Rhysand. “They won’t take kindly to her being let in, not even by you.”

“Then you can pass along another message.” Rhysand strode forward, moving around Cassian’s frame until only the measly fence stood between him and the Illyrian. “My sister is under my protection. She’ll be in the training fields as long as she cares to be and if there is any hint of threat to her, my spymaster and your General Commander have my full permission to tear off the limbs of those who pose that threat.” Ferir swallowed, but in his credit did not cower. “Do you understand my message, or shall I repeat it?”

“Nobody will train with her,” he said.

“She’s not here to train with them.” Cassian grinned. “She’s here to train with me.”

Ferir only tipped his head away, resigning from the battle. A wiser Illyrian than many others who would have contended even the High Lord and general far longer. Arwen and Azriel moved forward as they climbed over the fence. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said to Ferir, adding to the taunt.

They almost passed out of earshot when she heard the whisper. “Nobody would fuck that anyway.” Before Arwen could turn back around, the Illyrian started to choke on something. By the time she did, Ferir was clutching at his throat and had fallen a shade paler.

“You’ll regain your voice when I’m no longer around to hear it,” said Rhysand, not even glancing over his shoulder. “You best find a way to still deliver my message. I understand you need your limbs to continue fighting.” And nothing was more shameful than an Illyrian who could not perform.

Ferir, still grappling at his throat, scampered to a far part of the fields.

Arwen observed the space around her. Males trained with every weapon known to their kind, the metallic clashing of blades sounding from every direction. There was no withholding in these places—you either fought hard enough, or you didn’t fight at all. They reached an empty ring. Illyrians eyed them from all distances, some even stopping their training to lean to their companions and mutter under their breaths.

Arwen’s breathing rose, her world turning strangely light.

“We’ll stay here,” Rhysand said, nodding to Azriel who dutifully stood his ground, folding his arms.

Cassian moved into the space at her right, a hand on her shoulder keeping her moving forward into the large ring. “Remember what I told you?” he whispered into her ear. Arwen nodded, but he told her again anyway. “I can’t hold back here and neither can you. They’ll see it as a weakness in both of us. It’s going to hurt when I hit you and I expect you to hurt me.”

“I know.”

The hand slid from her shoulder and Arwen knew that she would not see her friend again for some hours. She would see a war general. Straightening her shoulders, Arwen moved into position to begin a hand-to-hand fight and he followed a moment later. Blocking out everything—her brother and mate watching, the other Illyrians—nothing existed but her and Cassian.

The first blow caught her off guard. She dodged it, but barely. Cassian had always let her take the first strike so by habit she hadn’t been expecting him to throw it. But it didn’t exactly what he was intending with it, throwing everything she thought to expect out the window. They moved into a silent fight. No laughter, no teasing or hidden smiles between fists. Just raw, Illyrian fighting.

Arwen managed a few blows to him, twice on his legs, once on the side of his face with her elbow. But he struck her twice more than she ever did him. A bruise was no doubt flowering on the left side of her jaw and her right hip bone ache from where the heel of his thick boot kicked.

She cried out.

Her face slammed into the earth, the snow making the sting even worse. Her nose collided first, the pain throbbing right through into her skull. Gasping, she pushed onto her hands and knees. Arwen blinked away the blur in her sight, ignoring the red-stained snow and how the wetness slicked down her face. From her peripheral, Rhysand and Azriel still stood watching. Rhysand tilted his head, his face set firm but she still heard the words.

Get up.

Arwen swallowed the blood that dribbled into her throat and heaved to her feet. Despite the throbbing throughout her entire body, she managed to keep fighting and even send Cassian off his feet once. But the strange feeling enveloped her and the world in front of her didn’t feel real. In her distraction, she didn’t see his fist flying towards her head—something she should have easily been able to move away from—and she crumpled to the ground.

The fall winded her but it wasn’t the pain that kept her down. With her hand limp in front of her face, through thick strands of black, she saw the ring on her middle finger. The one Amren gave her that smothers her power.

“Arwen?” The snow in front of her turned dark before disappearing completely in favour of leathers. Something roughly brushed the fallen strands of her hair out of her face. “Sweetheart, you still with me? Arwen?”

Arwen stared at the toe of Cassian’s boots as her body attempted to tear itself from the corporal realm only to be leashed down by the power of the ring. She hadn’t been training with Amren for weeks—hadn’t used her power in longer.

“Arwen, sweetheart, you need to give me something,” Cassian called, his hand running up and down the length of her back. She could only blink as her world kept fading, as it kept reaching for the gate between realms.

Then, “I’m okay.” She coughed out the words. “I’m okay.”

Cassian hissed a curse under his breath. “Fuck you,” he muttered. “That scared the shit out of me.” He helped her to sit up, waving towards Rhysand and Azriel who stood with their attention pinned on the pair. “What happened?”

“You punched me in the side of the head,” she groused, only to earn a sharp look. He knew that she could have moved out of the way in time too. In answer, Arwen held up her hand, twisting the band of the ring around with her thumb. “It’s happening again.”

“You do have a flair for perfect timing.”

Assisting her to her feet, they hobbled back over the edge of the ring. “What happened?” demanded Rhysand, his tone sharp and biting. He wasn’t able to move to her side when she fell, and neither could Azriel who now silently examined her. It would have been a sign of doting—affection that they couldn’t show. Even now with her arm strapped over Cassian’s back, she was being offered more care than those unconscious bodies which were dragged off the field by their feet until they could rejoin. Cassian answered on her behalf.

“You can’t make her continue,” said Azriel. “Not like this.”

Rhysand sent him a sidelong look. “I wasn’t going to. We can—fuck.” The curse was directed over their shoulders. Arwen and Cassian looked back. Delvon stalked across the field, nothing of kindness in his step. “I’ll deal with him.” He passed her with a subtle squeeze to her wrist before going off to meet the lord of Windhaven.

“How do you feel?” Azriel asked after a few moments of silence between them. He moved to stand in front of her, his head bowed to see her face. Arwen only sighed and shook her head. “Should you take the ring off? Is it going to get worse?”

“Not here,” Cassian said. “Not in this damned place.”

They continued bickering under their breaths. Not about anything serious, but as a way to burn off whatever frustrations had been building since they arrived. Arwen slowly regained her sense of mind, taking her arm back to stand on her own. The sensation would come again in time, but hopefully after she had left this miserable camp.

Her attention turned to a weapon’s rack. Among the swords and spears was a battle-axe in all its gleaming glory. The pristine weapon had to be newly crafted, with the black leather wrapping unscathed and the blade itself impeccably polished. Arwen couldn’t help but admire it and began to walk away from Azriel and Cassian to get a closer look. Rhysand still spoke with Delvon in the distance, the latter with steam from his ears. The lord probably just found out their true intentions for the visit.

Arwen stood before the rack, now able to examine the blade’s sharpness by eye. No one in the court used such a weapon so perhaps it was its unfamiliarity that made it so intriguing. Her hand rose from her side and she reached out to touch it—

A hand snatched her wrist, squeezing so tightly that she couldn’t help the whimper of pain. An Illyrian male she didn’t recognise stood next to her, a fire of fury in his eyes. “That is not for female scum to touch.”

Arwen couldn’t quite remember how to breathe. The face in front of her blended into a blur of colours. But she could smell—she could smell the cold earth and the pine trees. The same smell that had been filling her nose before it changed to her mother’s blood. And she could feel—feel the viper grip that kept her from reaching out, the grip that held her to the earth before the knife went to her back.

She choked on a scream, her feet losing grip on the ground as she scrambled to move away from him. His grip tightened, then a black blur of leathers stormed past her and the hand was torn from her. Arwen fell on her backside as a second figure swept past her, the azure glow distinct.

Cassian hauled the Illyrian off his feet, dragging him away from her, Azriel tailing a step behind. Arwen barely held her yelp as Rhysand winnowed beside her at a crouch. She watched as Cassian twisted the male onto his knees, his arms pulled so tightly back that they threatened to break with any more pressure. Arwen panted and couldn’t look away, wondering if Rhysand had truly given them the order to tear off the male’s limbs. The male thrashed but couldn’t move without bringing his own pain.

Azriel strode to the male’s front. There was nothing on his face—no anger, no wrath. Just a calmness that Arwen found far more alarming than Cassian’s snarl. Azriel placed one scarred hand on the male’s head, threading and twisting his fingers through the ragged black. Then he placed his other to cup the male’s jaw.

Arwen felt him. She felt her mate’s heart thudding in her chest like an echo of her own. Each thump was slow and hard, as steady as each step he had taken.

In one twist, a sickening crunch filled her ears and the male fell silent. And limp.

Cassian stared at Azriel, still holding the male’s arms. Arwen stared at the hanging body, then at Rhysand but he too only watched the scene in front of him. The entire field of Illyrians seemed to be watching.

Rhysand stood but he kept his leg pressed against her side where she could lean onto it. Nobody could be led to believe that was anything less than his order. Azriel remained as calm as the clouds above them, turning away from the body and strode towards Rhysand. But before Rhysand could say anything, Azriel spread his wings and took flight, becoming nothing more than a dark dot in the sky.

Cassian finally dropped the body which fell limply into the shallow snow. He set his glare on anybody that dared stare back.

~

“Is he coming back?”

“He’s dead.”

Arwen turned away from the window to glare at Cassian. “Azriel,” she growled in correction. Cassian lifted his shoulders and thumped his palms on the table he sat at.

“I told him to cool off,” Rhysand answered for her. He leant against the edge of the hearth, the warm hue painting his side. “He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

“Did you know he was going to do that?”

Rhysand didn’t look away from the fire as he shook his head. Arwen folded her arms and re-settled her temple on the windowpane. It was just as black outside as it had been the previous night, barely a sliver of the moon in the sky. There had been no sign of her mate.

He had killed for her. Killed for her without blinking, without a sign of his own anger taking hold. Killed a male because he took her wrist and she was scared. She didn’t ask Cassian what his plan had been with the male—didn’t want to know the leap Azriel had taken. Rhysand hadn’t been angry, seeing the circumstance, but he had been peeved at the disruption it caused.

Arwen sealed her eyes shut as the headache returned and rubbed at her temple. A warm hand took hers, prying it away from her face. Rhysand had moved to stand in front of her and a prodding came into her mind. She let him in.

“I don’t think you should winnow like this,” he said. “We don’t know what would happen.”

“I could fly her home,” offered Cassian.

Rhysand shook his head. “She’s been suppressing it. Now that’s she's stronger, it might break the ring’s shield. I’m not risking that happening mid-flight.”

“I’m right here,” she mumbled, annoyed by the distant label. Her headache grew stronger, so Arwen bowed her head. She started to sway. “I… I’m not… Rhys.”

“Let’s get you outside. Now.”

There wasn’t enough in her to argue as he took her arm and pulled her along the cabin. The scraping of Cassian’s chair along the ground signalled his following. Arwen barely kept her legs from tumbling underneath her as they moved from the delightful warmth to the frigidness outside. There was no one to see them in the small yard out the back of the cabin that faced the surrounding woods. Shivers immediately took hold, dressed in only her nightwear and the snow encapsulated her bare feet.

“Rhys.” She gripped at his sleeves to push against him as the fire’s warmth remained trapped in the house.

“You have to let it out, just like we do.”

“Maybe you should let her put shoes on, at least,” Cassian muttered with a downwards motion of his head.

“It’s motivation,” he countered. “Control it and you can go back inside.”

He clasped one of her hands at his sleeve in both of his and removed the ring. Arwen immediately lost her grip on him, falling right back down to the earth. A groan grew in her throat, landing on the wounds she gained from her battling with Cassian. Her lungs quaked with a harsh shiver as the snow stole the remaining heat from her skin. The snow must belong to her tether—her leash to this realm—because she felt every inch of its existence.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on letting the power slip out of her, to allow her back to being tangible. When it felt done, Arwen opened them again. Rhysand who had dropped to a crouch, took the sign and reached for her. But his hand slipped right through her shoulder.

“I-It’s cold,” she said. Spikes of pain were already shooting up her bare feet. “I can’t think.”

“You’re distracted,” Rhysand told her. “Ignore everything else.” Behind him on the short ledge before the steps, Cassian trudged back inside. “I know it’s cold and the only way you’ll get warm is if you come inside.”

Arwen clenched her eyes shut again, trying to ignore the consuming kiss of frost. She opened them again, not in victory but because there was nothing. Her mind hurt and the longer she stayed out here the more her body ached. Rhysand sat on the bottom step out of the cabin, elbows driven into his knees and his chin tucked into his fingers which fiddled with her ring.

“Concentrate,” he demanded.

Cassian returned, a thick blanket draped over his arm.

Arwen clamped her lips together, squeezing her toes to make sure she could still feel them. No one spoke, her whimpering breaths the only sound other than the distant noises of the camp. Before she even realised there had been a change, arms swept her off the ground. She nearly gasped in relief as her feet were freed from the snow and clung to Rhysand with no intention to be returned.

“Fuck you,” she said once they reached the safety of the door.

“I had no choice,” he muttered. “You looked like you were going to pass out and I don’t know how we would have gotten you back if you had.”

Arwen stole the blanket off Cassian’s arm in passing, managing to half-drape it across herself before Rhysand put her back to her feet inside and she wound it tightly around her shoulders. She planted herself directly in front of the fire.

Rhysand sat next to her, holding out her ring. She reached through the parting and snatched it back. “Don’t be angry at me,” he said.

Arwen sighed and said, “I’m not. I’m annoyed at myself.”

“What for? You managed to do it.”

She sniffed, using her covered knuckle to tame the itch on her nose. “Did I mess today up?”

“No.” At the quick response she couldn’t help but twist her neck to look at her brother. Rhysand smiled at her. “We weren’t going to do much in a day. I got exactly what I needed and that was their reaction. Delvon told me exactly what he thought of my stunt. You were wonderful.”

She snorted at that. “I think I still have crusted blood in my nose.”

From behind, Cassian said, “You deserved it after that elbow you gave to my face.” Arwen chuckled and twisted around to grin up at him. He grinned back down. “I’m proud to be the one that trained you.”

The unexpected compliment warmed her from the inside. Turning back to face the fire, she pulled her knees up to her chest and settled her chin atop of them. She just wished Azriel would come back.

Chapter Text

Chapter 39

Arwen tossed and turned well into the night. It was a wonder that Rhysand managed to fall asleep with her constant shifting against the sheets. She sat up, blankets piled in her lap as she hung her head between her knees. There was no apparent reason for her sleeplessness. No nightmares, Rhys was only feet away and it wasn’t cold inside. Yet there she sat.

It was lonely in the middle of the night, with nobody but the shadows to talk to and the cabin’s creaking wood to answer.

Arwen laid back down, pulling the blanket to her chin and closed her eyes. Then she felt him. It was like something had been invited back into her soul and finally, there was more than just her there. Arwen sat up. The sound followed seconds later. Someone shifting about in the main living space.

Slipping from her bed, she padded across the small room and into the hall. The fire was still alight from the last log she had placed before heading to bed. Just in case Azriel had decided to return that night. And he had. She tiptoed around the corner to peer into the sitting room.

Azriel now sat on the lounge, his back hunched and his wings drooping as though they had been holding his weight in the sky for hours. They might have been. Shadows, both his own and that cast by the fire, danced around him. His skin turned almost burnt orange under the firelight.

Arwen waited until she was sure he knew she was standing there before stepping out of the hall. He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge her. So she kept walking closer until she stood before the lounge and him. Turning around, Arwen sunk down next to him, her shoulders easing as his scent overpowered any other.

“You came back.”

“I didn’t want to be away any longer.”

His forearms rested braced along his thighs, hands hanging between his knees. She reached for one, skin barely grazing his when he snatched his hand away. Arwen froze, looking into his face to see what signs she had missed where he did not want her there. But there was only a pained furrowing of his brow. Like her touch had hurt him. Azriel dropped his gaze from the fire to the floor.

She reached for him again. This time he did not pull away. Arwen felt the scarring beneath her fingertips and rather than ignore it, she used her thumb to trace the ridges of the marring. Leaning back into the spine of the lounge, she pulled her legs underneath her and then guided Azriel’s hand into her lap so she could hold it with both her own. Arwen stretched then furled his fingers, playing with them. Memorising them.

She looked down into her own lap. “What you did today, was…”

“I know.” The two words came smooth and low. “But I saw your face when he was holding you. I didn’t think, I just moved.”

She kept her sigh soundless. As minutes passed between them, the fire the only thing with any sign of movement, Arwen leaned into his side. She rested her cheek on the rounded end of his shoulder. “I don’t want to thank you for killing someone,” she whispered, “but thank you for… Seeing that I needed help and coming. It’s not the first time you’ve done that for me.”

“You’re my mate,” he simply said, his voice still low and flat. Yet Arwen could read through it like a picture book her mother used to show her as a child. Every image splattered with colour painted before her, every sentence plain and clear. He stared at the glowing hearth. “I’ll protect you with my life. Or take the lives of others.”

“And if I tell you that’s not what I want?” Arwen whispered, tilting her head off his shoulder to observe his answer. The hand in her lap finally started to move. Her eyes slowly fell back down to watch as he lengthened his fingers before enveloping one of hers. Arwen continued watching, enthralled by the way it felt.

Azriel kissed her temple. The light touch felt heavier than any of Cassian’s punches. He leant his forehead against her hairline, nose dusting the high point of her cheek. “Then I will stand at your side, unmoving until you give the order.”

Arwen closed her eyes, pressing back against him in a search of his warmth. “Mates are equals. I would not have you at my bidding like some trained dog.” His fanning breath tickled her as he chuckled almost silently into her ear. “I do not see how that was funny,” she muttered.

“I suppose it wasn’t,” he murmured, still leaning against her. “But I am prepared to be anything for you. A friend. A brother—” Arwen cringed at that— “a confidant. Or an obedient dog at your bidding.” Arwen frowned and turned her head towards him, destroying his place of rest against her. Azriel resettled, now pressing lightly just above her brow. His lips dusted, then pressed against her cheek. “I have been from the moment the bond snapped into place.”

“But you weren’t prepared to be my equal,” she asked. “What if I tell you that’s what I want? For you to consider yourself my equal?”

Azriel deepened the bow of his head until she could not even see his eyes. His lips grazed her lower cheek. When he did not answer, Arwen drew in a breath of air and prepared to pull away. But then he kissed her.

It was small—nothing more than a peck, but even when his lips left hers, he did not retreat. She loosened a trapped breath, trying to peek at his face as his forehead still rested against hers. But he was so close, so shadowed that Arwen could only make out the planes of his face, the length of his nose and the sharp cut of his jaw. A test, she realised. He was testing how it felt, how she reacted, perhaps if he wanted to do it again. So Arwen remained still and let him decide.

He angled his mouth to hers again. This one lasted long enough that could taste the sweetness again. It lasted long enough for her to feel what it was like and the euphoria it drove through her bones. Then it disappeared. But this time, she didn’t have to question or wait.

The arm not in her lap went to the side of her face as he kissed her once more. There was no hesitance this time, no inching forward to test. Arwen swallowed her gasp, letting his hand in her lap go to reach out behind her and keep her weight from falling. The abandoned hand quickly found use in gripping her thigh, tight enough that he would feel bone. She pushed back, blindly reaching for him and securing a tight clutch on the leathers at his hip. Their breathing grew louder but neither relented the other.

Arwen freed her arm which had become trapped between her side and the back of the lounge, curling it up around his neck and threading her fingers through the loose strands at his neck. Azriel became the first to break away.

“You’re my mate,” he said, his breath fanning against her lips. Arwen smiled oddly but before she could respond, he kissed her again. And again. His lips, fierce and hungry, moved from her lips and down to the line of her jaw. He traced along it and she tilted her head as he reached the junction of her ear. He stopped, lips still pressed against her neck in a way that let her feel the words against her skin. “You are my mate.”

Somewhere amongst the kisses peppered to her neck, he swapped which hand took to her thighs, the other making rest on her waist. His fingers spread wide, cupping up along the back of her thigh as she still sat on her knees and ankles, each finger leaving a mark of heat. Then he ran them back down and tightened his grip around the back of her knee. In a single, hard but well-guided tug, he pulled her leg over him. Arwen’s stomach tightened in the fright as she was moved to straddle his legs. His hands grappled at her waist, guiding her seat closer to him. She continued to hold his face in her hands, twitching as her stomach met his. He held her there, smoothing his arms along her back like they were forming a cage. Azriel sat tall and far away enough from the back of the lounge to let his wings spread.

Arwen moved her hands down his face and onto his neck, holding him there so she could pull away. Her lips remained open to pant for lost air, and she tilted her head back to give herself a moment of recovery. She needed to understand him. Dropping her head once more, she found Azriel with his own bowed. Trailing her finger along his neck, along the soft underside of his jaw, Arwen lifted it back up. She pressed a slow and soft kiss then leant back up. “What are you thinking, Azriel?”

His nose nudged her chin aside so he could kiss the soft part at the hinge of her jaw. “That you are my mate,” he said into her skin.

Arwen laughed and guided his face back up so she could see his eyes. “Besides that. It’s not a sudden realisation. You’ve known for ten years, so tell me what you are thinking.”

Azriel gave a soft sigh, his arms caging her back softening. They remained around her but lowered until his forearms rested along the side of her thighs and hips and he held her there instead. He leant forward, resting his forehead just above her collarbone. “That I don’t deserve this,” he whispered, barely audible against her nightshirt. One hand at her back slipped underneath her shirt, making slow and loose trails with his fingertips along the low of her spine.

“I’m sorry.”

Azriel stilled under her, then lifted his head and searched for her gaze. Arwen offered it.

“I’m sorry for that night in Hewn City,” she continued, “when you told me why you didn’t want the mating bond. You can’t blame me for being upset or for walking away. But you were hurting too and I didn’t do anything about it.” Arwen swallowed a growing lump in her throat and shifted on his lap. “Rhysand and I fought before I came home. He told me that I’m stuck in my own head—only capable of worrying about myself. He’s right. When you told me how you felt, I only thought about me. How it hurt me. I didn’t even stop to think about how much you had been hurting for the past ten years because it didn’t matter to me then. So I’m sorry and maybe you don’t deserve someone this selfish.”

Azriel frowned to the night. His fingers still traced on the low of her back, the other gripping the back of her hip. He shook his head. “My pain shouldn’t have become yours. This bond, it…” He shook his head again and tightened his grip on her once more. “It hurts. It fucking hurts, Arwen. But tonight is the first time that it felt good.”

Arwen saw it on his face—the lingering of that pain. She leant forward, encircling her arms around his neck and buried her face into his neck. “I don’t ever want you in pain, Az. I would give up my life if it meant your happiness.”

His chest pressed against hers as he took a long draw of air. Azriel’s arms retook the expanse of her back, trapping her to him in a way that she never wanted to escape from. She didn’t even care when his hands ran over the canvas of her scars. “I would give up my wings if it meant that you could take them.”

Her breath caught and it took a moment for her to remember she needed that air. Arwen pressed her brows together, burrowing her face further into the warmth of his neck and between her arms. Azriel buried his nose into her hair and he slowly leant back until he rested against the lounge’s backing, holding her with him. They stayed there, unwilling to give up their hold for the lesser comfort of their beds. He sunk lower into the cushioning so he sat at a recline, letting her weight rest along his front. Arwen remained tucked into him for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Chapter 40                                                                       

Cassian groaned as Arwen threaded her fingers through his hair, the backs of her thighs aching as they pressed against his shoulders. He gripped them hard, his large fingers indenting right through her muscle. She shifted her legs around. “A little to the left.” He readjusted his grip but obeyed and moved across. Arwen bit her lip as she grinned towards the ceiling, one arm stretched overhead. “Perfect.”

“When you said you had something fun in mind,” he grunted, “I thought you meant for the both of us.”

“Oh, you can have your drink when I’m done,” she told him.

Footsteps warned them of more than one new presence making their way into what was previously the empty cabin. Cassian twisted around, taking Arwen along with him. Rhysand entered his family’s cabin first, Mor and Azriel a step behind him. Arwen’s lips parted before resettling into a grin. She swayed her hanging feet on either side of Cassian as she held his head. She threw her other arm back to gesture to the hanging lights. “Ta-da.”

Rhysand smiled, his brows lifting as he examined the decorated sitting room. It was a late effort considering that it was the eve of Winter Solstice, but they had all been preoccupied until now. “So this is what she swindled you into,” he mused with a ring of laughter. “And here I thought you were the only one of us to be able to say no to her.”

Mor made a quiet ‘humph’ and said, “I expected more resilience from you, General.”

“Yeah, well, I got tricked,” Cassian groused.

Arwen grinned, leaning over his head to speak closer to his ear. “I believe that’s what swindled means.”

He scoffed below her. “Why are you still on me? Get off, get off.” Cassian rolled his shoulders, one of her thighs slipping off him. Arwen let out a sound between a laugh and a shriek, and clawed at his jacket but he kept shaking her. His laughter sounded throughout her family’s second home as she landed with a thud on the floor.

Her lungs shook with his. “Ow, you prick.” Arwen rubbed the back of her head as she stood back on her feet. Giving a smile across her shoulder to the others to ensure they knew of her and Cassian’s good nature, she set off to the kitchen in search of something that would cure her aching backside.

Chatter ensued in her wake, hearty and loud—just the way it should be. Arwen smiled to herself at the thought as she gazed over Rhysand’s personal wine collection. Her finger ran over the waxed corks when a second form entered behind her. Arwen glanced over her shoulder. “Do you want one?” she asked Azriel.

He came to her side, settling one hand on her back, the other at her stomach. “I might indulge tonight,” he said, and her smile grew as he nuzzled his nose into her hairline near her temple. “That moron didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Arwen snorted. “Only my pride.” She plucked a label she recognised as Cassian’s favoured and a tall glass to pour it into. “How did your gift shopping go?” Of course, he had left it until the last minute. She was well aware of his aversion to gifts so they agreed between themselves to stick to something small.

Azriel loosened his hold on her so she could walk to the bench but trailed alongside. “Mor likes shoes, doesn’t she?”

She smothered a chuckle behind pinched lips but the humour still shot through her. “Yes, I think you’re safe there,” she told him. With a small wave of her hand, the wine’s stopper disappeared, and she generously filled the glass. “Did Rhys get all his work finished? I hate it when he brings it to these things.”

Rhysand had been invited to a meeting in the Dawn Court come spring. With tensions between Day and Night always fickle, it was a chance to solidify relationships between the solar courts. Rhysand had been drafting up the documents he would need, stealing Mor to help him. He had asked Arwen, but she took one look at what work needed to be done and feigned not understanding what was written. A pebble of guilt still sat in her for that, but she helped see to the more regular work that he dismissed in his new concentration.

“Mor forced him to leave it,” Azriel informed her.

“Good.” Arwen passed him a softened look and plucked the wineglass from the counter, careening around him to head back to the sitting room. The roaring fire battled the bite of winter. The hanging lights and small ornaments hung from the rafters sparkled with the type of beauty that only came around once a year.

She moved up to Cassian’s side as he talked with Mor and Rhysand, slipping the drink in front of his chest. “As owed,” she sang. Cassian snatched it, staring forward. But a creeping smile came and he gave her hip a slight bump. Arwen chuckled and rested the side of her head against his arm. Azriel rejoined them, quietly examining her and Cassian’s efforts in decorating the cabin. “Where’s Amren?”

“Out of the city,” Rhysand answered. “Said she’d be back by tonight but not to stay up for her.” Arwen rounded her mouth in a silent show of understanding and sighed in contentment. Azriel joined their small party, content to stand between Cassian and Rhysand.

Azriel remained the Azriel she knew. The shows of his affection for her grew in the weeks since Windhaven, but only in the seclusion of privacy. Arwen didn’t mind it. She got to enjoy it all in his shadows instead.

They ate a hearty meal that night around a single, candle-lit table. Cassian and Mor moved on to playing a card game by the foot of the fire. Arwen sank onto the lounge, head tipped on the armrest and gleefully watched Mor cheat her way to victory. Rhysand enjoyed himself on his own wine and Azriel joined as he said he would.

Arwen was the first to retreat to the bath, the cabin’s magic keeping the water constantly hot. Her fingers pruned and she nearly fell asleep once or twice. Emerging, her legs wobbled. But it felt good. Rhysand caught her in the hall back to her bedroom. “Let’s go to the rooftop,” he said.

She frowned. “It’s freezing out there. And I just had a warm bath.”

He pursed his lips and held out his hand. A blanket appeared; thick and warm. But it didn’t convince her. Rhysand tipped his head, holding out his other hand where a second blanket appeared.

“Fine,” she huffed and took the blankets. He winnowed them to the gently sloped roof and they bundled themselves under the thick material. Snow swathed the land as far as the eye could see. Arwen could still hear talking from inside.

“Are you going to talk to the stars tonight?”

Arwen peeked over at her brother. Rhysand watched her calmly. Almost curiously. She looked back to the stars that hung over them in the same way the lights inside watched over her family. “I don’t feel like it.”

“Why not?”

She burrowed her brows as she glanced back at him. “I just don’t. You can talk to them, I won’t judge.”

“I already have,” he replied. Her frown deepened as he continued looking at her. Searching for something? “Are you okay?”

She hiccupped a laugh. “What? I’m fine.”

Rhysand nodded and drew his knees under his linked arms. Arwen settled her chin on her blanketed ones, eyes turning to the trees. “Mor and Cassian have a bet, you know?” His smile grew as she looked back at him, her curiosity peaked. “About how long it will be until you and Az accept the bond.”

Arwen laughed into the blanket, planting her nose between her covered knees before lifting it to ask, “What’s their wagers?”

Rhysand quipped a small smirk. “Mor thinks five months. She’s going off on how you like to take your time with these sorts of things. And Cassian… He thinks Azriel won’t be able to keep his hands to himself and has placed fifty gold marks on less than a month from now.”

She tipped her head and contemplated their assumptions. “I don’t feel insulted, so I’ll take that as a good sign.” Narrowing her eyes, she glared in accusation. “Why are you telling me?”

Rhysand licked his lips and chuckled. “Because I have a wager of three months and I’d like to win.” Arwen broke out into unrestrained laughter, tipping her head back and letting the nipping breeze take her neck. He stretched an arm across her, holding her far side as she continued to laugh, keeping her from throwing herself off the roof. “If you let me win this, I’ll buy you whatever you want for Solstice.”

“It’s tomorrow,” she bellowed.

He shot her a cunning smirk. “You should know I have my ways.”

Arwen settled again. “I don’t know, Rhys. I could buy myself anything without doing your bidding.”

“Yes, but when I give it to you, it becomes far more invaluable.”

She chewed on her cheek, slowly shaking her head at him. The conniving thing was using her love of gifts against her. He knew she’d treasure a jar of sand if he gave it to her. Rolling her lips she told him, “It’s not up to me. You should have invited Azriel up here instead.”

“You better have a say in it,” he cut in sharply.

Arwen shot him a placating smile. “We’re… Figuring ourselves out first. He’s spent the past ten years fighting it. And we’re still…” She coughed and pursed her lips. “We’re figuring it out.”

“That’s good.” He nodded and let his shoulders slump. “Mates are…” Rhysand sighed and looked to the stars. “Precious. Especially when you find one that you can love.” Arwen hummed in agreement, setting her chin back down on her knees. Minutes had silence lapsed when his warm hand ran across the side of her head, guiding her hair away from her face. Arwen continued staring ahead, ignoring the stroke of his thumb to her cheekbone. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She made a tiny nod. “I’m fine, Rhys. What’s there not to be fine about?”

His hand remained at her face and when she could no longer stand the feeling of his gaze piercing her temple, she cocked her head, temple pressing to her knee, and stared back. It all felt like a perfect puzzle, each piece cut and placed in precision, making a beautiful pattern. All of it smooth and wonderous, like the laughter coming from the cabin below her feet. Except there, right down in the lower corner where nobody thinks to look, one of the puzzle pieces was flaking. And Arwen hid that piece with her hand so even if he prodded through her mind, it was shrouded. Everything should be perfect. The one thing that was not, was her—so she smothered it. Arwen wouldn’t be selfish and spend this time worrying about herself because when that happened, others got hurt. Azriel hurt.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he whispered.

Arwen turned her head back straight and stayed quiet until the cold crept its way through the layers. She used it as an excuse to return inside. After the lights throughout the cabin were extinguished, even the hung faelights, Arwen left her room. She knocked gently on Azriel’s door.

“Come in.” Turning the silver knob, she peered in. Azriel lay on his bed, one leg stretched out, the other tented towards the ceiling. He wore plain black slacks and a matching cotton shirt. “Arwen,” he called in mild surprise.

“Can I sit with you?”

He paused, but then nodded so she headed towards his bed. Arwen crawled onto it, sitting down and leaning against the pillows stacked at the headboard. She shimmed her feet under the duvet to keep them warm. Azriel had nothing before him, but the curtains of his window remained drawn open, revealing the undisturbed view of the forest in the distance, beyond the snowy field. His bedroom here was small. At least in comparison to that in the House of Wind where he spent most of his nights. The bed took up most of the room, suited for his wings to spread free.

“You and Rhys disappeared for some time tonight,” he mused quietly. “I was forced to endure Mor and Cassian’s bickering alone.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Arwen cooed. “It was bloody freezing out there, but I think Rhys just wanted to talk.”

“Is that what you want now?” Azriel inquired. She looked across to him at the bluntness of the question. His lips parted before pressing together and he shook his head gently. “Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out… Why you’re here. What you need from me.”

Arwen was there because… Well, she hadn’t really thought to find the reason in clarity. She had gotten ready for bed, braided her hair and washed her face a final time. But when she sat on the edge of her bed, her body felt unready for rest. “I can you leave you to your beauty rest, if that’s what you want,” she offered, curving her lips softly so she was sure there was no bite to her words. “I’m just here because I wanted to be.”

Azriel peered down at his own lap and did not speak for a long moment. “I want you here too.” Her chest tightened in delight. “I would like for you to stay here. For the night.”

“Truly?” The word popped out of her before she even put thought into the offer. The only night they had spent together was that they shared in the cabin in Windhaven and that was on the lounge. They had both woken in pain and drowsy.

Azriel nodded.

“Alright.” Arwen dug her legs in deeper underneath the duvet, no longer afraid of making herself too comfortable. “I’ll warn you now, I’m a blanket thief.” His laughter rang through her, warming her to the point where she wondered if she’d need the blanket. “You won’t be laughing when you’re shivering later tonight.”

He calmed enough to smile at her, tipping his head. “I have a very tight grip. Besides, if I keep you close enough, I don’t think I have reason to worry.” Arwen felt her throat close, heat dusting the inside of her cheeks. “I did not realise how easy it is to make you blush.”

“I didn’t realise it was a goal of yours,” she countered, ignoring that he was calling her out on her body’s reaction to his words alone. Clenching her eyes momentarily, she re-opened them and asked, “How has it been feeling lately? The bond?”

“Good,” said Azriel. He looked beyond her, down near the far edge of the bed on her left. “Seeing you today and—and listening to what it’s telling me to do. It feels good, Arwen. Has it ever hurt you?”

Arwen thought on that question before she answered. “Some days, yeah,” she confessed at a whisper. “Some days it hurt a lot and I think you know those days because I couldn’t even look at you.” She realised he had sat straighter and almost completely turned to look at her. “But it also felt amazing. The days you would come back after being away for sometimes weeks on end. When you were just around.” Her mouth was running and she needed to halt it. Coughing, Arwen leant back against the headboard and set her gaze forward.

She only received a second’s warning when his tanned skin moved in the far corner of her eye. His fingers raked through the side of her hair, pushing it over her pointed ear. Arwen let him turn her head at the slight pressure. His fingers tightened at the nape of her neck to hold her there as he leant forward and kissed her. It was heavy against her lips but sweet and slow.

With a tug on the back of her head, he tilted it back. Azriel traced his lips down the column of her neck and she laughed as he moved over sensitive skin. “Is the bond telling you to do this?” she asked.

His throaty chuckle followed, the breath spreading across her neck. “This and a lot more.”

“And here I thought you invited me to stay for an innocent sleep over.” At those words, he lifted from the dip in her neck and found her eyes. Arwen smiled and murmured, “I’m teasing.” She guided him back to her mouth instead. Azriel moved closer, his arm stretching across to press into the far side of the bed and hovered above her. When a dark shadow passed over the still amber-hued room, she risked opening her eyes to see.

His wings.

Instead of comfortably resting against his back, where they always were until the seconds before flight, they were completely open. They spread out from either side of his back, gently hanging down on either side of him, and on either side of her. Not holding her between them, but soft and delicate like a blanket. Arwen had never seen such a display from him and as a half-Illyrian, understood what something like this meant, however simple the gesture to an outsider. Even Cassian wouldn’t offer this to her. She just wished she had her own to reciprocate for him.  

He leant back and gave a small frown, examining her in the same way Rhysand had done earlier. “You’re tired,” he murmured.

She blinked slowly then confessed the truth with a small nod. That unreadiness for rest had washed itself away the moment his scent came over her. Azriel said nothing more, moving away from her side and off the bed when the single light keeping the room awake was extinguished.

He lay back down on his side, offering a small space between them. Arwen turned onto her own side, waited a moment, then inched forwards. Her silent request passed between them and he opened his arm, inviting her into his hold. Arwen lay her head on his lower arm, burrowing under his chin. She hooked her arm under his and took a tight clutch on the back of his shirt, right between his wings. She felt the sharp catch in his breath, but also the way he melted into the touch. He matched her hold, his arm looping around her hips and with the strength of a warrior, held them to him.

“I won’t be here when you wake,” he whispered into her ear.

“I know. Snowbattle.”

He kissed her ear and squeezed her. Then, the wing came back to stretch over them both. Arwen moved her leg up to sit over his hip and pulled him so close that there was no room left between them. Moments before sleep took her, Azriel lowered his mouth to her level again. "Defeat might be worth the sleep-in."

Chapter Text

Chapter 41

Rhysand chuckled behind the mug of his tea at the sight before him. Arwen was perched on the main lounge, knees brought right to her chest as she sat next to a fervent Cassian. Amren and Mor had stolen the loveseat, their conversation unwelcoming to the rest of them, which left him and Azriel to each take the remaining armchairs.

His general had lost that morning’s snowbattle, though lost was quite a generous term on his part. Annihilated seemed more fitting. Rhysand hadn’t won either—a fact he was still bitter about—but kept that annoyance to himself. Cassian, however, had been spending the past half hour avidly detailing to Arwen why he should have been the one to come out victorious. To her credit, she seemed quite enthralled by what he had to say and Rhysand could almost believe that Cassian was getting to her. But a quick brush of her mind proved the opposite.

When her eyes did drift away from the warrior, it was only because Azriel silently rose from his seat and left the room. He returned a minute later with a filled wine glass. Passing by the back of the lounge, Azriel continued his silence as he handed it down to her. Arwen bit her lip as she smiled and murmured a thank you, letting one leg fall to make room to hold it to her chest. Cassian didn’t falter in his blabbering.

“It’s quite early for wine,” Rhysand noted as his spymaster returned to the adjacent armchair.

“It’s too early to listen to Cassian gripe for so long without one,” he drawled back, the remark quipping Rhysand with a smirk and Azriel pressed his lips into a low smile. Azriel remained watching the exchange with an eased expression that Rhysand had never seen on his face before recently.

He was going to mention so until Mor’s voice cut through the room. “Are we going to give out the presents yet? The curiosity is starting to hurt.”

Arwen’s sharp intake could be heard by them all. Her eyes sliced across the room to Rhysand, wide and round. It threw him back through his memories of the same look that came on every Winter Solstice, right down to the first years as a babe when she finally started to understand what presents meant for her. Rhysand gave a small nod in confirmation, though he hardly deemed it necessary. But Arwen took the confirmation with a squeal and abandoned her position on the lounge, trotting towards the pile of presents stacked on the table behind them. Rhysand smiled.

“I wasn’t finished!” Cassian bellowed, turning onto his knees and gripping the back of the lounge to beckon her back.

Arwen stopped in her endeavour and strode up to the back of a lounge with a pout of sympathy. She wound her arms around the general’s neck and squeezed. Rhysand’s brow lifted at the exchange until she said leant back and said, “Cass, you lost and you lost hard. There is no saving this great humiliation.” She held his face between her hands, pecked the tip of his nose and then darted back to the pile of presents, leaving Cassian agape. Azriel snorted behind his hand and Rhysand barely smothered his own smile when Cassian looked towards them.

Arwen returned with her arms full, the presents wrapped with varying degrees of precision. She handed the first to Cassian who took it with only a mumble of thanks. Rhysand placed his mug to the side and leant forward as his came, seeing the label that marked it from Amren. She always had interesting gifts to give.

“I knew you’d like those.”

Rhysand looked up to his sister, then across the room to where she was watching Amren. Amren held up her hand and decorating each finger were talons of bejewelled gold that sat like rings on each knuckle. The female’s wide grin was unnerving as she looked at her hand like she had just found her heart’s desire.

“Watch your throats,” Mor muttered as she tore apart her gift’s wrappings. Amren only flicked her a smirk and settled into the lounge, admiring them still.

Rhysand’s gift from Amren was a flask. Black leather covered most of the metal, but it had been cut in places to reveal silver whorls. “Making day drinking classy,” he noted with a motion of a toast.

Arwen sent around another round of gifts and Rhysand kept a particular eye on her this time, seeing his gift for her in her arms. Before she opened it, he glimpsed at Azriel who seemed taken with his own. In his spymaster’s hand were two slips of paper. “What is it?”

Instead of answering, Azriel handed him the slips. He read over them. Two tickets to a riverboat that went along the Sidra as a ferry during the main hours, but after dark, they opened a small restaurant and slowed their sailing. Rhysand handed them back. “It’s a nice coincidence that you have a mate that loves the Sidra,” he said.

Azriel huffed in a quiet show of amusement. “Thank you, Mor,” he called out. Mor smiled and nodded back.

“Rhys…” At his sister’s uncertain call, his attention left everything else. Arwen held his gift in her hands—a small, black sphere with a flat bottom. She twisted her lips and pinched her brows in a way that made him chuckle. “I don’t know what this is.”

Rhysand waved a hand and the room suddenly become shrouded in darkness that made Cassian, who was still unravelling in his gift, moan. “Tap the top of it,” he told her. A second later, silver light cut through the darkness. Eyes shot to the ceiling where one could mistake that they had no roof. And that it was night time. Stars hovered above them, or the illusion of them. Even he still marvelled at the enchantment, as each one looked as real as the real ones that watched over them. “It’s enchanted to replicate the true constellations overhead that night.”

He waved his hand again, and the darkness shrank back into the shadows. Arwen remained looking up at the now empty ceiling. Rhysand tightened his lips into a smile and watched as she finally pulled her eyes back down. She said nothing as she took the black globe from her lap and placed it on the lounge-side table, but then thoughts twice and kept it in her lap.

Her forgetfulness to tell him thank you, enraptured by what was before her, was better than the words being said. That being said, it took time before she pulled herself away to deliver the next round of gifts. When she skipped over him, Rhysand kept his mouth shut but leant back in the armchair with mild bewilderment. But Arwen made a gesture to be patient and returned to the pile. On her return, he understood why.

She held something narrow but wide that required both hands. Arwen stopped in front of him and placed it at her feet. “It’s not…” She sighed and he leant forward, patient to receive whatever it was. “I was going to get you something else, but I didn’t know what to get you for your birthday, so I gave you what I had planned for today and… Here.”

“Thank you,” he said with a pointed look that told her to stop worrying and muttering. She left and sank back down into her seat before he could open it. Rhysand knew from the moment he took it that it was a canvas, so he took care in his grip. He pulled away the wrapping, expecting to see the splash of paint beneath but at the sight of the palette of blacks and greys, he realised that this was something by her hand and her hand alone. He leant back to view the thing in its entirety.

A sketch—no. It was far more detailed than a sketch. In the background, the Sidra slowly lapped, ships sailing to and from the harbour. The city on the far side of the water stretched along the canvas, each house with its own given attention. He could even see the town house. But the main focus of the drawing were the five forms. Each one sat along the lowered stone barrier at the edge of the river—talking, laughing. Rhysand couldn’t think of the day this could have been. It was such a simple, yet beautiful, memory that it blurred with twenty others. He took in each one; Mor, Amren, Cassian, Azriel, himself. Though there wasn’t any colour on the paper canvas, the way it had been masterfully shaded put the colour in his mind.

Rhysand grinned at it and lay it down across his lap, looking across the room to his sister. But her attention had fully turned to Cassian who held a small box. Cassian threw his arm across her shoulders and drew her into his side, placing a hard kiss on her hair. He said something to her which made Arwen smile and nod then point to the box. Rhysand placed the drawing down to rest against the side of the armchair and decided to thank her later.

“Of course she didn’t.”

Rhysand tore his gaze away from them to ask his spymaster, “What’s that?”

Azriel gestured down to the drawing. “She never draws herself, have you noticed?”

Rhysand frowned and picked it back up, looking over it once more. He hadn’t noticed it the first time, captured by so many details at once. But Azriel was right. He’d talk to her later about it.

More rounds of presents passed, and the pile finally began to evaporate. Azriel kept his smile low and even as Arwen unwrapped his gift to her. A jewellery box, enchanted to play music from the Rainbow whenever she opened it. Cassian almost broke it in the first few seconds he held it to investigate which sent her into a snappy mood until she saw Azriel with her gift to him.

“It’s a two-way diary,” she told Azriel as he unwrapped hers. He held a leather book and a flick through it revealed the empty lines inside. “I have the other. Whatever you write, I’ll be able to see, and I can write back.”

Azriel murmured his gratitude and kept the diary in his lap for the rest of the morning.

They moved as they pleased in the coming hours. Arwen planted herself at the table, grazing at the bowls of snacking foods. Rhysand meandered towards her. He leant against the back of the chair and placed the drawing in her lap and spoke into her ear. “I love this, Arwen, I truly do. But I have a little issue that means I can’t hang it up.”

She tensed below him. “What is it?” she asked meekly.

“It’s not finished,” he told her. At her blankness, staring at her own drawing he added, “You’re not in it.”

Arwen gave a tired huff and tipped her head back against his shoulder. “I’m… There,” she said, pointing to the air beside it. “I’m not going to spend hours drawing myself.”

“That’s too bad, because I won’t accept it until you do.” He released any hold he had on the canvas and took a step away. “Arwen,” he breathed, “you didn’t get me anything for Winter Solstice.” Arwen glared over her shoulder at him, the drawing still in her lap. Rhysand laughed and turned around, heading back to the kitchen in search of more wine. Inside, Azriel was already on the hunt for the same thing. “Which one are you looking for?”

Azriel frowned and continued looking. “That one we had at Starfall. It was red and—” Rhysand pulled the bottle from the rack and handed it to him. He peered down and took it. “And it was that one.”

“I’ll warn you now not to drink it all. Mor has a love for it too and if she finds an empty bottle before she’s had any…”

“I’ll keep my balls protected,” the spymaster finished.

Rhysand winked at him and moved around to find his own source of delight. They both filled their glasses, but he leant against the counter rather than heading back into the heart of the cabin. “Az,” he called. Azriel left his attempt to leave and wandered back to Rhysand’s side. “Did Arwen come to see you last night?”

The way he froze and paled almost had Rhysand laughing. “She did,” finally came the hesitant answer, albeit he didn’t need one after that reaction.

But laughter wasn’t on the High Lord’s mind. “Did she say anything to you that…” He sighed and thought of the best way to ask such a thing. “Anything that would make you worry?”

Azriel narrowed his eyes as they drifted away in thought. “No,” he said. Rhysand wasn’t sure if he felt relief or more dread. “She was tired, so we didn’t talk very long. Why? Has she said something to you?”

He shook his head and shrugged but a second glance at Azriel revealed a blossoming fear. “It’s not about you.”

“But something’s wrong,” Azriel countered. “How do you know it’s not about me?”

Rhysand sighed. “Because I’ve had this feeling for longer than you two have been different.”

“Feeling?” Azriel paused. “What is this feeling telling you?” he inquired slowly.  

He fingered the rim of his glass and debated the extent of his answer. “Just keep an eye on her,” he said. “That’s what it’s telling me so I’m asking you to do the same thing. She’s learnt to be a good actor. She’ll tell us some things so we think she’s opening up to us but won’t tell us the rest. And I need to know what it is that she isn’t telling me.”

Azriel nodded obediently. Rhysand felt a shot of guilt for placing that worry on him. He felt enough fear over the matter as her brother, but as her mate, it would drive Azriel crazy to know something was wrong and be unable to deal with it. But that drive might be what Rhysand needed to get the answer out of her.

He waited a few more minutes to regain his composure before venturing into the main sitting area. Azriel had already fallen to Arwen’s side, standing next to her as she remained perched on the dining chair.

Their voices lowered with the sun. Rhysand retook his armchair, a mug of tea replacing the wine he had been drowning himself in prior. Amren had already retired to bed. Mor sat on the loveseat, Arwen leant against her and from the looks of it, fast asleep. Cassian and Azriel took the main lounge.

Mor rested her head against Arwen’s, holding her cousin’s hand in her lap. But she winced at shifted in her seat. Rhysand began to push from his seat to take his sister, but Azriel, closer and quicker, swept in before him. Azriel knelt before the loveseat and held Arwen’s weight as Mor slipped away, then took the position as his own. Arwen slumped into him, completely unaware of the change. Azriel bundled her into his arms, eyeing the room around him as though searching for anything that needed correction. His shadows, although they were always present, now actively swathed him like a cloud, almost enveloping Arwen away from view.

In the mood for taunts and teases, Rhysand said, “It’s only us, Az.”

The mood must have been infectious as Azriel gave a low smile. “Amren might be sneaking under our noses right this second with her new talons.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 42

Arwen tipped her head lazily. The sun was already setting, leaving the balcony of the House under a honeyed light. Spring had finally melted the snow away, but the land had yet to rejuvenate itself, leaving much of the wildlife across Velaris still at rest. “Rhys,” she breathed, “I say we just leave without him.”

Rhysand coughed behind tight lips. “Thinking about it.”

Cassian revealed himself minutes later, dressed in his leathers with all seven siphons on proud display. Arwen pursed her lips and shot him a glare. “All that time to get ready and you still haven’t brushed your hair.”

“It adds to my charm,” he quipped back. She huffed at him.

Azriel and Mor had already left for the Court of Nightmares hours ago, but that wasn’t where the three of them were going. Cassian, Arwen and Rhysand were preparing to attend the Dawn Court for a meeting of the Solar Courts. Amren remained behind to look after the city. The arrangement hadn’t been their first choice, but something had come up in Hewn City—she didn’t pay attention what—that needed Mor’s attention and Azriel’s skillset to grapple back into control. So Arwen volunteered as Rhysand’s guest in Mor’s place and Cassian… Well, she didn’t think he was actually invited but she’d like to see Thesan kick him out.

Rhysand bowed his arms out to each of them and the moment they both clasped his elbows, he winnowed them across Prythian.

~

“I would be apologising for our tardiness,” Rhysand crooned as they entered the dining hall of the Dawn Court Palace, “but it seems we’ve still managed to beat Amun.”

Thesan lounged in a glorious seat that looked to be made of marble. Cloth of gold, white and rose draped his finely crafted form, complimenting his dark skin. His brown hair hung loosely around his ears. “Amun isn’t going to make it,” he answered with a carved smile. “He’s sending Helion and we both know that male makes his entrances.” He opened his hand to Arwen and Cassian. “It’s lovely to see you both.”

“Likewise,” Arwen answered as they slipped into their seats. Tonight was an informal dinner, Rhysand had informed her before they left. Tomorrow morning is when their conversations on the relationship between the solar courts would ensue. She admired the polished wood of the table, even making the thought that it was a bit nicer than the one they had in the House of Wind.

They made amicable conversation until the great doors leading into the dining hall groaned with another opening. Arwen grinned as Helion swept in, his white robe perfectly plain enough that the eyes of any onlooker were drawn to his sculptured features rather than be distracted by flashes of colour and pattern.

“Thesan,” Helion crooned. “I hope my lateness isn’t too discourteous.”

“Hardly,” Thesan replied. “I wasn’t expecting you until dessert showed up.”

Helion graced his way around the table. Arwen grinned and tipped her head back as he stopped next to hers. “Arwen,” he breathed. “I would have come hours early if I knew you would be my company for the night.”

“Last minute change of plan,” she told him. “The same for you, it’s been noted.”

“Yes.” Helion leant on the spine of her chair as he addressed Thesan once more. “My father apologises greatly but something has come up that he needed to attend to urgently.”

“Well don’t apologise,” Arwen sang. “We get you instead.”

He winked down at her. “You have to get past the formalities to get to the fun. And I see you’ve brought the fun with you. Cassian.”

“Nice to be finally recognised,” the warrior barked with a grin and Arwen nudged him with the point of her elbow.

“Glad to see my choice of entourage has brought you some delight,” said Rhysand.

“Perhaps you can keep them entertained, Helion,” Thesan noted. “I’d prefer if the incident at the Summer Court wasn’t replicated here.”

Arwen choked on the wine she had been sipping at. Rhysand grew silent, watching over the fingers he pressed to his mouth. Cassian beard an unworried grin and Helion threw his head back with a deep, bellowing laughter. Arwen managed to get her wine down and held up her hand. “I would like to make it clear that I had nothing to do with that building. I wasn’t even there.”

“Perhaps not,” Thesan said and lifted his own golden goblet. “But I don’t doubt that Rhysand’s court has trouble up each sleeve.”

Arwen only smiled in return at his light tone and tapped her nose as if keeping the secret.

Once dinner and dessert had passed and they left with confidence that they would meet come the coming day’s lunch with good graces. Rhysand remarked as they were led away from the others by a servant that he was grateful Helion had been the one to come in place of Amun. Arwen nodded in agreement. Amun and their father had never gotten along which caused a few tensions between their courts.

Rhysand and Cassian were dropped off in the same hall on the west wing of the palace. “Where’s my sister staying?” he inquired as the servant gestured for Arwen to follow. “I would prefer if she was close.”

“Just down the next hall, High Lord,” the servant said with a graceful smile. “First door on the left. High Lord Thesan thought she would like the balcony it offers.”

Cassian frowned. “Do we not get balconies?”

The servant smiled again and dipped her head into a bow then gestured for Arwen to continue following. With the servant a step ahead of her, Arwen stretched both hands up and extended a single finger on each aimed behind her. With a quick glance back, she caught Cassian snarling and waving her off with his own rude gesture. The servant seemed to know as with a tilt in her head, Arwen saw her hiding another smile.

“You know it’s—”

She stumbled, words cutting short as they turned down the next hall. Another female wandered through it, her long robes gliding around her legs. The robes of a High Priestess. Arwen forced her legs to start working again but the dryness in her throat prevented the continuation of whatever she had been about to say. She couldn’t remember what it was anyway.

Ianthe strode past her and it was only in the last second before they crossed did the blonde High Fae even move her eyes from the path ahead to Arwen. It was fleeting—barely even a second—but Arwen’s blood ran cold. Her stomach twisted and no matter how much she wanted to look back, she couldn’t.

“That is Ianthe, my lady,” the servant informed her as they stopped outside the first door. “She is a High Priestess that High Lord Thesan has invited to stay for the coming days.”

“Y-yes,” Arwen croaked. “I’m well aware who that was.” Why was she feeling this way? The last time she had seen Ianthe, Arwen had slammed a door on her hand and Rhysand had commanded her out of his city. She had been the one in power and she had not feared the High Priestess. Yet now it felt like she had passed something beyond wicked. Arwen held her stomach. “Thank you, I’ll be fine for the night without being tended to.”

The servant frowned. “Would you like assistance preparing a bath? Attending to your nightly preparations?”

She shook her head. “No. I want to be alone. Thank you.”

The servant bowed her head and took her leave. Arwen remained in the doorway, not yet having looked inside. Once she could no longer hear the light taps of the servant’s heels against the polished floor, Arwen padded her way back into the other hall and barged into her brother’s chamber.

Rhysand paused, his shirt half unbuttoned. He squinted and looked into the empty air. “See, if I was you right now, I’d be getting smacked on the head for not knocking.”

Arwen did not smile. “Ianthe is here.”

He dropped his hands away from his raven tunic. “Ianthe?”

She nodded. “She’s Thesan’s guest. Rhys I-I don’t want to…” She sucked in more air and reset her shoulders. “I don’t want to stay alone and I don’t want you alone either.”

“Okay,” he murmured and sauntered towards her. He clasped her shoulders then pulled them to his front. “Okay,” he repeated. “Stay in here tonight. Did she say something to you? You sound like she’s just been holding a knife to your neck.”

She shook her head against his chest. “I just passed her in the hall. I’m sorry, she just scared me. I don’t know why.”

“Your heart is going fast enough for the both of us,” he noted. “I’ll keep the door locked with magic tonight. And warn Cassian. Maybe it was a good thing Azriel had to go to Hewn City.”

Arwen nodded her head once more and turned around in his hold, taking in his guest chamber. It was accented with creams and rose golds, but had a more masculine taste to it that she couldn’t pinpoint the cause of. Indeed, there was no balcony but still fit for the high-ranking guest he was with magnificent arched windows that would look offer a marvellous display come dawn. Rhysand rubbed the side of her arm, letting her stay close until she decided otherwise.

“I need a bath,” she decided, and set her path towards the washroom door.

“Be my guest then,” he groused behind her.

As she peeled her clothes off, the door of the washroom opened. Arwen jumped and clutched at her dress but the entering servant only diverted her eyes. “I’ve been informed to begin your bath, my lady,” she said.

Arwen calmed her heart, silently cursing Rhysand for not giving her a warning. The serving female leant over the clawed bathtub and began to fill it with water, constantly feeling the temperature. She poured a selection of oils in from unlabelled and tinted glassware and soon the soft, almost flowery aroma filled the washroom. Arwen kept the dress to her front.

The servant turned back around. Gone was any sign of the softened smile she had earlier. “It should be to your liking, my lady, but please call for me if it is not.” Her eyes lifted from the floor near Arwen’s feet. They were grey like rainclouds and examined her unwaveringly. Arwen shifted under their intensity. “Do you often bathe in your brother’s chambers?”

Arwen blinked. “What?”

The servant bristled and ducked her head again. “Forgive me. Will you be staying here for the night or will you be returning to your chambers?”

Arwen rounded her lips. “I’m sure my chambers are lovely, but I would prefer to be here tonight.”

The servant nodded, left and closed the door behind her.

Arwen shook off the event and near moaned as she slipped her foot into the bath. “I need to kidnap that servant,” she said to herself, “and bring her back to the Night Court.” Nuala and Cerridwen were always amazing, but this bath had set new standards. It even washed away thoughts of the High Priestess. She only left it because no magic kept it warm, and the tepid water grew rather disappointing after the relaxing start.

Slipping into a nightdress, Arwen returned to the main chamber. Cassian now occupied one of the armchairs around the small, rounded table that hosted a silverware set. “I heard the news,” he said to her.

Arwen sat on the armchair opposite. Rhysand, who had been standing near the window, meandered towards the small seating arrangement, perching on her armrest. “You promised Thesan no destroyed buildings but I don’t believe you said anything about not murdering his guests,” she said, digging at her nail.

“I think that might be a regular expectation, sweetheart,” Rhysand hummed, clawing at the crown of her head before running his hand down her hair. She sighed and planted her cheek against her fist. “That servant looked at me strangely.”

Cassian threw out his hand. “Did you read her mind?”

“She left too quickly for me to think about it.”

“She was strange,” Arwen grumbled, but the conversation had already seemed to pass. “I’m glad we’re only staying the night. Any longer around and that High Priestess might really have something to pray about.”

“I’m sure you won’t even see her again,” Rhysand comforted. “Azriel’s not here to sink her claws into.”

“But you are,” she countered. “And I imagine her more with fangs.” Arwen clicked her teeth together in display but a yawn interrupted her. Letting her head fall back, she suddenly found that the back of the armchair did not travel high enough to hold her and instead diverted her weight to the side and onto the length of his thigh. “That bath was like nothing before. I think she put something in it—” another yawn— “to make me sleepy.”

“Are you suggesting the servant drugged you?” Cassian asked. “To sleep?”

She nodded sleepily. “It’s like… The perfect politeness. Drug your visitors to make sure they get a long sleep when they’re away from home.”

“I’m not certain I’d call that polite,” he countered. “More like creepy.”

Before she could argue her points, the chamber door opened once more. The servant entered, towels neatly bundled in her arms. “Fresh towels,” she said. “I just thought to leave them in case you change your mind about a bath, High Lord.”

Rhysand nodded. “Thank you.”

The servant darted forward, passing the seating area and headed into the washroom. Emerging moments later, she strode towards the chamber door, but angled her head to look upon them. Arwen watched her back, following the point of her eyes as they moved over Rhysand, then back down to her. The gaze was long and… bizarre. There were no signs of desire that many looked upon her brother with. But when it turned to her there was… fear. For her. The servant made one more pass over Rhysand and Arwen was just about to call in warning that she was going to walk into the wall when the servant finally looked forward again and left the chamber.

“That was awkward,” Cassian said under his breath. “Accuse a female of drugging you and there she appears.”

Rhysand watched the door for a moment longer. “She was curious. About us.” Arwen lifted her head in time to see him look down at her.

“Do I have something on my face?” she inquired rather dryly.

His mouth twitched but no chuckle came at her remark. “No, she… It doesn’t matter.” Arwen planted her head back down, curling her feet onto the chair and left those thoughts behind in favour of sleep.  

Chapter Text

Chapter 43

Arwen startled awake despite the gentle hand that awoke her. The sun barely slit through the closed drapes, but the line of light cutting across the floor was a striking mix of deep pink and gold. She sat up, the mound of blankets piling into her lap as she wiped at her face.

“My lady.” The servant. “I’m sorry to awaken you so early but the other servant has taken leave and I’m the only one available to attend to all three of you. I thought you may want to prepare for the day.”

Arwen gazed around the dark chamber. Rhysand had slept on the chaise in exchange for the comfiest pillows on offer. By the looks of it, he was still asleep. “You should have woken Cassian first,” she said with a morning croak. “He takes longer than any of us.” With a stretch, she slid off the side of the bed and greeted the serving girl with a calm smile. “I’m rather easy to tend to. Perhaps just assistance with my hair after I have dressed? I wouldn’t mind something to eat, either.”

The female nodded but looked over her shoulder. Arwen followed it to her brother.

“I will go fetch something from the kitchens. Will he awaken before I return?”

Arwen shook her head and pulled on the robe hanging across the closest chair. “Probably not.”

“Perhaps it is best if you return to your personal chambers, my lady. We can leave the High Lord to his rest.” Before Arwen had the chance to debate the offer, the servant placed a hand on her back and began guiding Arwen from the chamber, picking up her small bag along the way. The night’s sleep had placated some of her panic about the High Priestesses presence, so instead of rising into an argument, Arwen simply allowed the servant to take her back to what was supposed to be her guest chamber

She squinted as the door opened. Although not facing the eastern horizon, dawn had well breached the extent of the room, flooding it with gilded light that was flecked with pinks. The Dawn Court truly had the right name. The large chamber hosted a four-poster bed with cream bedding, a smaller sitting area than Rhysand’s but with a hearth and beyond two arched windows stretching to the high ceiling, was a joined balcony.

“I will see to the kitchens while you dress, my lady.”

Arwen nodded in approval and the servant left the room in a hurry. Pondering over the female’s odd actions, she stripped and changed into a black dress of velvet with a generous cut down the front. A perfect representative of the Night Court.

The scent of fresh bread signalled the servant’s return long before Arwen heard the door open. The female placed a tray of bread and a selection of fruits down on the small table at the seating arrangement. Next to it, a silver flagon. Arwen immediately went to the tray, prying chunks of the freshly baked goods that had been lathered in butter. “This is probably very improper of me, but your bread is amazing.”

The servant smiled shyly. “It is my sister’s doing. She works a marvel in the palace kitchens. Come sit. You may eat while I do your hair.” She brought the tray and flagon over to a vanity with an almost too-wide mirror. Arwen seated herself at it. “Please, you must drink as well.” The servant took the small goblet resting on the tray and pour the contents of the flagon into it. Orange juice, if Arwen could guess from sight alone.

Arwen took the goblet but placed it aside for the time being.

“Tell me about your life at the Night Court,” the servant inquired as she unbound Arwen’s pathetic overnight braid. “It must certainly be different from this.”

“Not so much as one might think,” Arwen divulged.

“You and your brother are close?”

Arwen sighed. “He’s an idiot, but I can’t help but love him. He does make it worth it from time to time.” The servant gazed at her through the mirror’s reflection and Arwen caught those grey eyes again. “You seem curious about him. Is there something you wish to know about my brother?”

“No.” The servant looked down again. “I know enough.”

As she brushed Arwen’s hair away from her neck, it revealed a small bruise just above Arwen’s collarbone. Her fingers faltered at the sight of it. Arwen blushed and licked her lips. “I don’t suppose you have something to cover that with?” Azriel had been quite discontent with the idea of not seeing her for a day.

“Y-yes. Of course.” Arwen smiled coyly and looked away from the mirror and towards the windows instead. “Is this from last night, my lady?” At Arwen’s stammer to answer, she was quick to add, “My apologies if that was too forward, my lady. I just wish to know how tender it would be to touch.”

Still, Arwen frowned. Last night? What activities did this servant think she got up to? That she was romping around with Cassian at a foreign court? Or perhaps with Helion. The latter wasn’t too outlandish a thought, especially if this servant knew of Helion’s proclivities. “No, it was from the night before. It is fine to touch; I didn’t even realise it was there.”

The servant passed the goblet to her again. “Your voice is still rough from sleep. The drink will help ease that.”

Arwen’s eyes turned back to the goblet. She hadn’t been thirsty—never was so early in the mornings—but it did look delightful. So Arwen picked the goblet up and held it to her lips, taking a few sips. Definitely orange juice.

“I hope it will help you,” the female said.

Arwen frowned and lowered the drink. “I wasn’t aware my voice was so coarse.” With an empty laugh to fill the growing awkwardness, she added, “Perhaps this is just the way I talk.”

“Perhaps,” the servant hummed. “Or perhaps you do not realise that you are not yourself.”

As the remark bounced around Arwen’s head, she leant forward and half-turned around in the vanity’s seat. Her tone cut sharp as she demanded, “What are you implying?”

The servant stepped back and strung her fingers together before her stomach. “You will feel better soon, my Lady. You and your brother’s relations. It-Ianthe says—”

“Ianthe?” Arwen gasped, rising from her seat. “I do not want to hear one word about what that trollop has had to say about my family. Go, I don’t need your services. And you will not attend to Rhysand or Cassian either.”

Arwen had terrified the servant who seemed already a skittish thing. She couldn’t form any words, stammering on air and pulling at each finger before finally turning and dashing out of the chamber. Only once the ricochet of the slammed door ended did Arwen slump back down in front of the vanity, heat painting her cheeks a scalding red.

She took out her thoughts on her hair, yanking it into a bun as she rambled to herself about Ianthe and the servant. By the time she was ready to leave the chamber, crossing into the adjacent hall, Rhysand already stood dressed in his. He took one look at her and said, “You look like you’re in a horrible mood. Was the luscious bed not enough for you to get your beauty sleep?”

Before she could answer, the door swung open from behind and a half-asleep Cassian barged his way in. “I was under the impression that we’d be brought breakfast. Now I’m not expecting to be waited on every second of the day, but when someone promises food and doesn’t deliver, I’m wondering who the fuck I have to kill.”

Arwen spun on her heels. “Ianthe. Kill Ianthe.”

Cassian blinked hard. “Ianthe? She’s the reason I’m not getting breakfast? I see why you hate the bitch.”

“What,” Rhysand began, pointedly drawing Arwen’s attention back, “did Ianthe do? Were you in here the whole night?”

“Yes, I was.” Arwen rounded her shoulder, keeping her temper so she didn’t snap at them by accident. “She’s been talking to the servant though. I don’t know what she’s been saying but the servant was making these comments and…” She placed her hand to her head, slumping her weight into one hip. “I’ve got a headache.”

“I know you’ve not had this problem before, but you’re thinking too much. Just—” Arwen snapped back towards him and thumped a hard fist against his chest. Rhysand parted his lips and rubbed at the spot. “Ow. Alright, humour isn’t the cure. We’re not needed until the meeting at midday. Just stay in here.”

“Breakfast,” Cassian sang.

“Go… Hunt it down. You’re an Illyrian.”

“Wow, Rhys, you really know what to say this morning.”

“Yeah I’m not having the best day either so can you please…” He trailed off with a heaving sigh. The door hinges whinged, signalling Cassian’s departure though Arwen hadn’t lifted her head to say goodbye. “Barely fucking slept.”

Arwen threw out her hand, exasperated. “I told you I’d take the chaise!”

He brushed her off. “It wasn’t the chaise.”

Licking her lips, she matched his previous sigh. “Nightmares?” she asked quietly. Rhysand nodded after a minute of silence. “I’m sorry. Seeing Ianthe yesterday set me off. I feel like I can’t calm down.”

“It’s mutual.” His nose flared with a long exhale as he placed his hands on his hips and peered over his shoulder. “Why don’t we just have something to drink and watch the sunrise. The effects last hours here.”

Arwen looked beyond him to the purple and pink splattered marble floor where the stretch of dawn, despite being over an hour ago, still reached. “Okay,” she whispered. They took seats in the armchairs, turning them to face the windows that had been drawn open since she left.

Rhysand broke their silence with a short grunt of amusement. At her questioning look he said, “Azriel’s asking if you’re okay. He could feel your heart. Can I tell him you are?”

Arwen braced her arm along the curved back of the chair and pressed her joined knees into the armrest. “I love him, Rhys.” She didn’t register the words coming out, only the almost instinctive urge to say them. So she did.

“Would you like me to tell him that?”

Arwen lifted her head and took in his bewildered expression. “No,” she coughed out with a chuckle. “I think I’m going to tell him at Starfall this year.” She had loved him for quite some time. Not loudly. Not in a way that she had even known. “I wanted you to know first.”

Rhysand gave her a slow and soft smile that spoke to her more than words could.

Before she knew it, midday had rolled around and it was time for their meeting with the two other solar High Lords. Cassian had managed to hunt down some breakfast and eradicate his grouchiness. Rhysand had gathered his thoughts and wiped any sign of anything less than that High Lord of the Night Court from his composure.

The three of them careened around a hall’s corner as they headed to the War Room. Another turned in from the far end of the hall. Rhysand laid a hand on the back of Arwen’s shoulder as they neared Ianthe who strode towards them with cat-like grace.

“High Lord,” she said, her voice light and wispy.

“Ianthe,” Rhysand greeted back tightly. “Get bored in Spring?”

She clicked her tongue and smiled. “I’m just here for a visit. Thesan sees the benefit of my companionship.” Her attention moved across to Arwen, ignoring Cassian’s show of crossing his arms. “Still between two males, I see.” Rhysand’s hand tightened on Arwen’s shoulder, but she had made no effort to escape it. “My business here is with the Dawn Court. I have no interest in mingling.”

Cassian stepped aside and gestured to the hall behind them mockingly. Ianthe lifted her chin, looking the general up and down once before continuing past. They made the rest of their way to the War Room uninterrupted. Arwen battled to keep a smile as she greeted Helion and his entourage as well as Thesan. The High Lord of Dawn did not bring companions but had his Peregryn Guard standing at ease around the chamber.

Arwen settled in her seat between Cassian and Rhysand, opposing Helion.

“I hope you had a pleasant night,” said Thesan. “I hear the servant I assigned to you was dismissed.”

“Please take no offence,” Rhysand answered. “My sister hadn’t been feeling the best and didn’t wish to pass on any sickness that may have struck her. But I assure you that she’s perfectly fine now.”

“It is good to hear that it isn’t the quality of my court services. And of course that you are feeling well, Arwen.”

Arwen bowed her head in gratitude.

The meeting ensued. It turned out quite a bit more amicable than she had been expecting, even a few moments of amusement infecting the War Room. Rhysand pushed for a written treaty amongst them, though Helion was hesitant to make any judgements in his father’s place.

“There’s no rush, Rhys,” Thesan pacified. “We are not at war nor is there a threat of one rising.”

“We both know how quickly those tides can change.” Leaning back against the high chair he sat in, her brother said, “I agree that there is no rush. I am willing to wait if it means gaining your allegiance, but the seats of power can change any day. I would like to know who would be on my side if that happens.”

Helion scratched at his jaw. “I will take a draft of it back to my father, but I won’t make promise on—”

The son of the High Lord was cut off by a guard opening the grand door of the War Chamber. The golden armoured fae marched forward, shutting the door behind him. Thesan sat straighter, a scowl settling into his dark forehead. “Greminger, I am in the middle of a meeting.”

“My apologies, High Lord.” The guard bowed, but even Arwen could see that his thoughts were elsewhere. “Your guest has arrived early. He’s demanding an audience now.”

“Tell him he shall wait,” ordered Thesan with a dismissing wave. “I am seeing to other matters more urgent than whatever he has to say.”

The guard widened his eyes. “I tried to tell him that, but he won’t listen.”

Rhysand, who seemed both amused and curious at the interrupted, inquired with a purr, “Who is this guest, Thesan?”

The High Lord of Dawn jutted out his jaw, only glancing at Rhysand before opening his mouth to address his guard once more. But like Helion, he was cut off by the door’s singing entrance. Arwen leant back in her seat to glimpse past the guard and peek at the curious disruption.

Her heart stopped. It froze and she forgot how to breathe.

Because Tamlin was the one to walk through that door.

Chapter Text

Chapter 44

Cassian felt the power of all seven siphons surge through him at the sight of Tamlin. The legs of his chair scraped against the polished floor, though he didn’t care for any marks it might leave. His arm shot out to the left as he stood, covering Arwen from the High Lord of Spring, his other dropping down to the blade lodged at his thigh. His wings tightened to his back, prepared to move in any which way he needed.

“I-I c… Can’t.” Cassian finished her words inside his head. I can’t be here.

Tamlin stood before the long table and seemed to be taking in them as they took in him.

Rhysand had stood at the same time as Cassian and power rippled through the chamber. “How dare you bring him here.” Barely a whisper, yet louder than anything else in the War Room.

Thesan stood, his fingers pressing into the stone table. “He’s not supposed to be here until tomorrow, well after you had left.”

“You know what he did to my family,” Rhysand hissed. “You know what he did to my mother. My sister sits right in front of you. Yet you still invite him here. Behind my back, thinking that I would not find out!”

“My personal relationships with other courts is not your business!” Thesan growled in return.

Cassian still hadn’t taken his eyes off the blonde High Lord who had not moved. But those green eyes had fallen down onto Arwen. Cassian took the half-step forward that he could, thighs pressing into the table and blocking her from Tamlin’s view.

“Let’s not forget what you did to my family,” Tamlin’s voice cut through once his stare became broken.

Cassian barely restrained himself from launching forward. Tamlin’s family? It was Rhys’s—it was Cassian’s family that had been betrayed. A mother to him slaughtered and a sister pinned down and tortured.

He looked down at Arwen who remained the only one other than Helion to remain seated. But where Helion was keeping a backseat (even his companions rising at the sense of threat), Arwen sat frozen. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at Tamlin, seized by such a haunted terror that Cassian knew he would be ripping limbs if they didn’t leave soon. Rhysand had a tight grip on the back of her neck, holding her to his side as he stood over her. Ready to move her at a moment's notice, or jump in front of her in less. 

Rhysand raised his other arm, a single finger pointed in threat. “You take one step closer and you’ll see that family again. You can forget the meeting,” Rhysand barked at Thesan. He pulled Arwen from her seat, who stumbled towards him, still staring at nothing. Cassian kept close to their side, constantly smothering his urge to attack in favour of remaining on defence. “And you can forget any talks of military alliance.”

Rhysand tucked Arwen into his side, shooting Cassian a look that silently communicated his order. He gripped his High Lord’s shoulder and they winnowed out of the Dawn Court.

It only took three winnowing leaps until they made it back to Velaris. Cassian let out a vulgar yell as they appeared mid-sky before his wings snapped into action. Rhysand was already feet ahead of him, carrying Arwen who was not holding him back. They flew to the House of Wind. Cassian landed rather harshly as Rhysand settled Arwen on her feet.

“Fuck,” Rhysand hissed. He grasped either side of her head, glaring over the top of it as he kissed her hair before softening his face with a slight crouch to look at her. “Arwen? Sweetheart?”

Arwen didn’t meet his eye. Didn’t even seem to be seeing him. She just stared at his chest with the same look in her eye that Cassian had seen in the War Room. Cassian took a step forward but halted immediately when Rhysand shot his hand out and glared at him. Cassian lifted his hands to show his obedience.

“She’s gone into a mental shock,” Cassian murmured. He’d seen it before. Soldiers that survived the battlefield only to become shells of what they were before. They would break down at the sound of weapons, and start screaming at other times. The Illyrians usually killed them out of mercy. Or shame.

“Arwen, hey, look at me.” Rhysand bent down to her height, constantly searching for her gaze with his own. “Arwen you need to look at me. He’s not here. You’re safe and I have you, you hear me? Arwen, listen to me.”

As Rhysand’s hands repeatedly stroked down either cheek, something finally got to her and Arwen’s head snapped into a series of fervent nods. Rhysand sighed and pressed his forehead to hers and stood to his full height. His wings appeared from their usual void, enveloping them both into a small world that Cassian couldn’t see into.

“Rhys…”

Rhysand peered over the top of his wing at Cassian’s soft call. Half a glare still remained, but beyond that, it was wild uncertainty. Cassian realised that he was still breaking down in his mind what was a threat and what was not. Still just as panicked as Arwen.

“Do you need anything?”

He bowed his head, resting against what Cassian assumed as Arwen’s but couldn’t see below his wings to know for sure. As it rose again, Rhysand shook his head. “Az and Mor are coming back soon,” he told Cassian, voice uncharacteristically raspy. “Tell them to keep their distance for now.”

“Of course.” Cassian wasn’t certain how successful he would be in keeping a male away from his mate, especially when she was in distress, but he’d do as his High Lord asked, nevertheless.

~

It took Arwen some time to register that they had returned to the House of Wind and not just moved to another chamber in the Dawn Palace. At that realisation, she finally began to chip away at the panic seizing through every fibre of her being. She clung to the soft fabric standing in front of her, knowing in its familiarity that it had only brought comfort before. A dark leathery membrane encased her and the fabric.

Tamlin. She had been in the same room as Tamlin.

Pain tore through her back and she could feel it—feel the way the knife dug into her skin. Twisting and cutting. Then the darkness around her became too alike their dark figures standing over her and the panic swallowed her right back down into its depths.

Arwen screamed and tore herself away, wincing as light blinded her in its place. She stumbled backwards, her heel catching on the back of her own dress. His face was so fresh in her mind. Her mother’s screams—

She could hear them.

The ground felt like earth and the voice calling to her told her to run.

Tears streamed down her face like they had that day, hot and stinging. She clambered against the earth—no, the ground. Solid, cold ground.

“Arwen.”

Her palms cut into the edges of small steps that proceeded to dig into the small of her back.

“Arwen, please.”

Get away. Get away. She should be in the forest outside that camp. She should be running, not stuck on the ground. She should hear him—

“Arwen.”

Arwen looked straight ahead. He was different now than he was that day. Then, he had been sprinting towards her, dressed in leathers and less power ebbed from him. Now he had a dark jacket with lapels and silver accents, his hair lay tamer and he was the epicentre of power.

She broke forward, scrambling towards him. Rhysand caught her. “Breathe. Just breathe for me.” That was different too. Back then he had been screaming. He might have told her the same thing, but he was calm today.

“T-Ta-Tamlin,” she wailed, unable to breathe as he told her to. “Mother. H-They killed Mother.”

“I know what he did. Father and I took care of it, alright?”

“My wings…”

A hiss of air passed her ear which was suddenly covered by an arm that brought her to a chest. A safe chest. A safe body. “I know,” her brother said. “I know, I know.”

She couldn’t see through her blurred sight, and even if that dried up, he kept her shielded from everything else. And he stayed with her, sitting along the ground in front of a window that swathed them in gilded light. Arwen bit into the backs of her fingers, their middle knuckles inside her mouth. She kept searching the room, the voice in her head telling her that he could appear at any moment again and strike while they were unaware.  

Chapter Text

Chapter 45

Arwen knew Rhysand was pissed. And she used that word lightly.

She sat on the small, spare chair in his office, feet curled underneath her, and she hid her mouth behind her fisted fingers. Arwen’s eyes were sore but dry and she could barely focus on anything beyond keeping them open and staying awake. Cassian stood right next to the chair, his hand lain gently on her shoulder, constantly rubbing his thumb over the bone even as he spoke with her brother.

Rhysand paced behind his desk. He had run his hand through his hair one too many times and it sat in a disarray, strands spiking in all directions. Scattered across his desk were the papers he had spent weeks drafting—the copies of the ones he had taken to the meeting to solidify relations between the Solar Courts. Which was now more strained than it had been in centuries. After she had calmed, it became his turn to panic and she didn't know how to help. So she chose to just be there with him as he had been there for her. But something had been broiling in her stomach for a few hours and it made it hard to concentrate.

Arwen winced as he swore again.

Cassian seemed to be on a mission of pacifying, answering everything that Rhysand said but the High Lord barely listened.

“I can’t apologise,” Rhysand declared, stopping his pacing momentarily to ensure that Cassian heard him. “I won’t apologise. It’s a weakness and it’s not deserved.”

“Thesan owes you one,” Cassian concurred. “Owes you both one. And he will give it. The Dawn Court and Night Court have always been on good terms.”

Rhysand shook his head wildly. “He won’t see it like that. Won’t see it as his fault.”

Arwen turned from sitting with her weight on her side to her back. She moved a hand over her stomach. It felt as though a small flame lay inside of her, like that of a candle.

“Helion will report back to his father,” Rhysand continued, hands braced on his desk. “His court borders ours and I needed to make sure that I could count on them as allies.”

Cassian sighed and stepped forward, leaving Arwen. “Thesan was at least right in saying that there is no rush. We’re not at war and you have time to rebuild this. Who knows—Amun might get pushed off a mountain sometime soon and Helion will be High Lord, and we both know that he would prefer being your friend over your enemy.”

Rhysand slumped into his seat, hand covering his mouth as he looked down at the papers again.

Arwen closed her eyes as the feeling inside of her spread. “Rhys… I don’t feel so well.”

He let out a sharp breath. “It’s probably your powers again. I don’t know—go let it out or something. Cassian can take you down.”

She shook her head and peeled her eyes back open. This feeling inside of her was foreign and not supposed to be part of her. Arwen slipped her legs from the chair, shaking her head at Cassian who moved forward to do as her brother suggested. Her legs still held firm, but the flame inside had moved up into the pit of her chest. It wasn’t hot. Not in the way she would feel if she stood before a fire. It felt like something was burning though. Scorching and charring inside of her.

“I have to figure out why that bastard was there in the first place. What was so important that he had to barge in on another High Lord’s meeting.”

“Rhys, I really don’t feel good.”

Rhysand dropped his hands from his face, letting them slam against the desk. “Arwen, I have just destroyed my relationship with two other courts. I don’t have time to sit here and worry about how you’re feeling.”

Arwen shrunk under his fiery gaze. Her eardrums thudded with each heartbeat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, shifting on her bare feet. Her heels had been discarded somewhere between now and their first arrival. “I just don’t feel well.”

“Then go see Madja,” he hissed. “I can’t think about this right now.”

“Rhys,” Cassian said, his voice quiet and smooth. “You could use the break and frankly she looks terrible.”

“I have already put so much aside for her.” Arwen couldn’t find her voice anymore and she wasn’t sure if what she was feeling was from whatever was causing it before, or a new dread at the look on her brother’s face. But there were tears in her brother’s eyes and she knew this wasn’t just coming from a place of anger, but of frustration and pain. “I have cancelled meetings. I have denied visits to foreign courts. I have spent time organising your birthdays over taking care of this court. I have given Mor more than her fair share of work because I knew you needed my full attention. And I keep giving it to you. Can you not for one moment see that I’m the one in need of help now? Put yourself to the side and see that I have problems too?”

Cassian stepped forward, his chin low and set. “Rhys,” he growled.

Arwen was going to vomit. She felt it in her throat and only by some miracle it hadn’t come up already. “If I have been such a…” Her dry lips split as she twisted and pressed them together. “… Problem, then why do any of it? Why not throw me onto the streets and let me find my own way?”

“Because you are my duty,” he uttered lowly, not even bothering to deny the label she placed on herself. “You are my duty the same as this court is. But for once in your life, I have to put this court first before I handle you. I just left a meeting that could help ensure this court's safety, for you.”

Handle. Arwen couldn’t keep the quiver in her jaw showing. The sting of tears rose in her eyes and everything inside of her… Broke. Rhysand kept talking, saying something about how important it was that he reconcile with Thesan and send letter to Amun. A shadow neared the corner of her left eye that she winced away from before realising it was Cassian.

“I didn’t realise how many issues I was causing by being here.”

Arwen wasn’t sure her hand would listen to her, but it did. Her fingertip grazed her neck, running down the thin golden chain until it reached the small vial containing the essence of a spirit from Starfall. It had hung there every day since he first gave it to her.

She gripped it and with a yank, broke the clasp around her neck. Arwen couldn’t look at either of them, only at his desk as she dropped her arm to her side, and let the necklace go. She didn’t even hear it hit the floor.

“Arwen.”

Arwen lifted her eyes from the desk, barely able to make out the world in front of her. Rhysand stood silent now, watching her intently. His eyes were rung with darkness, perhaps the same exhaustion that she felt. How much of her existence was the cause of that tire? She opened her mouth, unsure of what she was going to say until it came. “I release you from our bargain.” The stinging came immediately at her arm where the tattoo had been engrained into her skin for ten years.

Rhysand hissed in a breath, raw shock slashing across his face. His hand shot to the sleeve covering his tattoo. It would be gone by the time he looked. He stared at his arm before looking back at her, and she kept herself numb to the broken expression. 

“May I please borrow your general so he can escort me back down to my residence, High Lord?” Her voice shook but she pretended it didn’t. “I know he is needed for your court, but I think it would benefit you if I was no longer present.”

Rhysand parted his lips, the eyes that had held a burning inside of them now wide and the fire extinguished. Whatever he wanted to say, it never came. He looked between her and Cassian, before giving a small nod to the general and sinking down into his seat.

Arwen turned and bowed her head, resolute to not look back as she walked out of his office, Cassian a step behind her. At the first sign of his mouth opening, she cut him off. “I cannot deal with anything at the moment, Cass, so please don’t talk to me.”

They marched in silence from one end of the House of Wind to the other. But as fate would play it, as they turned onto the balcony, Azriel was coming to a landing with Mor in his arms. Arwen shuddered and twisted her shoulders so she stood in Cassian’s shadow, praying that he would take her signal to pass them.

“Arwen,” Azriel called as the pair trotted forward.

“Not now, Az,” Cassian warned lowly, encircling an arm around her.

“Cassian,” Azriel greeted tightly and in a warning back. Arwen clenched her eyes shut, unable to bring herself to look at him. She couldn’t grip onto her own thoughts, couldn’t be sure what she would say or how she would react. Most importantly, she didn't want to face them with the new shame mounted on her shoulders. 

“Would someone like to tell us what’s going on?” Mor prompted tersely. “Did something happen at the meeting?”

“We’ll talk about it in a minute,” Cassian stated, his sharp tone cutting down on any argument. “Rhysand is in his office if you want to bombard someone with questions and I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer.”

“Would you like to do the honours and answer a few?” Azriel barked back. “Like why you’re shielding my mate from me?”

Arwen blinked hard, her lashes brushing against the leather of Cassian’s armour. She blocked them out as the burning feeling swelled inside of her again. 

“That’s rich, Az. Considering you’re the one who avoided her for ten years.”

She tightened her grip on him as Cassian stepped forward, their voices meddling together into a single noise like a thunderstorm at sea until a single, shrill one cut over the deep growls. Mor snapped at them both in a way that almost made Arwen want to laugh.

“I’m taking her down to the town house,” Cassian said, his voice softened. “If she wants you there, I’ll let you know. Until then, go speak with your High Lord.” He swept Arwen off the ground and she clung to his neck, just catching a glimpse of Azriel over his shoulder looking desperately at her before the general took flight and he and Mor soon became dots in the distance. It wasn’t until Arwen felt alone, hanging from arms in the empty sky, that she began to cry.

Cassian landed softly at the foot of the town house. Arwen had to move her legs before he put her down. “Sweetheart…”

She shook her head and moved away from him. She didn’t want to hear that name, didn’t want to listen to what he had to say. Everything was pressing down on her and Arwen was crumbling underneath it. For some time she had known that her position in Rhysand’s court was fractured, but now it was completely broken off. And there was no one to blame but herself. “I want to be alone.”

“I know, I understand.” He caught her arm before she reached the door. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Breathe and have a rest. You know you’ll have that damned High Lord on his knees later.”

Arwen failed to swallow the lump in her throat. “He said everything he needed to.”

“That’s not true.” Cassian stepped closer, trapping her between the still closed door and his body. “He’s angry and he’s scared. I won’t begin to compare this to what you went through, but he just saw the male who tore his family apart. I know that I'm not alright. He does everything he can to protect you and Rhys probably feels like he just led you into that. That he's failed you. He’s blaming himself and not handling it.”

“Or maybe he’s blaming me,” she whispered, her hand finding the door. “Just like he said.”

Cassian’s shoulders dropped. “Take the night. I’ll be back in the morning and we’ll talk. Just you and me.”

Arwen shook her head. “You have duties to attend to and he clearly thinks I already take up too much time—”

“It’s my day off,” he interrupted. “How about that? I’ll work Sunday instead. But I’m not leaving you here until I know that I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sniffing, she pulled her sleeve over her palm and wiped at her mouth. Each blink sent a new wave of tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she promised. Cassian nodded and took her acceptance with a warm, but weak smile. “Cass?”

“Yeah.”   

“I love you.”

He gave a rumbling chuckle from the pit of his chest and brought her into a final embrace. “I love you too, kid.” Arwen melted into him, likely marking his leathers with her nails as they dug into his armour like talons. But neither of them cared.

Chapter Text

Chapter 46

Arwen sat in her bedroom, breathing heavily, and attempted to lose that feeling in her stomach again. The bag next to her feet had been filled with trinkets that she cared to take with her. Amren had offered her apartment once. Under the condition that she remained quiet and came alone, both of which Arwen could fulfill. There was no way she could stay in the town house any longer. Not now that she knew how her presence had come to be a burden on its owner. He wouldn’t want to see her and she didn’t want to see him. If Cassian truly wished to talk to her the coming day, he would find her.

Pushing from the mattress, she left the bag by the foot of the bed and set her mind on something to eat. The only thing that had reached her stomach that day was a few bites of bread and a mouthful of orange juice. Arwen had dismissed breakfast after the events with the servant that infuriated the hunger out of her. Lunch was supposed to be served after the meeting with Thesan and Helion and—

And Arwen hadn’t exactly felt like staying around to sip on tea and eat dainty sandwiches with Tamlin sitting across from her.

Holding her stomach, Arwen ventured into the kitchen and let her eyes wander to find what would catch her interest. The apples and other fruits were far too sweet for her complaining stomach. The scent of bread nauseated her even more. Not in the mind for cooking, she passed over anything that would require more than a minute’s work to prepare.

Nuts. She could eat some nuts. Not sweet, could be eaten by the handful. Perfect.

They were sitting in a crumpled paper bag that she had placed down days ago from a trip into the city markets. They had been salted as well. Arwen pinched them and plopped them straight onto her tongue. Swallowing, she waited for her stomach’s response.

Not as good as she was hoping, but she kept nibbling at them slowly. Until they too started to curdle inside of her. The packet dropped from her hand, contents spilling along the floor but Arwen had already sped away. Barely making it to the sink, she clutched the metal lip and threw up. Her stomach clenched in on itself, making her heave over and over again, each one burning her throat more.

When she had finally given everything she could give, Arwen slumped and opened her eyes. Her lips dried at the sight within the sink. Black ooze splattered across the otherwise silver metal, dripping down into the plumbing. At the sensation of wetness on her chin, she reached up and swiped a finger across it. The same black liquid covered her fingertips. 

~

In the House of Wind, Rhysand’s office had become the victim of a raging storm. Or something close to it. He sat in his desk chair, the flat of his boots pressing into the lip of his desk. He had thrown his head back to stare at the ceiling, unable to take in their faces as well as their words. “I know.” The words fell from his lips on repeat. He knew he fucked up—and he didn’t need them to tell him that. He realised the moment he heard that necklace touch the floor.

He had stopped his rambling then. Nothing was on his mind but the way she looked at him and he couldn’t speak. He was going to—he would have found something to say to her but then his arm started burning and he lost all sense again. So when she asked to leave, all he could do was dumbly nod. 

Mor led the assault against him, which was deserved but no less infuriating to sit through. Azriel stood at the side of his office, alternating his glares between Cassian and him. He snapped away from the wall where his shadows stormed around him. “I’m going to see her.”

Cassian, as if already suspecting the movement, had been waiting near the door. His wings sliced through the air, wide and defensive, and blocking the doorway. He bulked his body to match. “No, Az, you’re not.”

There was no hesitance in Azriel’s snarl. “She’s my mate.” The air became thicker, wilder.

“And she’s my sister!”

The word pinged through Rhysand’s chest. Sister. Brother. It did not feel like his mantle to carry anymore, but he would. He would carry it until the end of his days. In pride or shame. As a trophy or a wound.

“Are you really going to fucking try and stop me, Cass?”

Cassian pointed his finger to the shadowsinger’s chest. “You want to see her to calm your own mind. Arwen wants to be alone and right now I’m more interested in what she needs than what you want.” Azriel tightened his wings, baring his teeth to test Cassian’s hold. Cassian steeled himself. “You want to fight, we can fight.”

“There will be no fighting,” Mor snapped, daring to step between the two. “Give the poor thing the night to herself. Cassian will see her tomorrow, Azriel, and it will be up to her if she wants to see you or not. Or me, or Rhys.”

Azriel held his ground for a few more moments, glancing at each of them. In the end, he retreated to his shadowed corner. Rhysand could sense the strained chains of resistance in Azriel’s mind, who glared across the room to Cassian. But then Cassian left without speaking and the glares went to unrelentingly pursuing Rhysand. Eventually, Mor left too, leaving him alone with Azriel.

He wasn’t sure if he hated himself more, or Azriel did.

~

Arwen had tried to climb the stairs to get back to her bedroom, but she only made it three steps before falling back. Her stomach kept seizing, twisting so painfully tight that she began to cry out with each one. The black substance, which was hot and thick, dribbled from the corner of her lip. 

Keeping her arms spread to cling to every piece of furniture, Arwen clambered her way across the ground floor of the town house and into the washroom where the long mirror hung. She knocked a vase, ignoring the way it shattered across her feet. Finally standing before it, Arwen lifted her head and looked into the mirror. The girl staring back couldn’t her.

Her eyes were bloodshot and the usual deep, near purple blue of her eyes had turned this off-shade. A black line trickled from her nose. Arwen stumbled away from it, her back slamming into the opposite wall.

She could taste it now. The acidic tang from earlier had finally washed away and as the trail of it from her nose dripped onto her lips, she tasted metal. It was blood. Her blood. Her blood was black, and she had just thrown it up and now her nose was bleeding.

Arwen screamed and hunched forward, grasping at her stomach as pain stabbed through her abdomen. Something filled her lungs that sent her into a fit of coughs. She covered her mouth with her other arm, each hacking of her lungs only sending more agony into her stomach. When it finally subsided, her sleeve was wet. It was almost impossible to see upon the black velvet, but droplets had splattered down into her palm.

She needed help. There was no pride lost in the realisation, having little to none left after the day behind her. So she pushed her arms out again and hobbled out of the washroom. Arwen made it to the back end of the staircase when the coughs came back. Covering her mouth with her hand, she pushed forward, eyes set on the foyer. What she would do out there—she didn’t know. But someone would see her. Call Madja. Something.

Her leg gave way. It faltered under her weight and Arwen crumpled to the floor. The fall sent her into another series of heaving, staining the floor below her with black blood. Before she could recover, even take a breath of air, her lungs filled again. Rocking on her hands and knees, Arwen gaged as she coughed. And it wasn’t stopping.

She looked up towards the foyer door, only one beyond that and she would be outside. Arwen crawled. On her damned hands and knees, she crawled forward. But she wouldn’t make it. Not with how her legs refused to listen to her and her arms already grew weak holding her up.

They gave in how her legs had. Her cheek burned as it skidded across the length of the rug. Her body wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t obey. And the blood kept filling her throat, and then her mouth and nose. She couldn’t turn.

Arwen sobbed, which turned into chokes and gargles. She did the only thing she could think of. Searching deep inside of her, where that invisible rope had been tied to her ribcage, just above her heart, she tugged.
And tugged.
And tugged.

~

Rhysand now sat forward, head between his hands and stared at the empty desk before him. He’d wiped the papers away with magic. To where, he didn’t really care to know. They’d return when he willed it.

“I don’t even know what I said to her.” He didn’t recognise the voice as his own. “I don’t remember it.”

“You will.” Azriel’s sharp voice cut through his office. It was a promise and a threat. “You will remember everything you said. Because Arwen will and she will play this memory over and over until the day she dies.”

Rhysand sat back in his chair. “I’ll erase it,” he said. “I’ll take the memory from her.”

“I’d be swayed to agree if I didn’t think you were doing to hide.”

He looked up at his spymaster, then immediately to the side instead. The shame crawled through him like bugs he couldn’t swat away. He let it. It could eat away at him for all he cared. The necklace now lay on the edge of his desk, picked up by Mor who shoved it in his face. When Rhysand refused to look at it, she put it on his desk to force him to acknowledge it.

Azriel hissed a breath and placed a hand to his chest. Rhysand perked at the sign of pain, entering carefully into his mind to read the issue for himself. It was an odd sensation that he came across—one that shouldn’t inherently be painful but the insistence and strength behind it made it so. 

Something sunk inside of Rhysand at that moment. Cassian had returned stating that none of them were to go down and see her unless she first requested it. Even Azriel. But this feeling—the tugging—it wasn’t a gentle urge by a lover. It was a frantic cry.

“Please don’t stop me, Rhys,” Azriel whispered, desperately, but he barely heard it.

Rhysand opened up his mind, reaching out into the city to find hers. He only stayed inside of it for one second. The chair tipped as he flew from it and sped past Azriel, barging into his shoulder and speared his way through the House of Wind. What he had felt in her mind rattled something deep in his core. Every moment felt too slow, like he wasn’t moving fast enough or something was holding him back. He knew Azriel was on his tail, following him out, but didn’t waste the second to look behind and confirm.

He remembered nothing of what he passed. All of it was a blur. How long was this damn House? But then he saw the sky and his wings shot out from his back. He tore through the air, taking flight, Azriel’s shadow still in the far corner of his eye. As soon as he felt the shimmer of the ward, Rhysand winnowed across the city.

The cobblestone road flashed in front of him and he barely angled himself in time to land without falling. Rhysand rounded sharply towards the door of the town house and barged his way through the front door. “ARWEN.” He barged through the foyer door next.

His eyes searched at his height first before falling. On the long rug that ran the length of the main hall was a small form. Finally, the world caught up to him.
Then it collapsed.

His knees scraped against the rough carpet as he landed at her side. Arwen stammered with each breath, her eyes fluttering, close to closed and something black dribbled from her mouth. Rhysand ignored the front door pounding with another entrance. He called her name again, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her weight up, her head lopping against his arm. Her chest started convulsing.

“Turn her over!”

Azriel’s deep command snapped him into movement as the spymaster dropped to his knees on her other side. Rhysand twisted her upper body to face back down, holding her there as Azriel lowered even further to watch her face. She vomited across the floor.

Azriel brushed away the strands that had fallen from her bun, whispering to her. “That’s it.” Azriel lifted his head, stroking the back of hers as his hazel eyes glossed over. He lifted his hand a moment later, eyes dropping to the black substance that covered his fingertips. Rhysand’s nose twitched at the scent of blood. “V…Violet’s Death,” he whispered, struggling to get the words passed his lips. “It’s a poison.”

The name sat like a pool of dread in Rhysand’s stomach. He had heard of it but never seen its use. “Do you know what the cure is?” Azriel nodded. “Get it.” The shadows around him grew, then sucked him away to someplace else. As his sister’s coughing subsided, he gently turned her back around. “Arwen? Sweetheart?” Rhysand adjusted her into his lap, pulling her legs over his thigh and guiding her head to sit in the crook of his elbow. Hazy eyes found his as she panted and let him take her entire weight. She was scared. He lost the pinch of composure he had left. Pulling her closer, he pressed a hard kiss to her brow.

The thought kept echoing in his head. Poisoned. Someone had poisoned his sister. And she had tried to tell him. She tried to tell him and he ignored her.

Each breath she took shuddered, and her eyes turned unfocused. Rhysand pressed the heels of his black boots into the ground and pushed himself back, holding her to him until his back hit the wall. He pulled her higher and closer, so she was sitting up in his lap, head resting on his collarbone.

Bending his head down, cheek pressing into the top of her forehead, he kept speaking to her. “You can hold this over my head. For a decade.” Her response was a hissing breath that lodged in her throat and turned into a cough before easing again. He rubbed her thigh as she looked hazily along his chest, hoping it would offer something of a comfort. “Want to give me a sign you can hear me?” He held off the beg that came to his tongue but when no response came, it fell freely “Please, Arwen.” He watched her hand that was resting near her stomach, nudging it with his own to see if she made any movement for it. At nothing, Rhysand bit the inside of his lip and ignored the tear making a stinging trail down his cheek.

She coughed again, more of the dark blood trickling from her nose and mouth. The following breaths were louder and hoarser.

“You don’t get to do this to me.” He brought his hand back up to her face, cupping the length of her jaw as he whispered to her. “You get to hate me. You get to throw things at me. You get to sit on my throne—but you do not… Do this to me.” Rhysand threw his head back against the wall in a pathetic attempt to let his eyes swallow the tears that flooded them. He sent a biting order into Azriel’s mind, wherever he had gone. As she started coughing again, her shoulders quaking, Rhysand sent another plea down the minds he linked to.

A cold touch graced his fingers, drawing his eyes back down. Arwen still wearily looked at nothing, but her hand had stretched to her face and she dusted the tips of her fingers over the backs of his. She barely heaved in any air before falling into another fit and he hated how weak it sounded. How her body convulsed under his grip. Then she didn’t open her eyes when it stopped—

“Arwen?”

Rhysand shook her.

“Arwen?”

Her eyes peeled open and lethargically blinked up at him.

Thudding footsteps signalled Azriel’s return. The door slammed in his wake and the spymaster did not stop as he marched past Rhysand and Arwen. Rhysand watched him disappear down the hall, holding something that looked like a mortar. “Azriel?!” He reappeared moments later, the mortar gone and in its place a glass. “She’s—”

“I know,” Azriel cut him off, his voice flat and so low that even his ears strained to hear it. Azriel knelt down in front of him. “I can feel her.” He placed his hand on the back of her head and inched closer. Rhysand looked down to the glass in his hand that held a murky green substance as Azriel lifted it to her mouth. He was surprised at how steady his hand was, for Rhysand’s own were shaking. But his shadows were wild, hovering around Azriel in a way that he had never seen before. The entire hallway was almost cloaked in them.

As the murky contents tipped into Arwen’s mouth, she started to choke. Rhysand’s hand snapped to her jaw, pushing it up and forcing it closed. Azriel set the only half emptied glass down and cupped her neck, stroking it up and down, encouraging her to swallow. She fought it, her elbow digging right into his abdomen though he wasn’t sure if she was aware or not of it. “You need it,” he told her, the strength in his voice fading. “Come on, sweetheart, just swallow.” He felt her throat move and released her jaw, letting her make weak gasps for air.

Azriel picked up the glass again and this time Rhysand could see the tremor in his hand. He angled the glass at her lip and tipped it all at once. Rhysand, prepared this time, shut her jaw before she could cough any of it back out. Arwen didn’t fight it.

“Is that all?”

Azriel nodded, not once removing his watchful gaze over her. Arwen squirmed feebly, giving a few more coughs but the spasming of her chest stopped. “I use it sometimes,” he uttered, almost blankly. Rhysand listened intently. “Takes hours to work but they feel it coming. It scares them. Makes them talk. Waterlily and sap from an oak tree cures it. Makes it a cheap and easy way to threaten someone if you don’t fancy a blade.”

“You think someone was threatening her?”

Azriel looked up. “Or you.” He looked back down and shifted forward. “Arwen?”

Rhysand’s neck cried in pain as he twisted it. Arwen’s eyes fluttered dangerously fast and he didn’t hear her struggles for breath as she hardly breathed at all. “Is it working?” He brushed the hair away from her face, but no answer followed his question. So he asked again. “Azriel, is it working?”

The breaking expression in Azriel’s eyes answered where words did not. Rhysand shook her arm and squeezed it in a way that would usually end up with her hand up the backside of his head. “Damn you,” he hissed, shaking her harder. He was crying now. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry and now you need to stop this.”

He imagined her opening her eyes. She would laugh at him, tell him it was payback for the things he said. And he would take it, perhaps throw a comment about how cruel she was being.

Her head lopped off the front of his shoulder. From her ear, the same black blood oozed out, staining the abnormally pale skin of her neck. Azriel stared at her, hands clenching his thighs. Rhysand’s ear twitched with each of her heartbeats until they stopped.

Azriel slumped off his knees, the heavy thud echoing throughout the silent town house until Rhysand’s scream tore through Velaris.

Chapter Text

Chapter 47

Cassian didn’t know what he would find when he landed at the town house, only that it wouldn’t be good. Mor slipped wordlessly from his arms, sprinting the extra steps to the already swinging door and he kept on her heels.

He saw Rhysand first. The High Lord sat against the wall, knees pulled halfway into a bend towards the roof. He almost didn’t see her. The black velvet of her dress and her hair melded in with that of her brother’s dark tones. His fingers were threaded through her hair, holding her head close to his chest. She lay there limply, one hand dropped to the floor, fingers curling into her palm. Amren already knelt beside him, speaking to him, but nobody but Amren heard what she had to say.

He heard Rhysand next. Hard, gut-wrenching wails.

Mor didn’t stop as she ran towards them but before she could reach out, Amren giving a small bark of warning, something knocked her to the ground. Climbing back to her knees, just two feet away from them, Mor placed her hand on the air between them. A shield. “Rhys? Arwen?”

Rhysand shook his head and that’s when Cassian could see his red-stained eyes and the tracks along his cheeks. Cassian approached, feeling the shield for himself. Rhysand tightened his grip, if even possible, on her and held her to him. “Rhys,” he called lowly. “Let us help her.”

Rhysand shook his head again, unable to say a single word, heaving like there was no air. The hand in her hair curled tighter as he kept her head to the space between his shoulder and neck as if hiding her away from them. His other ran down and back up the length of her back, scrunching and folding the fabric of her dress in a way that Arwen would berate him for. That’s the moment Cassian realised the true extent of what he was seeing.

“Oh gods…” Cassian pushed his fingers to his mouth, his chest tightening to the point of pain. He fell back away from the shield. He had left her here. Alone. He made a promise to return tomorrow but tomorrow was too late. Stumbling away, Cassian couldn’t stay there, vomit already pooling in the back of his throat. Clambering to his feet, he swayed into the closest room. Behind him, Mor kept speaking to Rhysand, kept trying to get through to him.

He wasn’t the only one. Azriel stood in the sitting room in a shadowed corner. His hands pressed into one of the shelves of the bookcase that stretched from ceiling to floor. Azriel stared at the space between his hands, his shoulders softly rising with each breath. Cassian made the steps toward him, knowing that his pain was unmatched to his brother’s.

He knew how to do it. Knew how to push aside the immediate grief and deal with what was before him. Azriel could do it too. Any trained warrior, especially Illyrian, needed to if they had any hope of surviving on the battlefield. But this wasn’t a battlefield with warriors dying by blades in a war. This was his home and his mate lay dead in it.

As Cassian neared, he spied the swelling muscles underneath Azriel’s jaw from clamping it shut. His knuckles had gone bone white with splotches of red marking the trapped blood under the skin. Despite how still he remained, Cassian knew that every muscle beneath the canvas of his skin was fuelled with power.

“Az…” The shadowsinger made no acknowledgement of his nearing. Closer now, Cassian could see the watery layer on his eyes, the small tremble in his lip. He reached for his brother’s arm—

A fist to his face cut off any words he intended to say. Cassian fell back two steps but kept his footing. He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth and rounded his shoulders as Azriel watched him. Cassian nodded to himself.

“Okay.”

They fought. They fought messy and hard, no hold in their punches. They broke furniture and marked the walls but with each fist that hit Cassian, Azriel fought less. Cassian knew the sitting room would soon be destroyed beyond magical repair but he also knew that Rhysand wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t care about much for a long time. And he also knew if he didn’t let Azriel take it out on him, he’d take it out somewhere else and perhaps that would be somewhere they couldn’t find him.

So he continued to let Azriel punch him. Kick him. Whatever he needed.

“You kept me from her,” Azriel repeated, over and over again. “You kept me from her. You kept me from her.”

Azriel shoved him against the exposed brick wall, once, twice.

Cassian snarled as his wings flared with pain and gripped Azriel’s arm with the intention of throwing him off, but a broken sound stopped him. Azriel stopped barging him against the wall, but the grip on Cassian’s shoulders tightened as he let out a sob. Cassian dropped his restraint.

Whatever wall the spymaster had built, crumpled. Tears streaked down each cheek, each one like a blow to Cassian’s stomach, harder than any fist would hurt. He clasped Azriel’s shoulder, and his brother folded into him, chest shaking.

Rhysand had quietened in the hall, though Cassian had no idea how long ago as the sound of their fighting had blocked out anything else. He wasn’t even sure how long they had been fighting. It felt like hours. He could just hear Mor’s soft voice over Azriel’s wails.

~

Mor sighed and folded her arms, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway. Her eyes and cheeks were both stained red. “He won’t let me touch her.”

Cassian sniffed and roughly wiped at his eyes, coughing to clear his throat. Azriel had left—to Cauldron knows where. But after their fighting, after he finally ran out of tears, Cassian made the mistake of letting him go back into the hall. Azriel had said nothing, but looked down, and then fled. Amren now sat with Rhysand, saying nothing, but watching over. “Just let him,” he told her. “Give him as long as he damn wants.” Mor looked about to argue, but one sharp look from Cassian silenced it. She tilted from foot to foot. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You alright, Mor?”

Mor bit her lip, looking out past her shoulder to a frosted window, then shook her head.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Me neither.” He swallowed her frame into his arms, his shirt which had just begun drying became wet again. And guilt ate at him, bit by bit.

~

Cassian sat across from Rhysand in the hallway. They were the only two left in the town house, Mor claiming she couldn’t stay any longer and Amren went on a hunt to find Azriel. Rhysand did not look at Cassian, his face pale and empty. He said nothing either. He didn’t cry. He simply rested his cheek against his sister’s head, slowly stroking the side of her face, sometimes humming a rough tune. Cassian gave a moment to be grateful that he couldn’t see her face past her almost entirely loose hair.

His eyes dropped to the dark stain on the carpet. It was throughout the rest of the town house. Droplets of what he soon figured out were blood, decorating the walls and furniture. It was on Arwen’s hand too.

“How?” The croaked question broke the promise of silence.

Cassian didn’t think an answer would come, but after a minute of silence, Rhysand whispered, “Poison.” Another pause. “Someone poisoned her.”

It didn’t surprise him, not with the circumstances, but the confirmation still sent his mind into a frenzy. They had been in a foreign court—with servants and guests that they didn’t know of. His mind cut to Tamlin and hated how he dismissed him so fast. Tamlin had been shocked to see her there—Cassian saw it on his face. Probably didn’t know of the meeting at all. There was Ianthe, but Arwen had gone straight to Rhysand’s chambers from what he knew. Stayed there all night. But from the next morning until the meeting, Cassian didn’t know what had happened—if she left or Rhysand left her alone. Did Thesan have any reason?

“Someone will pay for it,” Cassian answered. A promise.

Rhysand finally looked at him. “I already have.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 48

Arwen didn’t remember waking, only that her first memories of consciousness were strange. Something glowed underneath her skin, running through her like veins. It was soft, almost unnoticeable and a washed-out blue. But it seeped from her skin and cuffed her wrist in a swirling of light then reached out beyond her like a rope, softly lapping at the air.

Something else pulled her away, and it swathed her in some odd sense of longing and ease. Arwen knew she was supposed to follow it, knew that turning and letting it guide her would flush away everything else. Yet she watched the strange, shadowed form before her and the other across the room. The longer she stayed there, standing, feeling, the more unclear the world became. Detailed forms lost their sharpness, colours became blurs of light and shadow. Like a hand swiped down a still-wet painting. And soon, she went along with it.

It pulled at her again, and like her body was a cloud, only stitched together by air, Arwen began to fade.

“No. N-no no.”

She fought it. The peace it had been moments ago turned to agony, the delicate hands of Death turning to claws as she denied Death’s claim. The blue mist that seeped from her started to whip through the clouds of the realm around her, flicking and reaching. Arwen battled against the fading, pulled herself away from Death as the rope kept searching through the haze.

Until finally, it latched onto something. Like a whip finding its mark, the rope wound itself around something no wider than her fist and pulled taut. Its colour deepened like blood pumped through it, making its way down to her. The cuff around her wrist pulsated and Arwen stopped fading.

The mist and fog dissipated, the blurs turned back to shapes and the shadows back into the forms of people. She knelt before one—the one that her rope latched itself on to. Chained her to. The shape of the face became clear; strong and honed like her father’s once was. Arwen had tethered herself to Rhysand.

~

It started with screaming.

She would scream and scream and scream.

First it was out of anger—how he couldn’t see her and wouldn’t listen to what she was telling him. That he didn’t try and find her even though she was right there. She screamed at him for hurting her, then for burying her body in the forest just outside of the city. She screamed at him because he wouldn’t say her name. She screamed at Cassian too. Sometimes Azriel or even Mor and Amren. When Rhysand slept and she was forbidden to, she would stand over his bed, wondering if she screamed loud enough that she might startle him awake. He did awaken most nights, but not because of her.

Then it was out of desperation. Please. Oh, how many times she had said that word. Begged. Pleaded. When he sat in his bedroom at the foot of his bed, hands tearing through his hair as tears streamlined down his face, she begged him to see her, to know that she just wanted to hold him. To know she was right there, sitting the same as he was, hands clawing through her own hair and her cheeks drowning in her own tears. Then when they sat at the dinner table and like they always did, they laughed and they smiled and they drank. Even Azriel. She stood at the end of the table and screamed at them in hope that her voice would rattle the mountain.

Next came the whispers.

She would sit with them, any of them if her tether to Rhysand allowed the distance. And she would talk, tell them what she was thinking or if she saw something interesting as she was forced to follow where Rhysand went. Most often it was with Azriel, on this seat by the Sidra. She could almost pretend there. He went alone and just sat, watching the river. He always left a space on the bench for her. But her voice would never rise beyond a soft murmur as if the decades of screaming had finally caught up and she lost her voice. That never happened though.

She never slept, never ate, never felt the cold or sun. The only tire she ever felt was the exertion on her mind—and it was fucking exhausting. Every single day.

After one hundred years, she stopped talking altogether. Never again parted her lips. She waited until the tether forced her to move. After two hundred years she began contemplating her ways out. Trying everything from travelling as far as she could in an attempt to break the tether, to letting herself fall off the cliffside of the mountains at the House of Wind, to spending nights loathing herself for wanting her brother’s death to end her own torment.

What had become the worst part, was watching their lives without her continue. To know and accept that just because her world ended, theirs hadn’t. She watched Rhysand grow as a High Lord and forget about her, and realise that she truly had been a burden to him. He never said her name, wiped her life from existence as though she had never been alive at all.

But then the truly worst part came when she was pulled Under the Mountain with him. She saw everything. Trapped there with him. Watched him shatter piece by piece.

Then the war came and that was the first time Arwen had screamed in over one hundred years. The first time she had let her lips part in decades. Then Rhysand died and she was finally free. The tether faded from her wrist and she felt the pull again. Death's claim on her returned. This time, she had no intention of ignoring it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 49

Rhysand believed that his life after death would be peaceful. That perhaps he would float in nothingness, and be little more than a formless soul. Or that there would be something. And, if by all technicalities, there was something. The fogged world around him only held two distinguishable features. Amren and the Cauldron.

He wasn’t ready for death.

The Cauldron began sealing, burning bright like a thousand cracks were being melded together. They had done it. All of them. And he felt his mate’s call, the droplets of power and life surging back through him. So he held out a hand to Amren. The female looked at it blankly, then at the Cauldron, then back at him. Rhysand smiled as she slipped her small hand into his.

The tug on him grew and he knew it was time to return, so he turned around to the calling. But a shadow caught his attention—just in the corner of his eye. Rhysand turned back, his mind racing with thoughts of who he knew had recently died. Could it be a soldier that had died close by? There were no others besides them.

The shadow grew sharper as he walked towards it, leaving Amren to follow the guide he left to get back. The tug on him was stronger now. He didn’t have long.

His heart stopped (a thought that he might laugh at later) at what was before him.

A female stood amongst the mist, dressed in a black, velvet dress. Raven hair tumbled down her back and violet eyes were turned down to examine her hands. Rhysand’s lips dried, his stomach dropping out of him. He never thought he’d see those eyes again.

She wasn’t looking at him, only down at her hands that she twisted and turned, marvelling, at something.

He uttered her name for the first time since the day she died, low and hoarse. “Arwen?”

Arwen glanced up, her lips softly parted with mourning painting her face. His heart twisted painfully, seeing her look at him for the first time in two hundred and fifty years. Rhysand marched forward. She took a step back, her expression flashing to panic.

He could bring her back. He knew he could. He wouldn’t question the how or why she was there.

“Arwen,” he called again, keeping his voice soft just in case she was struggling to recognise him through the fog.

Arwen looked behind her, perhaps to the same thing that had been calling him before his mate’s voice muted it.

Rhysand extended his hand, the same as he had offered Amren. “Arwen.” A breath. “Take my hand. Please. Take my hand.” She only looked at it. The pull was becoming too strong. He was going to return by his own will or by force, and he would bring her with him. Even if it was some allusion of his mind, he would try.

At the last second, feeling the force of his life be torn away from the mysterious realm, he launched forward and grabbed the hands she had been marvelling at seconds earlier. And his existence in the fogged world was wiped.

~

Rhysand felt her first, lying on his chest. If he had the control to smile yet, he would. He brushed a hand down Feyre’s back. “If we’re all here,” he groaned, “either things went very, very wrong or very right.” The hoarse chuckle of his general met his ears like birdsong. “You lot will be pleased to know… My power remains my own. No thieving here.”

Helion said something in reply, then a more feminine voice snapped back but Rhysand was truly too occupied with the small world around him to pay attention to outside of it. He pushed up, lifting Feyre with him as he breathed in the pure sight of her—remembered how her voice called for him.

The smile he managed faded as memories started hitting him like a battering ram. “The Cauldron,” he said and made a wave in its direction. “Search the Cauldron.”

Mor acted on the order, dashing towards it and delving into its depth with a cry. Azriel moved in to help her, followed by Varian at the sight of who was being pulled from it. Amren, drenched to her bones, flopped out of the Cauldron, vomiting water. Mor thumped her on her back, encouraging it all to flow out.

Rhysand waited, but no one returned to searching within the Cauldron. “Azriel,” he called, earning the spymaster’s gaze of attention. “Is there anyone else?” He didn’t dare say her name aloud. Not yet. Azriel shot him back a look of uncertainty, but drove his arms back into the water and waved them about.

Within seconds, he looked back at Rhysand and shook his head.

“Is there something else?” Feyre asked, a hand placed delicately on his chest. “Someone?”

He couldn’t find an answer. He was so sure she was there. Felt her skin on his own.

“What the fuck is that?” Cassian’s croaking drawl drew their attention to the space he stared at.

In the midst of them all, a crack appeared. Quite simply, and literally, a crack. It hovered in the air, the silvery cut like a broken mirror. It cracked more, turning air into solid shards. Then, like it was the surface of water, it rippled, each shard moving like a wave as something pushed from the other side.

A form fell through it, breaking the seal. Limp. Pale. But right there in front of him. She lay on the ground, hair splayed out and on her side. The cracks in the realm forged back together, sealing once more.

“Mother above,” Helion whispered. “Is that—”

Rhysand scrambled to his feet, his eyes set on her but he was beaten to it. Azriel dropped at her side, his face—panic, fear, wonder. All of it there, but none so much more than desperation. Cassian stared at them, not daring speak or move, nor did Mor or Amren. Feyre rejoined Rhysand’s side, clinging to his arm and he was grateful for the anchor. To know that this moment was true.

Azriel gently moved his hand under her head, lifting it from the ground and then her shoulders until her weight lay in his arms. Arwen’s head hung lifelessly, eyes closed. Through the stillness, Rhysand strained his ears to hear something from her. Anything—a heartbeat or breath. Dread had a grip on his heart, squeezing tighter with each second that passed.

Azriel’s lips trembled apart. “Arwen?” he whispered.

Her eyes opened.

Rhysand’s knees buckled.

Arwen’s chest reached upwards and strained for air. Azriel clenched his eyes shut with a shudder and bowed his head, but like everyone else, he couldn’t look away and reopened them. She stole more breaths, each one loud and uneven as though she had forgotten how to breathe. Her bare feet kicked at the ground, heels making small trenches as she seemed to fight to keep herself alive.

Azriel whispered to her, so softly that Rhysand couldn’t hear the words as he moved with her struggles, not once restraining her movement. Then, she slowed her movements and her eyes fluttered. Rhysand shot forward as her small clutch on consciousness was being lost, but Azriel only held her tighter and watched over her like a guardian.

By the time Rhysand stood before them, she lay limp once more. But her chest rose and fell with steady movements and pink at her cheeks was enough to keep him at ease.

“To repeat,” Cassian murmured with an audible gulp, “what the fuck?”

Rhysand dropped to his tattooed knees, in front of family, friends, allies, and foes, and knelt for his sister.

~

Rhysand bore his duty as a High Lord with pride. There was a very short list of things he would ever sacrifice it for. But it pained him that day—to see to everything he needed to before he could do what he wanted. Cassian and had been hauled off to the healer by Mor which alleviated some of his worry and a constant connection to Azriel’s mind kept him going until he could visit her tent.

The tent was next to his and Feyre’s, rightfully so as his closest family and a high-ranked member of his court. She did not lose that honour upon her death. Tire darkened his eyes as he pushed open the canvas flap and marched inside. Azriel sat on the chair pulled up next to the cot, chin rested on his folded hands, elbows making pits in his thighs.

“Has she woken again?”

Azriel shook his head, not moving his eyes away from the cot. Rhysand took a long breath, a hard one, and walked closer.

A blanket had been pulled across her body, stopping at her navel. The sight of the beautiful velvet of her dress seemed so unfit for the remnants of war that surrounded them, but he preferred it, he decided. To see her so untouched by what had happened. Arwen looked to be sleeping, and he supposed that she was. Recovering. Thesan had already seen to her, even if it had taken Rhysand a minute to be convinced to allow it.

He and Thesan had grown to be on neutral terms again, but he had trusted in the safety of the Dawn Court for his sister, and it failed him. The High Lord of Dawn said there was nothing to do for her except wait.

Rhysand hadn’t brought himself to lay a hand on her yet. His touch had brought her back—what if it sent her away again? It was a fear-driven thought, he knew, but one he struggled to press down. Questions floated around in his head, but he forced them away, knowing there might be answers to them he did not like.

“How is this possible?” Azriel asked, voice scratching. He had been stoic since the moment she fell out of the cracks. “She died, Rhys. I felt it inside of me.”

Rhysand tipped his head as he lowered to his knees beside her cot. “I saw her,” he answered distantly. “She was there like Amren so I pulled her out.”

“She didn’t come out of the Cauldron like Amren,” he pointed out stiffly, as if he too was battling to grasp it all. “I don’t know what she came from.”

His questions pushed onto the territory of thoughts Rhysand refused to deal with at that moment, so he didn’t reply. Rhysand looked down at the hand resting atop of the navy blanket. Her nails were perfectly kept; clear and unchipped. Seizing some scrap of courage left in him, he reached for it. Something inside of him shuddered as he took her hand, feeling the warmth come from it.

He held it in different ways, seeing what felt most comfortable, most secure when his fingers ran over the thin bands of something on her skin. His brows moved together as he rolled her hand around to peer at her wrist. Small lines, white scars, wrapped around like a thin, coiled rope.

“What is it?”

Rhysand lifted her hand higher, not letting go, but enough for Azriel to see what he did. There hadn’t been scars like that on her when she died. He knew because he memorised her. Over the years, he tried to forget but he never could. Azriel gently pried her hand from him so he reached across her body and took her other. The same markings appeared on both.

The canvas flap rippled behind them.

“I told him he needs rest,” Feyre groused as Rhysand looked over his shoulder, laying her hand back down.  

Cassian, gripping his side, limped forward, ignoring Feyre. Rhysand sighed and beckoned his mate forward, knowing that it would be useless to scold his general now. Feyre sent a final half-hearted glare at Cassian’s back before making her way to Rhysand’s side.

Cassian stood at the end of the cot, panting either from the journey over or what laid before him, and stared. Examined every part of her to see.

Rhysand took Feyre under his arm. He hadn’t explained anything to her yet, mostly because he hadn’t thought of it. She hadn’t asked questions, but he knew that she understood who lay on the cot in front of them both. Their resemblance was uncanny.

“Why is she still sleeping?” demanded Cassian.

Azriel’s cold cutting eyes sliced to him. “She’s resting.”

“As you should be,” Rhysand added despite knowing he would not be listened to.

Cassian snarled through a huff. “Amren’s awake.”

“Amren wasn’t dead for two hundred and fifty years,” he shot back, patience growing weary as his head pounded. Feyre observed him, tucking hair behind his ear with a soothing whisper of his name. He forced down that surge of frustration and laid his hand over hers. “Feyre, I’d like you to meet my sister. Arwen.”

Feyre looked upon the cot with a wonderment that was refreshing for Rhysand to see. Everybody else had looked at her with panic. With uncertainty. Including himself. Feyre cocked her head with a smile. “I think she’s prettier than you.”

The remark came so out of nowhere that Rhysand couldn’t help but laugh—the first one he had given in so long. It felt beautiful as it rose through his chest and sounded throughout the tent. Cassian went to laugh with him but groaned and hissed.

It was Azriel that smiled and said, “She certainly is.”

Rhysand settled on one knee beside her cot, ignoring the aches in his bones and the nagging list of responsibilities. He watched for her every breath, listened for every heartbeat, and waited.

Chapter Text

Chapter 50

Arwen’s heart raced. She hadn’t yet opened her eyes, but something swathed her. Trapped her. Something beneath her and above her, lain over her arms and legs. And darkness. Arwen knew of darkness—she could blink and close her eyes after all. But not of the one that took people in sleep. Not of the one where she did not know what was happening to her body.

Finally peeling her eyes open, she destroyed it. Light pierced through the world around her, illuminating what kept her in place. A blanket. It was white and puffed out, likely stuffed with feathers of geese or some more exotic bird. Arwen lay under it, her head against something equally as soft.

Her fingertips moved over the sheet underneath her, and the sound of fabric scratching hit her ears as she inched her neck up. It made her feel sick. So much to feel. Things she hadn’t felt in centuries. Her spine writhed and twisted, trying to get away from the sensations drowning her. Kicking her legs, the blanket folded on itself, piling at her feet which she yanked free.

Arwen flung herself off the bed. The ground met her knees with a painful sting that went into her thighs and hips. Her mouth flew open, a pained gasp trapping in her throat. Her fingers splayed across the wood, feeling each grain and the coldness. She hated that too.

Bile rose into her throat as she pushed to her feet, only to feel the wood on them as well. But it was less striking through the soles of her feet than through the palms of her hands. Chest tightening, Arwen examined the room.

A bedchamber. Simple, but elegant with cream décor and pale pinks. The curtains draped in front of the windows, half pulled open but the translucent layer behind it pulled closed to haze the sight beyond. It was a spare bedroom in the House of Wind. She’d seen it a thousand times.

Arwen clutched at her arms, running the fabric of the velvet dress, the only thing other than her skin and hair that she had been able to feel since she died, between her fingers. The familiarity soothed her, allowed her to centre her focus.

She looked down at the bed, at the soft ripples in the bedding that marked her existence there. That could be seen.

She made a mark.

She made a mark.

And she had been asleep. The velvet dress crinkled at her tightening fingers. Her body felt different as well. Heavier. The soles of her feet pressed into the wood and her knees felt the ache of her weight on them. Arwen shifted to test it. A throbbing beat through her body, between each joint.

The sudden realisation that she was breathing made her knees buckle. Hand shooting to her throat, she felt the air go in and out. Her lungs cried for it when she tried to stop. Eyes wide and unfocused, Arwen turned on her heels, found the door and marched towards it.

She stopped, nose a hair away from the wood.

Usually, she would walk straight through it. Today was different though.

Her hand rose from beside her hip, fingers curling in anticipation as she reached for the rounded handle. The cold metal made her flinch and that sickening feeling returned to her stomach. Forcing herself to hold it, she turned the knob and the door creaked open. Releasing it, Arwen wiped her hand on her dress and twisted her shoulders to slide through the crack between the door and the threshold that its natural swing offered, unwilling to touch more than necessary.

Perhaps Rhysand had pulled into whatever was beyond death. He had died too, after all. And this was her eternity. The thought made her nose wrinkle, despising whatever deity or fate decided that this would be her eternity after the torture it took to get there.

The hallway was barren except for the gentle draft that came through one of the glasses windows. Arwen shrunk away from it, then decided to dash across to the other side where it was weaker. The slap of her feet against the cold ground echoed.

She made sound.

Stopping meant feeling, so she kept going, ignoring everything but the path ahead of her. The House of Wind was familiar to her as the back of her own hand, even during the time of her life, yet it felt foreign to walk down its halls again.

Arwen turned into one of its many sitting rooms and stopped.

Sitting on the loveseat before the unlit hearth, were Cassian and Mor. They sat to face each other, talking in soft murmurs that ended the moment Arwen arrived. They looked over the back of the loveseat and immediately rose to their feet.

“Arwen,” Mor called, the planes of her face pulled into relief.

They saw her. They looked upon her as she looked upon them. They were not dead, not at least from what she had watched of the war against Hybern. And if they saw her, that meant that she was there with them. Not in some distance realm, not a spirit trapped. Arwen was there, in their world. Rhysand had brought her back.

The thought locked her body down.

Mor careened around the loveseat, the stunning dress of ruby moving with her body. Cassian trailed behind her, slower. Arwen eyed Mor, the way her eyes traced Arwen’s body. Breathed her in like she’d forgotten how she looked. It stung.

Her gaze dropped to Mor’s hand which reached out towards her as she stood as still as death. It turned and cupped the air, making a line for her arm.

Arwen let out a whimper and fled away from it, pulling her arms to herself before Mor could touch her. The blond Fae retracted her hand, hurt flashing through her eyes. Mor glanced over her shoulder towards Cassian who moved to her side.

“Arwen?” He took another step forward, his arms hanging loosely by his side. “Sweetheart?”

The name sent a shot of agony through her. Arwen observed him back. He hadn’t changed. Neither of them had. Perhaps it was because she had seen them day in and day out for two hundred years that she wouldn’t notice anything, but even upon her return after fifty years, they were still the same.

“Are you in pain?”

There was no voice in her to answer. She wasn’t in pain but the world around her was painful. It was bright and loud and heavy and… Arwen looked around them, unable to hold their gaze but even the feeling of it on her made her spine writher again. Taking a half-step to the side, the muscles in her leg seized at the feeling of a carpet rug rubbing against her foot's sole. She leapt away from it, holding her foot up until she was sure there was only wood again.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Cassian had moved forward again, his hands raised with small waves downwards. “You’re safe. You’re home.” He turned one hand over, stretched towards her like Mor’s had, only his palm faced the ceiling. And offering.

Arwen did not move to take it. She didn’t want to be touched or held. As much as she used to beg for it, the thought of it now, so long after she had given up made her nauseous. She had stood in front of him for decades, pleading with him—with them all—to just see her. And it had been refused to her when she most needed it.

Cassian’s eyes diverted to somewhere over her shoulder. Arwen’s ears twitched, hearing the footsteps that he did and she twisted her neck to peer at the archway. Rhysand came turning in, Amren at his side.

He only looked at her. Violets, the mirror of hers, flickered up and down her body. His mouth parted and a short puff of air blew out of them. She could read it all, everything that he was thinking. A single word came from him, as though he had lost sense of all else. “Hi.”

A meek moan rose in the back of her throat. There were too many eyes on her, too many things that were crashing down on her at once that she didn’t have the mind to process each one. They all barged in together, fighting for space in her head.

His boot lifted from the floor and the sight of it moving towards her sent her leaping away. Her feet made contact with the rug again and the muscles in her calves seized. Unable to move forward, Arwen moved back, blindly searching her way off it. Her hip banged against something, the sharp corner of whatever it was piercing the back of her hip. In a wild, instinctive attempt to escape it, she twisted her hips and stumbled to the side. But her own weight was too much and she fell to the floor.

Arwen screamed as the itchiness of the rug enveloped her hands and her exposed knee from the slit in her dress. It was too much. It was too much. The pain in her hip, the rug, the weight of her own body, the way her lungs ached for air. Chaos ensued both around and in her.

She was stuck.

Their voices mixed with the one in her mind, undefined and loud. Something crawled up her back and vomit started pooling in her throat again. The world tipped and veered around her as she blindly scrambled away from it all. But there was no escape.

“Do something!”

With a single blink, the world turned dark. It wasn’t the dark from behind her eyes or the darkness of sleep or death. In fact, it wasn’t really dark at all, because Arwen couldn’t see. There was nothing. She couldn’t feel the rug anymore, or the eyes raining down on her. The pain in her hip had gone. All of it, gone.

Arwen focused instead on each breath, letting them fill her lungs even though she couldn’t see her own body. Something touched her face, something she couldn’t see. She flinched away from it and then that feeling was gone as well.

The nothingness remained her only companion for some time. It did not scare her. A part of her hoped it would stay.

But alas, it had not been a common thing for her since her death to get what she pleased. With another blink, the world returned. Arwen curled herself up in preparation for what it would come at her with, but it was something she had already felt. Her hands ran over the smooth sheets, the blanket still kicked down at the base of the bed. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t overwhelming.

Rhysand crouched next to it. She looked away.

“You can mock me for my poor choice of greeting,” he said. Her ears twitched as the deep tone shot through to her core. He was speaking to her. “But in my defence, I don’t think anybody knows what to say.”

She offered no reply. He placed his hand on the bedding, but one hard look from her and he kept it still.

“Do you need anything?”

No.

“Would you like me to go?”

Yes.

Arwen knew he was taking the answers from her mind. He tightened his lips into an understanding smile. The hand on the bedding furled and he tapped his knuckles softly against it. She turned her head away as he stood, but peeked out of the corner of her eye as he retreated to the door.

Rhysand paused at it, looking back. She didn’t move. He offered another solemn smile and left.

Chapter Text

Chapter 51

Arwen explored the bed. She ran her hands over every inch of the fabric, then of the lightwood frame. Letting every part of her hand touch it, the wood and fabric soon began to feel normal, if still a little strange and disconcerting. Her toes dug underneath the blanket, letting the weight lay on her calves and then her thighs. No one disturbed her through this time. No doubt an order given by Rhysand.

Arwen sat on the edge of the bed, the arches of her feet braced on the side panelling of the bedframe. Her arms wrapped around her knees, chin planted between them as she watched the sun set over Velaris. The translucent drapes were still pulled across so she could only make out the scattered glow of the sun, but Arwen had seen it enough times to be able to imagine what was beyond at that very moment.

She looked down at her wrists, thumbing the scars left behind once the shackles faded. They were uncountable, each one from when she had tried breaking the tether now weaved together in a mess of white flesh.

Three soft taps sounded at the door. Arwen glimpsed over her shoulder but did not move or answer. She could smell him.

Azriel opened the door, the hinges making a soft whine. He had lost all sign of his battle wear, having it replaced with dark slacks and a long sleeved shirt with no collar. He held a deep bowl with tendrils of steam curling through the air from it. He looked along the floor first, then up the bed, and finally on her.

Arwen truly felt something in her heart fracture as she met the gaze of her mate for the first time in centuries. She forced herself to look away before the fracture could grow. He moved silently across the room, crossing in her line of sight which was set at the window as he placed the bowl on her nightstand.

The scent of the soup hit her nose, making it shrivel. Food had been something she came to miss, just below sleep on her list. But now she wasn’t so sure about the idea of actually eating.

Azriel took three slow steps back to her other side, then lowered himself onto the bed, leaving an arm’s length between them. He linked his hands between his knees and stared ahead. She did the same.

“I never really said goodbye to you,” he murmured, “so it doesn’t feel right to say hello.”

I never left.
Even when she wanted to.

“We fed you broth while you were recovering, but I thought you might want something a bit heavier. It’s still quite hot so best leave it for a while.” Arwen gave a small nod of her head. Azriel let out a shaky breath. “Arwen, I’m… Not really sure what I’m supposed to say right now. But I’ve missed you. We all have.”

If their idea of missing her meant never speaking her name, pretending that she never existed, then she might need to rectify what her idea of missing someone was. She had missed them. Had told them that, had screamed it at their faces and cried when she couldn’t touch them. They had stripped down her bedroom, taken down her portrait and stored away everything that belonged to her.

“I wanted to be here when you woke but we weren’t expecting it for another few days and I had to see to something… Rhys said you didn’t want to be touched?” He said it like a question, the unspoken part inquiring whether her restrictions extended to him. “Are you-does it hurt? I mean, is it because of what’s happened?”

Arwen simply nodded, unbothered to explain otherwise.

Azriel sighed again. “I don’t know what you’ve been told or how much you know, but it’s been a long time.” He avoided the phrase of her death, though she couldn’t tell whether it was for her sake or his. “Some things have changed.”

Arwen went back to watching the sunset. Spots of burnt orange now littered the darkwood floor, distorting as it stretched through the glass. She already knew of Feyre, Elain and Nesta.

“You can call for me, if you need anything. Or find me.” The cartilage in his throat bobbed as he glanced at her then back away. “Cassian, Mor. I don’t think I need to tell you that.”

When was the last time he had spoken so much without another voice to interject between? The thought amused her. Was this Azriel’s version of rambling? What part of this entire situation was the part making him so uncomfortable? Was it her lack of response or the fact that she was supposed to be dead?

“I won’t overstay my welcome.”

She cut her gaze to him and he waited for the coming seconds. Perhaps waiting to see if she would contend him. Ask him to stay. But she looked to his wings—the tears on them. She hadn’t seen it happen, but had been there for the aftermath. It had been his name that she screamed as he carried Elain. Risked his life for her. Let her use Truth Teller. Arwen looked back away.

Azriel pressed and thinned his lips together. Hands to his knees, he rose from the bed and left her line of sight. The clicking of the door behind her flushed relief through her veins.

The sun eventually set over Velaris and the soup on her nightstand went cold, but she hadn’t felt enough hunger to venture for it. Her bones called for something else. Taking a moment to collect herself, Arwen slid from the bed and let her toes touch the hardwood floor again, then her heels. She walked across the chamber to the only other door besides the entrance, this one painted the soft, creamy pink.

The washroom was decorated to be the perfect match to the bedchamber. The tub had four clawed feet and the lip of the tub curled right back around on itself. Oils and other assortments of additives lined a tiled shelf above it. Arwen passed over them all.

She turned the tap and with a slight groan in the plumbing, water spewed from the gold-plated faucet. The smallest hint of a smile touched her cheeks as she moved her hand under the flow. It was the first true warmth she had felt.

As the tub filled, Arwen hooked her thumb under the shoulder of her dress and pushed it off. It wouldn’t slip off her naturally, so she pushed it all the way down, over her hips and thighs. It had never deteriorated, even after all she did in it. It was like the fabric kept stitching back together, determined to be the exact way it always had been. But now a piece of thread splintered from the hem. It had probably come loose in her wild efforts earlier.

Arwen put her toes in first, a gasp lodging in her throat. It only took seconds before she submerged completely. The water lapped in small waves around her, each one felt upon her skin. She untied her hair and let that soak too. Her hands ran down along her body, feeling every crevice, every sensation—good and bad.

There was no telling how long Arwen stayed in that bath, not when the sun had set and the room went dark, giving no indication of time. Even when she could barely see her feet through the clear water, she stayed until the water went cold. Arwen removed herself from the bath and took the white towel from the hanger. It felt something between the blanket and the carpet, so she used it only on her hair, settling for an air-dry on the rest of her body.

Bending down, she picked up the dress and headed back into the main chamber. Arwen tossed it on the back of a chair. Ignoring its familiarity to the carpet other than occasional twitches of her nose. With a flick of her hand, the overhead candle lights became alight, dousing the room in its amber hue. Still had her magic, it seemed.

This was the first time she had been naked too, in two and a half centuries. Properly at least. Stuck in that dress, every time she peeled it off, the fabric rotted in her hands to dust, then reformed back on her body. Trapped in a constant state of existence.

Arwen looked back to the dress that hung so innocently along the spine of a chair. Her nose flared with a sudden fury at the sight of it. She let the towel drop from her hands and sat on the end of her bed, revelling in her bareness.

Heavy footsteps sounded from outside the chamber. His name rang in her mind, so familiar by his gait alone, before he knocked. “Sweetheart?” Cassian gave it three seconds before opening the door. “I was—oh, fuck.”

His dark form faltered in the corner of her eye before he finally decided to continue inside. Cassian moved across to the wardrobe on the same wall the bed was pushed against, only able to tell by the sound of his shuffling. Coming back into her sight, he held the material in his hand. A thick, emerald robe. Warm and meant for the winter months. He pried it open and took a half-step closer in request.

Having already drunk in her own body in the bath and now feeling the bite of the night’s coolness, Arwen made no move of resistance and allowed him closer. His brows pressed together, although not quite in a frown, and braced one leg on the mattress next to her, leaning in to situate the robe over her shoulders. The sensation of the soft fabric, new and heavy, sent a small punch to her gut. She pinched the slit down the front to hold it together, willing herself to ignore her body’s reaction. It clung to her still wet skin and it was only for his sake that she kept it on.

Rather than stay seated next to her, Cassian moved back to his feet. Scrunching his nose, he scratched the back of his head. “Do me a favour and wipe this whole thing from your memory. I’m really not in the condition to be beaten up by certain males who I will not name but are easily guessed.” It figured—that their first true interaction came with a tease. He was right though—a bandage peeped from underneath his shirt when he lifted his hand, and his wings were marred with fresh wounds. “For being dead for so many years you do look damn good though.”

“I had a bath.”

Arwen nearly threw herself into a fit of sobs. Her first words and she chose, “I had a bath.” It hurt her throat and didn’t sound like what she remembered her voice to be, but she couldn’t tell if her memory was wrong or it was simple different from decades of silence.

Cassian didn’t seem to know whether to be more surprised, or amused. He showed a fusion of both, though he read her lack of mirth and choked down what might have been a laugh. “It’s nice to hear your voice,” he chose to say.

She found it hard to believe. Cassian was the last of them to cut out her existence, Mor just behind him. But he had still done so. She was angry at anymore. No, she had spent years living through that anger. If living was even the word to use.

“I’m sorry if we overwhelmed you earlier. We weren’t expecting you to wake for another few days we didn’t know how to…” His entire body seemed to slacken. “Prepare.”

Arwen let her neck loosen, her head slightly careening closer to one shoulder. “Wasn’t your fault,” she said. He nodded slightly, though she noted it didn’t seem to be in agreeance, but more of a reluctance to argue. 

She slid from the end of the bed and strode across the chamber towards the chair. Picking up the dress, she walked back to Cassian and shoved it into his chest. “Burn it,” she said.

Cassian made the mistake of looking down at her before shooting his eyes back up to the modesty of her face. She was beyond caring for it. He could look. Looking meant he saw her. He coughed and took the dress. “Burn it?” he repeated.

Arwen nodded once firmly. “Burn it.”

He made a contemplative pouting of his lips. “Alright, burn the dress.” Satisfied, she moved past him to return to the bed, climbing onto it. Cassian sighed as she turned herself back around to the same position as before. “Look, sweetheart, I’m really not good at… This type of thing. But I have missed you so damn much.”

It seemed like it would be a common thing she would be hearing. Would they learn to come up with something different over time? The truth, maybe.

Cassian squatted by her feet. “I’m not going to pretend I understand how hard this must be for you, being tossed back into this world.” She didn’t bother telling him that she had been stuck in it. “But you’ve got me no matter what.”

Arwen steeled herself against giving any response. He waited through a minute of silence before rising. Stinging grew in her eyes and she silently begged for him to leave. Fate allowed her that one thing, the door quietly clicking behind him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 52

*Because I've put the main note on the end - slight trigger warning that includes scars on the wrist. 

Arwen hadn’t kept her first meal down the next day, or the second at lunch, even with much coaxing and encouragement from Cassian. They had sent Cassian both times, her choice of responding to him meant that they placed him as her caretaker. But she still couldn’t stand the idea of being touched. Not by the heat of someone else’s skin. She had grown too used to being without it.

She had built a fortress around her mind permanently. Rhysand’s training from her childhood hadn’t left her and the only time he would ever see into her mind is when she allowed it. Which, at the moment, was never.

A knock on her door barely roused her. Swathed in her soft throw rug that had come to be her favourite thing to feel, settled in the chair pushed close to the window, Arwen had no intention of leaving it to answer the door. She couldn’t smell food, and even if it was, Cassian would just come in and leave it. When the door did open, it created a small draft and her brother’s scent wafted through her room. He closed it behind him.

Arwen dug her nose into the blanket and pretended to ignore the fact that she could see a shadow creeping its way out from behind the opened curtain, in a spot that a shadow should not be.

There came no greeting from Rhysand, even as he wandered deeper into her small chamber, even as he picked up the chair that remained at the modest table and pulled it next to hers. He angled it to face her rather than the view. So she played along and pretended like he wasn’t there.

“I knew you would like this room,” he murmured. “Your old chambers are empty if you want to move back into them. It’s bigger of course, but this one always had a better view.”

Arwen’s rooms had been cleaned out. There was no point in moving from one room to another just for the space she didn’t need. There would be no familiarity in them and the one she currently resided in did perfectly fine. 

“I brought you something.”

Arwen didn’t turn her head, but peeked out the corner of her eye as he held something out to her. In his hand were leatherbound books. Four of them—two that she had read and loved before, two that she had only seen on the shelves in the town house. Reaching out of her sea of blanket, Arwen took them and pulled them into her lap. The leather was soft; easy to touch. She had missed books dearly and had often resorted to reading over the shoulders of others, but it usually only resulted in glimpses mid-story and people never stopped reading where she wanted them to.

Once his hands were empty, Rhysand kept bent forward, forearms braced along the tops of his knees, hands loosely clasped between them. He looked impeccable as always, in his neat assortment of a black tunic and trousers, polished boots rising to his knees. The High Lord he was always destined to be.

What was she destined for? Maybe she wasn’t destined for anything and that is why she died before her life meant anything. And then she defied destiny by clinging to this world and now it would torment her for it. Her punishment for tethering herself, was that she was forced to stay. Unless she chose a way out. That was possible now.

“If you want different ones, or something new, let me know. I’ll get anything for you.”

Her nose flared with an indignant huff. It may have been a long time since they had spoken, but she did not forget the last words he said to her. What a burden she had been. Arwen wasn’t stupid enough to put herself in that position again.

Tightening the curl of her legs, she forced herself to ask in something just above a whisper, “What do you want?”

“I want you to talk to me,” he breathed, his tone suddenly turning to something more desperate. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “Please, Arwen, I’ve just gotten you back.”

Tracing her fingertip over the embossed leather, she said bitterly, “I’m not a lost toy. You don’t get to claim my oh-so glorious return as yours.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he snapped, before sucking in a breath and repeating in a calmer tone. “That’s not what I’m saying at all, Arwen. But you’re my sister and I want to know what you’re feeling. What you’re thinking. If there’s something I can do—”

“Leave.” It would be best for them both. She wasn’t interested in arguing with him and trying to prove a point or listening to anything he had to say. “I want you to leave.”

Rhysand shook his head vehemently. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not just going to walk away from you.”

Fine then. Arwen buried herself into the cushioned seat, placing the books near the chair’s legs and bundled her arms back underneath the blanket. She brought the material to her chin and set a hard gaze in the direction of the window, letting her mind wander. He prodded at her for a few minutes longer but she wilfully ignored his voice.

When he gave up, he bowed his head, ran his hands through his hair and rested his chin on his interlinked fingers. He looked out the window as she was. “If you want more books, the library underneath the House is quiet.”

Arwen took it into consideration.

Rhysand rose from the chair but crouched in front of hers, resting a hand on the armrest. “Can you tell me what the scars on your wrists are from?” he asked. Underneath the blanket, she pulled them closer to her stomach. “I know you didn’t have them before.”

“I don’t know,” she answered, straining to keep the wince off her face from the echo of the pain that came in her memories.

He turned his palm to the ceiling. “May I have a look?”

Arwen meant to give him a firm ‘No’, but the word wouldn’t rise from her throat to her lips. She glimpsed down at his hand and saw the ghost of her tether still linked to him. Her wrists burned as they had when she refused their pull and they left the scar of magic’s cut. Arwen squirmed on her seat and Rhysand took his hand away, mistaking it for her distaste for touch.

“Would you let Cassian have a look?” he asked quietly. “Azriel or Mor?”

“They’re scars, not wounds. They don’t need looking at.”

“Not medically,” he reasoned, ignoring her biting tone. “But they’re a sign of infliction and I would like to know what caused them. What hurt you.”

Arwen rubbed at them. “I was dead, Rhysand. Nothing could hurt me.” A lie. A lie that she told herself was to just end the conversation, to protect herself from having to divulge the truth. But the little piece of truth knew that it was also for his sake. So he didn’t have to carry another burden of hers.

“I want to believe that,” he murmured. “That nothing could have hurt you.”

He left shortly after that when she refused to entertain any more conversation. Arwen took a bath, this time adding oils and lathers, relishing in how it felt to be stripped. How it washed away what had built throughout the day, both physically and in her mind. She slipped into a set of silk nightwear—her favourite fabric. They weren’t her old ones, but they fit and were comfortable. With autumn’s kiss in the air, something she hadn’t felt in so long, she was beginning to contemplate finding something of cotton instead though.

Sunset had passed as she bathed, but the choice was still worth it. Cassian would be by soon with her evening meal. Arwen sauntered through the chamber, dusting her fingers over the furniture, trying to relearn each texture that her mind had forgotten. The vanity held numerous assortments of tools for pruning appearances. Arwen stopped at it and picked up the comb. The ends of each pike were rounded and soft, meant for gently scraping down her scalp but another image came to mind. Twisting it around, she placed the end one to her thumb and tightened her grip on it. The spike’s tip dug into the pad of her thumb, pressing deep down into her flesh.

Arwen closed her eyes at the sensation of pain.

Pain had followed her since that day. But it had always been the sort of pain that was unbearable to withstand—the one that came from inside. Unable to escape from. This pain, the one that came from something outside of her, was new. And it was bearable.

The comb clattered back to the vanity at the sound of more knocking. Arwen released a shaken breath as the door opened. They still didn’t expect her to answer it. Well, she had risen from the dead and awoken less than a day ago, so perhaps it was expected that she wasn’t in the mind to be running to the door each time.

It was Azriel that careened through the door. He wore something similar to the day before; comfortable house wear. But she didn’t doubt he had been working endlessly with the war just behind them. He held a steaming plate.             

He stood in front of the door, letting an awkward silence linger. “Cassian was caught up with work,” he said to explain her sudden change of deliverer. “Mor offered to bring it but I…” He trailed off and Arwen didn’t make the effort to fill the gap of returning silence. With a sigh, Azriel walked over to her nightstand and placed the plate down.

Arwen closed her eyes and swallowed the pit in her throat. “How are your wings?” she asked in a single breath. It was the first words she had spoken to him.

Azriel spun back around to her, his lips parting as he seemed to take in the fact just as she did. Then he blinked hard and realised she had asked something. “My wings?” He half-turned his head back to glance at them. “They’re fine. Healing.” She nodded and chewed on her cheek. No one had attempted to tell her of the war, despite the fact they did not know she already knew of it. “How are you feeling?”

Fine didn’t seem the right answer. So she shrugged.

She felt like a stranger to them. Like they knew nothing about her yet she knew every detail of their lives. Things that they might not even realise about themselves. It had felt that way for a long time now, but it was being hammered back down into her like a nail into wood.

“I was hoping you might let Madja come take a look at you,” he said. She stiffened. Had Rhysand put him up to this? “Thesan said that your body was fine but now that you’re awake I think it would be best to have someone else make sure you’re okay. You’re…”

Arwen heard the word, yet he refused to say it. So she did. “Different?”

He nodded solemnly. His fist furled and unfurled at his side and shadows curled tightly to his frame. She couldn’t tell if he was glad she said it rather than him, or if he would have rather she didn’t know that is what they had been thinking. “Nobody blames you for it.”

Ire gushed through her. “Good. It wasn’t my fault that this happened.” The tether… Yes, that was her own naivety, but coming back hadn’t been her choice.

Azriel let out a breath. “Of course not.”

Arwen turned away from him. The city remained alive, small lights making a sea of stars along the earth. Some of her favourite times—if anything could have existed in such a state—were when Rhysand was down in the city. The tether allowed her to wander through the streets and sometimes she could just pretend. Pretend that nobody looked at her because they had seen her face a thousand times, pretend that she could feel the sun on her skin and that she was on a quest to find a gift. Then she would find something and be kicked back into reality at the simple fact that she could not pick it up. Or feel it.

“I don’t want to,” she said, answering his request. “I don’t want to see Madja.” There was nothing the ancient female could do for her anyway. Arwen knew exactly how she felt and what it meant. She knew the reasons and in a morbid way, she knew the cure. There were enough people poking their heads inside her chamber to examine her as it were.

“Arwen…” She meant to merely glimpse at him, but the sight before her had her eyes glued. Azriel looked down towards his feet, eyes sealed shut as he collected himself. He lifted his head and stared her straight in the eye. “Please let someone make sure you’re okay.”

“No.”

Azriel left without another word.

Chapter Text

Chapter 53

Arwen didn’t have the motivation to venture all the way down to the library underneath the House of Wind. So she settled on the bookshelves she knew were stacked in one of the main sitting rooms instead. The books that Rhysand brought were fine, but there was one she wanted that he hadn’t brought her. The hour was late as she wandered through the halls, the silk pants of her nightwear sliding over her skin with each step.

She left the lights untouched, content to walk through the shadows alone. Turning into the living room, Arwen quickly discovered she wasn’t the only one with thoughts keeping her away from sleep.

Mor, alike the day before when Arwen first saw her, sat on a lounge in front of a lit hearth. Next to her, golden hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders, was Feyre. Their heads gradually turned at Arwen’s entrance, Mor perking. Feyre smiled gently but looked between Arwen and Mor as if she wasn’t sure what to do.

Arwen stilled just inside the entrance and gazed upon her High Lady. She wore a soft blue dress that hung loosely from her waist. Modest by Night Court standards.

“Arwen,” murmured Mor, rising from the lounge. Arwen remained in place and let the events unfold. Mor pressed her brows together, but a smile lifted her cheeks. An odd sort of happiness, Arwen noted. “Do you need something?”

Arwen glanced to the bookshelf just across from them.

Mor followed it and smiled again. Feyre decided to stand as well, moving to Mor’s side. “Hello, Arwen,” she said, her voice clear and smooth. “My name is Feyre.”

Something tightened in Arwen’s throat at the sound of it. She had known Feyre as long as Rhysand had—but it was different. Feyre was someone that Arwen had truly wanted to meet. Having been there, stuck Under the Mountain, she knew exactly what Feyre went through to save Prythian. What she meant to Rhysand and this court. Who she had become. What she had done to Tamlin’s court.

But Feyre was also new; someone that she hadn’t met before her death. And that made it so much easier for the words to tumble from her lips. “Arwen,” she greeted back, despite Feyre very well knowing.

Mor smiled wider, a weight dropping from her shoulders. “I suppose Rhys was hoping for the honours, but I will happily steal it from him. Feyre is Rhysand’s mate, and our High Lady.”

Despite the momentary pleasure that meeting Feyre brought—to see the person who saved her home—it was replaced by a sudden resentment. Feyre had known this place for little less than two years and already she had her part in this court. A part far more important than Arwen ever played in her two hundred years of living. Not a burden to Rhysand or the others. It was by his desire that Feyre had her place. And it was by his desire that Arwen did not.

At Arwen’s silence, Feyre added, “Mor and Cassian have been telling me more about you. You wouldn’t believe how much they have to say.”

She gave a slight huff, not strong enough for their ears to hear. “It must be pouring out of them.” She didn’t acknowledge the lack of Rhysand’s name being included. Azriel wasn’t a surprise. He wouldn’t talk about anything if given the choice. Mor and Feyre looked at each other and she realised how her choice of words came across (exactly how she thought them, but not how she intended for them to sound aloud). “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Feyre. I apologise for not making a… Finer introduction of myself.”

“It’s hardly a matter,” she waved off. “I thought of coming to see you today to introduce myself, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Cassian said you managed to eat a bit at lunch,” Mor prompted. “How did you find dinner?”

“I haven’t eaten it yet.” Arwen wasn’t in the habit of remembering to eat yet. The plate still sat untouched on her nightstand, forgotten the moment Azriel left.

“Oh,” Mor uttered. “Well lunch was big.”

Arwen nodded in agreement, then walked around them to the bookshelf, skirting around the patterned rug that stretched from underneath a lowered table. Tipping her head to her shoulder, she made her way down the line of books and looked for the gold-leafed title. It didn’t take long until she was pulling it from the shelf. The feel of the leather calmed something inside of her. Holding it to her chest, Arwen set her stride back on the hallway that would lead to her chamber. She stopped before she passed the two females.

Arwen ran her tongue over her lips. “I’m glad that the Night Court is the first to have a High Lady. It’s about time Prythian put someone sensible in charge of something.”

Feyre blinked at the sudden compliment but smiled and gave a small bow of her head. “I’m glad that you are here to help me.”

Arwen stammered. She opened her mouth to say something else, but her mind remained blank. Instead she ducked her head and took a charging start on her path out of the sitting room, not stopping until she reached her chamber. Tossing the book to the side, she climbed onto the mattress and buried herself in the blanket, calling upon sleep to take her.

~

The sun aroused her the next morning. Or rather, her stomach did. Arwen looked to the nightstand, but the plate she had left overnight had disappeared. Probably for the best and save her the stomach ache of stale food. But Cassian would be by sooner or later.  

He did, an hour later. Hearing him approach from the hall before he made it to her door, Arwen left the bed and strode to it in anticipation. Grasping the silver knob, she pulled the door open just as Cassian raised his knuckles to knock on the other side. But to her disappointment, he didn’t carry a bowl or plate for her morning meal.

He gave her a crooked smile. “Excited to see me?” he taunted. Arwen lifted her brow, making a pointed gesture with her head towards his empty hands. He looked down at them. “Ah. I have a proposition instead. We’re having a small family breakfast and I want you to come.”

She leant against the doorway. A family breakfast? That sounded marvellously horrendous. “Who’s going to be there?” she inquired.

“Only one that you haven’t met yet. Her name’s Feyre and she’s rather fantastic if my opinion counts,” Cassian laid out for her with a humorous wink.

Arwen sucked on the inside of her bottom lip. “I met her. Last night.”

Cassian rounded his lips. “Oh. Then I suppose you’ll know everybody. It’ll be small—something like we always used to.”  

Used to. They still did, but the choice of term was apparently for her sake. “In the House?” Arwen wanted to be able to leave at any moment without the reliance of an escort—nevermind that she probably wouldn’t accept if she had to fly somewhere.

“I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t.” Cassian opened his arm to the hallway. “Would you like to join or should I send for Nuala and Cerridwen to have you brought something to eat?”

Arwen hadn’t yet seen the twins around. It might save her from being prodded at later for not leaving the chamber again for some time. Or it might backfire and they would try and pry her out more. It was a risk, but she calculated it. “Can I sit next to you?”

Cassian chuckled warmly. He stretched on arm overhead and braced it on the threshold. “I’m popular so it might be a fight for the spot, but I’ll root for you. Come on.” She followed him out, arms crossed over her chest. “Are you going to talk to anybody else today or am I going to have to interpret all your looks.”

Arwen glared up at him.

He held out his hands. “You’ve got plenty, so I suppose I don’t mind,” he muttered. He chuckled out of nowhere. “You were probably too young to remember it now, but some days when I got to spend time with you at the camps, we’d have these conversations with just our faces and hands. You were supposed to be sleeping and I didn’t want to be smacked up the back of the head for keeping you up, so we learnt to be silent.”

She remembered the barest memory of something like it, but she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t her mind making a phantom memory. “Sounds like such a long time ago,” she muttered.

Cassian made a noise of agreement. They walked a little further when he came to a stop mid-hall. Arwen, a step ahead, looked back. He narrowed his eyes at the ground between them. His voice was low and slow when he spoke. “We didn’t want to throw anything on to you too soon,” he said, “and I don’t know how much you do know but… It’s been two hundred and fifty years, Arwen.” Each word carried so much weight that she could almost see his shoulders drooping under it.

She sniffed hard and pulled at the sleeves of the simple green dress she had put on. “That’s a long time,” she replied, voice dry and hoarse. A long time was an understatement. Cassian nodded stiffly.

“How does it feel for you?” he asked, taking the step forward that she left between them. “After waking up? Now?”

“Like a long sleep,” she lied.

He squinted to the air, nodding slightly as he took in her answer. “You don’t remember anything? What it was like?”

Arwen shook her head. “No.” His lips rolled into his teeth as he thought to himself for another minute. “Everybody seems rather busy.” Skirting around the fact she knew a war had just occurred was frustrating. Even at her prod of Azriel’s damaged wings he hadn’t mentioned it. Arwen didn’t need it all slowly given to her, and it meant that she had to continuously watch her tongue. Remember what they have told her and what they haven’t. “You said you were injured. Azriel is hurt as well.”

“Yeah,” Cassian breathed quietly. “We had, a um, a war, sweetheart. There was a war.”

She twisted her lips around, the grief spiralling through her not something she had to force. Hundreds of Illyrians died. Cassian nearly died. Rhysand had—something he hadn’t spoken of to her. Having to stand there, helpless and watch it all happen, it—

“Did we win?”

He bared a gentle grin. “We won,” he confirmed with a pinch of his familiar arrogance. But the same grief she felt sat behind his hazel eyes and lined the map of his skin. “Mind you they would have been annihilated without me there, but I thought I should do my civic duty.”

Arwen took the distraction of his tease with both hands. “Yes, General, I think you would be quite important.” He seemed pleased with her dry attempt at humour. If one counted sarcasm as a joke.

“It’s actually when we found you.” He frowned and reconsidered his words. “Rhys found you. He brought you back along with Amren. Don’t ask me anything more because honestly, I have no idea.”

Arwen turned back the way they were walking, talking a few slow steps until Cassian took the hint and kept at her side. “How do you know it’s actually me?” she inquired out of her own curiosity. “Not some trick of the Cauldron?”

“Would a trick of the Cauldon be putting that doubt in our heads?” he countered. She made an expression of agreeance. “Rhysand. Apparently, our minds have unique signatures. As soon as that was brought into question, he shot it down.”

“Was it Amren that doubted it?”

“I see you have no memory loss problems. Old habits die hard.” He chuckled to himself and shook his wings in a small release of tension. “Nobody wanted to doubt it. She was being wise when the rest of us were only clinging to hope.”

Her gut tightened. “Hope?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Hope that we really had you back.”

The word stirred her mind, and not in a pleasant way

Chapter Text

Chapter 54

Cassian must have suspected that it would have taken more of an argument to get her to join them as they were the first, other than Amren, to arrive. She lounged in a seat by the corner of the table in her grey pants and shirt. Nothing at all had changed about this female.

“He dragged you out?” Amren wondered aloud. Arwen nodded. “Good.”

“Always a pleasantry seeing you Amren,” Cassian crooned, making a gesture for Arwen to stick to his side. He tipped his head back at her. “It probably only feels like a day for an old crone like her since she’s seen you.”

Amren leant back in her seat with a heavy sigh. “It is like you just wish for me to castrate you, Cassian. Are you so desperate for someone to play with your balls that you would risk losing them?”

He slid into a seat that left one at the edge, pulling the one on his other side out for Arwen who followed suit. He leant onto the table. “If I wanted someone to play with my balls, I’d choose someone with hands large enough to actually feel something.”

Amren snarled and pointed a finger at him. Or rather, a talon. Arwen recognised it as her last gift to Amren on Winter Solstice. She had seen them on the female more than once, and today only one sat on her pointer finger like a trophy.

“Your own hands must suit the deed perfectly then,” Arwen muttered under her breath but with the lack of others to drown out her voice, the remark was met with Amren falling into deep laughter (that was honestly quite frightening at times) and Cassian glaring at the side of her head. Arwen met it and gave a small shrug. She had, in great disdain, run into a few scenes over the years where they believed themselves to be in privacy. In consequence, she had swiftly taught herself to read the signs of their moods before venturing to find them at night since her own were sleepless.

“I wouldn’t have invited you along if I knew you two were going to team up against me.”

“You’re a general,” Amren drawled. “Anticipate and strategize.” As Cassian mumbled to himself, chin perched in his palm. “And Arwen is welcome at this table, your invitation or not.”

Cassian muttered to himself once more. Arwen tightened her lips into something not quite a smile, but resembled it, and tucked her hands between her legs to keep them warm. The cold—and the heat—were worse than she remembered.

Mor walked in next, the dark markings under her eyes informing Arwen that she had stayed up well beyond the hours that she found Mor and Feyre in the sitting room. “I want to hear no talk of work,” she proclaimed. As her eyes travelled over the group, pausing on Arwen, she said nothing to make note of her appearance but a smile. “We haven’t had a breakfast like this in an age,” she continued, sitting on Amren’s left. “If the others don’t hurry up, I’m going to start eating this table.”

Amren flicked her talon across the table. “Cassian is desperate for someone to play with his balls if you want to chew those.”

“They must be amazing since you can’t stop talking about them,” he grumbled as Mor blinked lethargically, trying to catch up with the conversation.

“This is not the topic I expected to walk into for breakfast,” a new voice called. Azriel walked in, dressed in a variation of his leathers, two siphons displayed on the back of each hand. His gaze skid across them and Arwen only let herself meet in for a fleeting moment before returning to the table. “I would rather discuss something that didn’t want make me want to throw breakfast back up.”

A round of agreement rose from Mor as Cassian bickered on the point that he deemed them well sought after. Azriel crossed to the table, laying a hand on the seat next to her. When it didn’t move out, she peered up at him. He said nothing but made a gesture of a nod towards the seat—asking if she minded him seated there.

Arwen rose the shoulder closest to him, so he sat. She let the chatter ensue around her, blocking it out until it became nothing but undefined sounds like she had dunked her head underwater. That is what she had to do, to save herself from investing her energy into their world. Arwen was so successful at the task, that by the time she broke back into the world around her, Rhysand and Feyre were seating themselves. Feyre took the chair on Cassian’s other side, Rhysand at the head of the table.

Rhysand looked at her, a partial smile offered. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” He glanced to his right and smiled wider. “Feyre told me that the two of you met last night.”

She was beginning to wonder if coming at all had been a good idea. The attention laid upon her… Would Azriel hide her in his shadows if she asked? They already seemed to be investigating her, reaching out like snakes before shrinking back to their master. “We did.”

However awkward it left the topic hanging, she didn’t particularly care to continue it. Rhysand soon waved his hand and a small buffet of food was laid along the table. Arwen stilled, the sudden realisation of the choice knocking through her. Before, it had just been a plate or bowl handed to her.

What did she like? Were her tastebuds the same as before or was that too, different? Her other meals had tasted strange, but it was the memory coming back to her. Arms reached and stretched around her, plates moved and forks clanged.

A dish hovered in front of her. Arwen looked down at the serving dish that was filled with scrambled egg, then to the tanned, scarred hand it was connected to. She had liked scrambled eggs.

Her face must have betrayed her thoughts as Azriel used the serving spoon to scrape off a generous amount onto her plate. Far more than she’d eat.

“Toast?” he asked, passing the serving dish to a hungry Mor.

“Y-yes,” she uttered.

He picked up the silver tray with stacked toasted bread and placed two on her plate before placing one on his own where he already had two roasted tomatoes cut in half and sausages. “Anything else?”

Arwen shook her head and picked up the fork next to her plate. The ravenous hunger in her before had tamed since sitting so she took her time, piling and spreading the egg on the bread and taking small bites into it. Light conversation continued around her that she ignored, focusing on her food until the sound of her name drew her back into it.

Feyre leant forward to see her past Cassian’s frame. “I was thinking back to something I told Cassian a while ago,” said the High Lady. “That I saw you once. I had died and come back too.”

Arwen had just taken a bite of her breakfast and Feyre’s words caused the food to lodge in her throat. Not in the way that made her cough, but the one where it was stuck and uncomfortable. She very easily recalled Feyre’s temporary death—and could guess her brother’s connection to the mortal at the time. Arwen hadn’t seen Feyre, but she hadn’t been looking to find her.

The table lapsed into silence as Feyre’s remark drew all their curiosities. Rhysand glanced at his mate with a slight frown.

“You were there, weren’t you?” Feyre continued.

Despite the innocence of the question, Arwen found herself becoming overwhelmed with a sudden bitterness for her family’s new addition. Before she could find the words—and perhaps saving her from something regretful—Cassian said, “Arwen doesn’t remember anything. We were just talking about it on the way here.”

Feyre cocked her head. “But I saw her.”

“You were in Rhys’s head,” Cassian said with a shrug. Rhysand didn’t respond to that.

“Just because she doesn’t remember doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

Rhysand shot out his hand, silencing Cassian’s oncoming reply. “Arwen wasn’t there,” he declared, his voice soft but strained. “She couldn’t have been.” He glanced at Arwen as if waiting to see if she would argue.

Arwen looked back to Feyre and shook her head. “I don’t remember anything,” is all she said.

“Do you remember before, though?” The question came from across the table. Mor was prying apart her own scrambled egg with the prongs of her fork. Rhysand shifted in his seat, as did the rest of them other than Feyre and Amren. Mor looked around, but nobody continued her path of thought. “We never figured out what happened that day,” she said cautiously. “Who would have done that to you.”

Arwen’s throat hurt even though the food had already gone down.

It was Rhys, his voice curt and low, who growled, “Let’s not discuss this now.” Arwen expected to see something akin to sympathy from him, but his eyes turned down and he rolled his unoccupied fingers into a fist along the table. Anger.

Arwen pushed her chair out, rising and leaving her half-eaten meal. “I didn’t come here to be an oracle for your burning questions.” The table watched her with an assortment of expressions. Her bare feet padded against the cold, polished floor, leaving the dining room and everything else behind. Silence reigned behind her until she was out of earshot.

She wiped the balls of her palm across the bones under her eyes, berating herself for letting tears fall in the first place, but at least they had the decency to wait for privacy. With nowhere else in mind to go, Arwen retreated to her room and curled up on the pile of pillows at the headboard.  

That day had become agonising to remember. Not the poisoning or the pain it caused, but… before that all. And what came after.

There was no warning knock at her door this time, but she didn’t have the energy to scold whoever stepped in. Azriel was the one to slip through the door. In his hand, her abandoned plate of breakfast.

He walked over and placed it on the bed next to her. “I know you didn’t eat last night,” he said. “You were recovering for a week and lost weight.” He arched a single, dark brow at her, then nodded down at the plate. “Eat.”

She took the plate into her lap without a word and ate her scrambled egg sandwich. Azriel sauntered from the bedside to her window, crossing his arms, standing at it like a guard. He shifted his wings slightly, which were probably still tender and in need of rest. Had he been flying—he never listened to Madja. Swallowing, she whispered, “You don’t have to stay.”

Azriel didn’t look back.

Arwen chewed slowly, wanting to say something more but neither of them were in the mind for talking. She could almost forget he stood there with how silent the room was. He only turned back once the sounds of her eating had diminished. Looking down at the empty plate, he asked, “How do you feel?”

“Not like I’m going to throw up any time soon, if that’s what you’re asking,” she grumbled.

“Partially,” he admitted.

Still with the flame of irritation from the gathering, she remarked shortly, “You’re overly terse today.”

The small drop in his shoulders told her that he realised it too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to aim it at you.”

Arwen eyed his active shadows, the way tendrils lashed like short whips around his legs. “I probably haven’t been making it easier,” she murmured pulling at a loose thread on her blanket. It was obvious that her behaviour hadn’t been anticipated. They didn’t know how to… Handle her. “And I’m sorry things haven’t been the same.”

“I’m happy they aren’t.”

Arwen felt the blow to her stomach and considered changing her answer to yes—she might be throwing up.

Azriel winced. “That’s—that sounded terrible. And not what I meant.” Not knowing what to say, she said nothing at all. He carried a wrinkle between his brows as he said, “I mean that…” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “That it has been a long time. Pretending that it was only last week I saw you, I… I can’t do that. I can’t pretend that I didn’t watch you die in front of me.”

He had though. It was only by the fate of her return that he had to remember.

She threw the thought away, no matter how true she believed it. Those thoughts ate at people. Tore them down. And she was already too broken to bear one more crack. “I’m not expecting anything to be the same.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 55

Arwen’s scream ripped through the House of Wind. Her legs tangled with the sheets which were damp with her sweat. She thrashed in them, trapped somewhere between her nightmare and reality. Azriel had fled from his bed the moment he awoke to the horrifying sound and it wasn’t long before he heard Cassian thumping down the hall behind him.

“Arwen?” He leant over her wild form across the bed, hands hesitating in the air, not knowing if waking her to his touch would make it worse. “Arwen.”

The moonlight from the windows she kept constantly open let a trickle of moonlight in, illuminating the scene before him. Azriel’s shadows knocked around him, whispering warnings in his ears. Cassian veered around the other side of the bed, hesitating as Azriel had, but took the leap he wouldn’t and reached for her.

“Sweetheart—” he grasped her flailing shoulders with the strength of a gentle giant— “Arwen, sweetheart. Wake up. Wake up.”

Arwen’s throat tore with a final scream and her eyes flashed open, the near full moon marking them with spots of white. Cassian moved with her, still holding her shoulders as she pressed herself towards the headboard, panting like chased prey. Azriel knelt one knee onto the bed, but one foot on the ground kept him prepared to move if she much as hinted at wanting the space.

She seized Cassian’s wrists, meekly kicking at the sheets as she fought for air. But she didn’t push him away.

“It was just a dream,” Cassian whispered to her. “You’re in Velaris. You’re safe.”

Azriel had always been jealous of this part of Cassian. In truth, he had been jealous of many parts of Cassian, but this one was close to the top of the list. The part of Cassian that knew what to say, knew what to do. Azriel knew how to do his work—hand him a knife and tell him to cut out a gall bladder and he could do it blindfolded. But ask him to comfort somebody and he was like a stuttering child. He had come to terms with that years ago, but it made a new sting as Arwen tipped her body towards Cassian rather than him.

Arwen’s cheeks flooded with tears—the rawest reaction he had witnessed from her since her waking—as her nails dug into Cassian’s arm. She clawed her way closer until his dark grey nightshirt was in her grasp and her arms wrung around his neck. Cassian returned the hold, his thick arm wrapping under her arms, the other cradling the back of her thighs. Azriel’s eyes lingered on his brother’s grip, watching how the tanned, unscarred hand tightened on the silk and her flesh. Places Azriel had only dared touch her in a few moments of intimacy that Cassian gripped with no uncertainty. Arwen had refused the touch of them all and now she clung to Cassian like it was everything she ever needed.

The one saving thought he had in those few seconds, was that Cassian’s face betrayed that he understood the depth of meaning behind the return of his hold. The way his eyes shut for a moment and his face tightened. Azriel reminded himself that he wasn’t the only one to have missed her. He wasn’t the only one waiting to feel that embrace again. 

The hand on her back stroked her spine as Cassian situated Arwen into his lap, letting her burrow her face into the side of his neck. Her body racked with sobs. He looked over at Azriel. “I’ve got her,” he promised.

Azriel nodded because that was all he could do. He rose off the side of the bed and stepped away, sinking back into the shadows. He didn’t leave just yet though. Letting himself fall into the shadow’s cover, he stayed and watched them.

Cassian tilted himself to lean up against the headboard, letting Arwen set herself however she pleased. She remained how they were, resting more weight against his front. He murmured softly to her—reassurances. After a time, she began to calm and make small nods at his words and Cassian smiled, continuing his soft strokes down her spine.

Azriel wasn’t sure what he was waiting to see but decided that he would leave once he was certain she would be alright. When that happened, he returned to his bedchambers. Sleep never found him. Or perhaps, he never found sleep. Sitting on the edge of his bed for the rest of the night, he strained his ears, waiting to hear her screams again. Or something similar that indicated a more pleasureful event.

He knew it was stupid. Cassian’s relationship with Arwen had never been one of the things he was jealous of when it came to his brother. Never felt like he had a reason to be. Azriel had been there through her phase of adoration for the general in her younger years—had seen what she was like with open affection for another male. He had also seen how it moved into what they had before the incident. The transparency of what they meant to each other.   

But things were different now. Arwen was different, and so was Cassian. Not to mention that Cassian was sex deprived. And a female Cassian knew well already, that had already accepted his attention and affection, and returned it, would need only a little tip before forming into something more. A simple slip of his hand from her thigh to someplace higher. The brush of her breath against the wrong place on his neck. The slight adjustment of her weight in his lap. A fingertip on his wing. All of it could snap that new, instinctive desire into his brother. He once thought of Arwen as a sister and that had changed. Which meant that it was very much possible for Cassian to start viewing her in a new light too. Especially now, after such a long time apart.

In the morning, Azriel took his concerns to Rhysand. About the nightmare, that was.

Rhysand ran a hand down his face at the early wake-up call and met with Azriel in the kitchen of the town house. He had made the effort to stay up at the House but Feyre had wanted to spend time with her sisters (Azriel didn’t bother asking how that went) and he was certain that Arwen wouldn’t be interested in his company any time soon.

“Nightmare?” Rhysand echoed. He swallowed his morning tea with a line etched between his brows. “Do you know what about?” Azriel shook his head. “Should I go up and see her?”

“Cassian stayed with her,” he replied.

Surprised flashed through the High Lord’s face. “Cassian?”

“All night,” Azriel confirmed, straining to keep his voice flat and his mind clear. Fruitless as those attempts were. He had checked in on her chamber just before he left to find them both asleep and entangled. Azriel ignored Rhysand’s pointed look that might have prompted a growl of answer if he had not placed his thoughts elsewhere already. “I’m worried about her.”

Rhysand snorted flatly. “Understatement of the century. We all are.”

“I know you’ve noticed it too,” he continued, “that she’s acting… Strange.”

Rhysand sighed and said, “She just came back from the dead, Az. We give her time and as much of it as she needs.”

Azriel arched a brow. “You came back from the dead too.”

“After a whole ten minutes,” he snapped back, though the bite in it was missing. “Not two hundred and fifty years.”

“And shouldn’t it have felt like that for her?” Azriel pointed out, which made Rhysand pause. “She said it herself yesterday that she doesn’t remember anything. Her last memories were coming home from the Dawn Court. We had dinner, then Cassian brought her here because we had more work and she was tired. The poison took her suddenly—she wouldn’t have even realised it was coming. Why we couldn’t do anything.” Rhysand looked to the ground, the muscles of his jaw bulging. “I can understand if she was confused or frightened but she’s not. It’s something else. And those scars on her hands. Rhys, she came back in the same dress she died in. She hadn’t physically changed one bit except those scars.”

The mug landed on the bench with a heavy clank. Rhysand rubbed his mouth, nose flaring. “She wouldn’t let me look at them. She won’t talk to me, Az. I…” He shook his head and rolled his lips to his teeth. Rhysand gave a convicting shake of his head. “I won’t lose her again, no matter the cost. I give my life to that promise.”

~

Arwen let her feet sway gently as they hung over the edge of the rooftop on the House of Wind. She pulled the blanket she had stolen from her bed tighter around her shoulders. Cassian sat on her right, one of his legs stretched out past her back, the other tucked under its knee so he could face her. He hadn’t asked yet, but he was waiting.

“Are you thinking of jumping off?”

Her head snapped up from where she had been staring at the ground below her feet. “What?”

Cassian smiled. “How you used to. Test my flight speed.”

A small breath shot through her nose. “No,” she murmured. “Just thinking.” Her thumb ran over the scars on her wrist.

A headache lingered—probably from dehydration as she hadn’t had anything to drink since the day before. Cassian had offered to bring her a glass, as well as something to eat after she had woken but she had been reluctant to let him go, still reeling from what haunted her through the night. So they stayed in her bed until he told her that there was someplace better, and he had carried her to the rooftop; a sight that she was glad no one else was around to see as he carried her like a toddler to his front. That contact still remained; her back against his knee and calf, his thumb making small circles on her spine as his arm rested over that knee.

“You don’t have to talk, but I’m here to listen. I’m here no matter what.”

Arwen dropped her head and tried to pretend that he wouldn’t see how her eyes watered. “It was just a dream,” she said, her voice barely holding together. “I was here, but…” She took another shaken breath. “People couldn’t see me. Or hear me. No matter what I did and it was… It felt like a prison.” The nightmare threw her back into the world she had been in not a month ago. It had felt so real that she believed it. As much as she would have chosen death over returning, anything was better than that realm of half-existence.

His touch became her safety. A reminder. The assurance.

She couldn’t go back there.

“It’s not real,” said Cassian, his hand moving from her spine to the nape of her neck, weaving through the mess of her hair. “I see you. I’ve seen a lot of you lately.” Arwen gave a weak humph. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t feel like it was. I’ve had nightmares and even when I woke up, I couldn’t convince myself there weren’t real until I saw proof.”

She rubbed at her face with the blanket. “I know.” Drawing her knees up, Arwen buried her face between them as she fought to collect herself again. Cassian offered his patience with another soft rub down her back. “I’m sorry. For waking you.”

His response, surprisingly, was a boisterous laugh. “I don’t think you know how long it’s been since I’ve had someone to cuddle with at night. I’ve missed the company.” Arwen shot him a half-smile—the strongest one she’s given in decades. His own grew in response. Cassian leant forward and gently pinched her chin. “That’s what’s been missing.”

He didn’t know how much it meant to her, right then. Not what he said or what he did, but what she had done.

“Can you tell me things?” she asked. She didn’t need to know, but she needed a reason to be able to know things that she shouldn’t. And listening to Cassian talk… His voice soothed an ache in her. “Things that have changed.”

So Cassian did. He told her of Amarantha—an abridged version that left out the details she knew he purposefully avoided informing her of. Like the extent of Rhysand’s role. He told her of Feyre and her sisters, the rise of Hybern’s King against Prythian, and the war. Nesta, by his words, was a thorn in his foot that he couldn’t remove.

Arwen said to that; “I like the sound of her.” It wasn’t that she particularly liked Nesta, but she knew what that female had done on the battlefield. How she cried out Cassian’s name and saved him. Nesta was the only reason Arwen sat next to him now.

Eventually, Arwen leant onto his front, tucking her head under his chin and kept a hand on the arm that came to rest over her front. She listened to him—his voice, not his words. And she kept telling herself that it was real.

Chapter Text

Chapter 56

Arwen stretched in a lounge chair planted on a balcony. She had kept the blanket from her bed with her, and grabbed a book along the way. It sat abandoned in her lap now, tire from her restless night creeping back up on her. She had not seen anybody since that morning, missing out on lunch but she hadn’t been hungry enough to hunt it down.

Rhysand’s approach was annoyingly silent.

He sat down on the lounge chair next to her, on the edge to face her. “Azriel said you had a rough night,” he said quietly. “Want to tell me about it?”

Arwen ran her thumb over the pages of her book’s edge. “No,” she said weakly.

His wings were out. It made sense since he had to fly his way up from the town house. But she had seen him on that flight hours ago. So she assumed it must be a display—conscious or unconscious—that he wanted to be exposed, and quite likely, sway those around him to do the same.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” he remarked. “We could go down into the city, go to that place along the Sidra. Sven’s restaurant. Get something at a bakery and find a nice seat. We don’t have to talk about last night.”

Arwen pulled her legs up, tipping her head back against the tilted seat. “I’m not hungry.” She hadn’t seen Azriel yet, but her hand itched to smack him for going straight to her brother.

“Have you eaten yet?” he prompted with a pointed tone, telling her he already knew the answer. So she kept her mouth shut. He arched his brow. “Did you eat breakfast?”

No, she hadn’t. But neither had Cassian. They had stayed on the rooftop for hours and by the time they decided to return, he murmured something about having work to do and left her be.

Rhysand sighed at her silence. “Arwen, you need to eat.”

“I will eat when I’m hungry,” she disputed. “And I’m not, so you can stop pestering me about it.”

“Pestering?” He gave an empty laugh. “I’m trying to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. Can you please at least come inside and have something to eat with me?”

Arwen looked up at the sky, and watched as rumbling storm clouds breached the horizon. They’d be over the city by nightfall, and it looked like it would be a long storm. She already had plans for it—to feel the rain and wind. To feel what nature intended to be felt, and at its full wrath. “I just told you I’m not hungry. You can stop trying to do this—I’m sick of people coming up to me with the same questions.”

“Because we’re worried,” he said without a breath. “We’re worried about you, Arwen. I’m worried and you won’t talk to me. You’re blocking me out.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him. She didn’t have the energy to raise her voice, or the motivation to pick her thoughts apart. “Why are you here?” she whispered. “It has been less than two weeks since a war. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“I have things to do,” he agreed. “But none of it is important right now. Not when my sister is refusing to take care of herself. When she won’t let me take care of her.”

There it was again. His honour bound sense of duty to her. Forged by the simple fact that they shared the same parents, a fact that reorganised his life to fit her into it. Changed things for her convenience. “I eat, Rhysand. I eat when I’m hungry and I sleep when I’m tired.” She lopped her head towards him, lifting her book. “When I’m bored, I read. So you don’t need to do any of this because I’m fine without you breathing down my damn neck. I don’t need to be your duty.”

It knocked him back. He physically recoiled and burrowed his brows as if assessing the pain of a strike to his chest. “Arwen, you have no idea how much I regret those words,” he said through a tight throat. “What I said to you—I was angry, I was upset. At what happened and at myself. Please do not for one second think that I believe them. That I would ever believe that of you.”

Arwen pulled the blanket tighter around her front. He had said them. Perhaps it was in anger, but they were still said which meant that he had to have thought them. And she wanted to believe, even back then, that he was just upset as Cassian had told her. But then she had to watch him tear the remains of her existence away, day by day, piece by piece. How he would strike down any mention of her name. And when there was nothing left of her, only then did he smile again.

“Let me in,” Rhysand begged. He leant towards her again, bargaining for her gaze back with the threat of falling off the lounge chair. “You are my duty as my sister.” He slid off the chair, moving to the side of hers, gripping the narrow armrest. Arwen eyed the closeness. “But that is a duty I chose, and I continue to choose it every day. Talk to me, hit me, cry, scream at me. I will take it. But do not shut me out.”      

“I don’t want to.”

He didn’t leave her. Rhysand laid back in the second lounge chair on that balcony and sat with her as she reopened her book and read until the world around her was lost. He summoned a plate of food, placing it on the floor between them but Arwen, feeling more stubborn than she had in a while, refused, and kept to her word. It wasn’t until the rain started that she made her own retreat, for no other reason than to protect the book from water damage. Rhysand followed her in, but she veered off before he could attempt to speak with her again.

She ate with Cassian for dinner, finding him in one of the sitting rooms alone, feet kicked up on a desk. In one hand he had a paper, reading over it, the other held his side. His nose was wrinkled in a permanent wince. Arwen felt the guilt pick at her, suddenly remembering how injured he had been only days before. How he had then let her hold him, how he carried her, without a whisper of complaint. So she made sure he ate and took a break from whatever work he was supposed to be doing.

But when thunder struck and the windows were pitch black except for the silvery splatter constantly hammering against the glass, she left him. Arwen moved from one end of the House to the other and climbed up the stairs that took her to the rooftop.

Rain lashed against her the second she stepped out from cover. It stormed so wildly—the rain, wind and thunder—that she could hear only its howls and could barely see the city lights in the distance. Arwen closed her eyes, feeling every drop on her skin and it was beautiful. It soaked through her black slip dress, the cold penetrated her bones and she shivered violently. Still, she stayed. Just to feel it.

The soft blue glow of a siphon disrupted the storm’s dark cloaking. Arwen held her arms to her chest and watched it near. Azriel walked towards her, one hand over his head, the siphon creating a small shield against the rain. Water surged down against it, trickling off the side around his feet, leaving him completely dry.

“What are you doing out here?” A question. Not an accusation or a lead into a remark about her ill choice of standing on a mountain during a storm, just a question. Lighting struck in the distance, beyond the borders of the city. The harsh light flashed across Azriel’s face. She couldn’t help but note how dark it made him seem—how lethal and honed the planes of his face were. How lethal he could be.

Azriel took a step forward when she didn’t answer, extending his hand and shield toward her. Arwen didn’t break from her thoughts until it began to cover her and the constant hammering against her body stopped.

“No,” she whimpered and flung herself back. She had to keep feeling it. Had to make sure that it didn’t stop. That she wasn’t back in that place.

Azriel stared at her in confusion, then up at his shield. It flickered, then dissipated as he lowered his hand. “Is that better?” The rain enveloped him as it had taken her. His hair darkened from black to something that melted into true darkness, the strands at his forehead thinning as beads curved down them. “What are you doing up here, Arwen?”

In answer, she looked up, squinting. Azriel followed her gaze.

“You’re soaked through,” he murmured, but she did not look back down at him. Not until she felt the graze of his fingers along her bare arm.

Arwen snapped away from him, eyes hardening in warning. Azriel’s own widened, fingers curling back to his palm and dropping his arm altogether. It was difficult to form any sort of apology, by word or show, so she didn’t.

Touch was an investment. An investment of her emotion, of her devotion. It was a gateway into her. The bank she once had, the size of Velaris itself, had dried. She’d given all she had left to Cassian, in his security. Given it in a moment that if she hadn’t given it at all, it would have ruined her. All she had wanted from him was that warmth of flesh, that certainty that she wasn’t back in that place. Her investment in him was returned in equal. Arwen knew that it was given to her without a thought of anything else—because that’s who Cassian was.

But Azriel…

She didn’t know what would come of investing herself in him. Of attempting to reforge something. Not when she had seen what he had done to move on from her. Not when he had given Elain—given, not only offered—Truth Teller. Not when she knew that any loss on her end would crumble everything within her.

So to feel his skin on hers, she couldn’t stand it. It was nauseating.

The way Azriel looked at her on that rooftop hurt. His hurt became hers and her knees couldn’t hold it, so she let the rain wash it away. “Go inside, Azriel.”

He did as she asked.

~

Rhysand returned to the town house. He wouldn’t stay there the night, but he needed a moment away from the House before he returned. Mor and Feyre talked in the dining room over lunch—something about the treaty plans. Nesta and Elain were no doubt locked in their rooms, but he couldn’t care less about either of them at that moment.

He flashed a small smile to Feyre as he passed the archway, heading towards the stairs, but of course, she caught on to its tightness. “Rhys?”

Everything pressed onto him. It squeezed him, twisted his gut and made his knees weak.

“What is it?” Mor called out as Feyre left her seat.

Rhysand held out his hand. “It’s fine. I’m just tired.”

“Rhys,” Feyre called again, this time in a scolding for his pathetic lie. Her words, not his. “What happened?”

He couldn’t answer, bile sitting in the back of his mouth. The memory kept playing in his head like something was shouting it at him, forcing him to remember everything that he tried so hard to forget. And what he had done after in shame—things not even Amren or Feyre knew about.

Helping Feyre recover had been a mix of instinct and trial. He knew what she needed and handed it on a platter that she only had to reach out and take from. But his mind ran a blank with Arwen. He knew that an extent of it, perhaps all of it, was his fault. He knew that arrogant remarks and sending her small notes would not heal what he had done, nor what happened to her.

The bedroom door swung in his wake, the sound of something flat hitting it confirming that Feyre was following. Rhysand marched across their bedchamber to the connected washroom, his pace quickening with each second. Just as he fell to his knees in front of the toilet, he threw up everything in his gut. When that was empty, his body dry heaved until his jaw ached and his stomach grew weak. Feyre knelt over him but he pushed her away. This was his burden to deal with. He would deal with it alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 57

Arwen refused to acknowledge anybody that morning. She hadn’t the patience to listen to them question and prod her. It was the same things every day, and her lack of sleep, taunted by the same nightmare each night, only cut her temper shorter. But she sat at the table in the casual dining space, because if she hadn’t come out, Cassian would have stormed into her room an hour ago and dragged her out of bed by her ankles.

Out of your room. That was the order he gave her each day, and really, the only one she listened to. Partially because she wanted to listen to him, partially because he was the only one that dared lay a hand on her and would actually go through with his threat.

Azriel laid a plate, decked with an assortment of breakfast foods in front of her. “Eat. You’ve lost weight,” he said. Arwen looked at it, then into the near distance. Nothing about it looked appetising. “Arwen—” he dropped to a crouch beside her chair— "eat.”

Rhysand watched the exchange from where he stood on the other side of the table, arms crossed and braced on the back of a chair. Feyre had made an appearance earlier but left for something Arwen didn’t listen to. Cassian hadn’t made a show yet and neither had Mor.

They did the same thing every day. And she told them the same thing every day; she ate when she was hungry. That morning, she wasn’t.

Snow was beginning to fall across the mountaintops. It would drape the city in white, but not for weeks to come. Arwen hadn’t made the journey down into the city yet and probably wouldn’t gather the energy to for some time. Rhysand’s birthday was a nearing celebration, Winter Solstice close by.

She did want to buy him something. Didn’t know what, but the urge lay in her. Winter Solstice, however, she didn’t want even to begin thinking about. If Feyre’s sisters agreed to join, then they too would be present. Arwen hadn’t met them yet, each party secluded in their respective residence.

Azriel looked up at her through his dark lashes as he crouched next to her chair. “Tell me what you will eat,” he said quietly, his voice so low and flat that she had to repeat in her mind to understand.

“Aren’t you sick of doing this?” she asked, the words croaking and weaker than she intended. “I take care of myself.”

Azriel gave a slow shake of his head. “No, Arwen. I’m not.”

“If she won’t eat, she won’t eat,” a new feminine voice drawled. Amren sauntered into the open room, her eyes dull and sheer boredom painted her expression. Azriel sent a glare in her direction. “She’ll starve and then she’ll learn.”

Arwen wasn’t sure whether to appreciate the support or feel belittled. Rhysand moved his lips into an empty smile. “Amren, how lovely to see you.”

“The pleasure is all yours. We were supposed to work on that proposal yesterday, Rhys, but you blew me off. Do I need to remind you that we’re on a tight schedule? And you, Azriel, have about three piles of stacked reports to get through. Today.” The small female huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’d think I’m the one running this entire court. Forget that; I am.”

Cassian strolled in, the drooping of his eyes almost amusing as Arwen guessed that he had just been victim of Amren’s scolding moments prior. Azriel rose back to height, placing a hand on the back of her chair.

Rhysand rubbed at his forehead like he had a pounding headache. “I’ll come down now.”

“The reports can wait,” Azriel growled.

Amren returned the glare he had sent her. “They’ve been waiting over two weeks.” Arwen had been wondering why she’d been seeing so much of him. He had been avoiding work.

Rhysand placated his Second with a downwards wave of his hand before glancing at his spymaster. “Azriel, see to them.”

Azriel snarled. It was so rough and unrestrained that Arwen guessed that it hadn’t come with any thought, especially as it was aimed at his High Lord and Second in Charge. Amren arched a brow, baiting the challenge.

“Azriel,” Rhysand murmured, soft but firm. Azriel tore his eyes off the female who had crossed her arms. A silent minute lapsed where they communicated in a way that no one else was privy to.      

The hand dropped from the back of her chair. Azriel stalked across the room, passing Amren a final dirty look before stopping at Cassian’s side. He leant in close to Cassian’s ear and muttered something unbeknownst to Arwen. Cassian nodded reassuringly and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. Azriel left the room. Rhysand passed by the general next, Amren stuck to his side, making sure he couldn’t run off.

Cassian made large but slow steps towards Arwen’s chosen seat. He tipped the closest chair onto its two hind legs and let them screech as he dragged it out. He turned it to face her, sitting so close that his knees were a hair’s width away from her thigh.

“I have a surprise for you,” he proclaimed.

Arwen’s interest made a small spike. “Surprise?” she echoed, taming her curiosity from showing.

“I do.” He laid a hand on her leg. “But you have to eat before you can see it.”

Her curiosity ceased at the conditions. Pressing back to laze against the chair’s spine, she muttered, “What if I don’t like the surprise?”

He shrugged. “Then you’ve eaten something, and I learn that I’m no good at surprises. Only I can lose.” Arwen could argue that fact. “But if you don’t, then you won’t find out what it is and that’s a firm loss on your part.”

It intrigued her again, mostly because whatever it was, she couldn’t guess. She examined the plate once more. “I can’t eat all of this,” she whispered.

Cassian snorted. “I could barely eat all that. Just get through something.”

The extent of ‘something’ was left undefined, but Arwen made small headway into the meal. What she did not reach for, he helped himself. Chewing slowly through a cut of bacon, her stomach gargled in complaint. But she pressed on and he let her finish after that.

With a smile, he stood and offered a hand. Arwen rose as well, slipping her hand into his. Cassian led her from the open dining space into the hall, leading her towards the main entertainment wing. “I’ll admit, the surprise really isn’t all that interesting,” he remarked as they walked. “I find it pretty dull, but Rhys thinks you’ll like it.”

“Rhys?” she repeated. “This was his idea?”

He nodded. Arwen began debating whether forcing food down her throat had been worth it. They turned into the foyer, then crossed it to the spacious hosting chamber where guests to the House would be greeted and accommodated. Her feet slowed upon seeing a head of fire seated at the main lounge.   

“Lucien?”

Lucien twisted his neck, making a slow rise as their gazes met.

Arwen had seen Lucien enter Velaris with Feyre all that time ago, but he had become reclusive and she hardly saw him around. She hadn’t even realised or thought to consider that he remained in the city after the war. Perhaps it was her own personal vendetta against Spring that made it so gratifying to see him there in her home instead. For him to see to the truth of her family.

He edged around the lounge, clad in a white tunic and brown leather jacket. His lips had parted, both his true eye and the gleaming gold one examining every inch of her. Arwen’s throat constricted at the sight of the scars etched into his face. She had been there when they were struck.

“You look good for someone who’s supposed to be dead,” he breathed, like all of them, not knowing what to say. A braid on the side of his head kept half his hair pulled away, accentuating the sharp cut of his long jaw.

Arwen glanced down at herself. “I would have dressed more for the occasion if I knew it was happening.” A black shirt clung to her arms, cotton and warm, whilst her legs were draped in silk pants that had forgone their matching singlet. She gestured back to the lounge, inviting him to seat himself again. Cassian trailed alongside her as she joined Lucien on the red lounge, settling on her far side, not impeding on her conversation with Lucien, but not so far away that he was forgotten about either.

Arwen pulled her bare feet up, so they weren’t resting on the carpet the lounge was situated atop of and faced Lucien. The fabric still made her feel sickly. “Velaris isn’t quite like Hewn City, is it?” she asked.

Lucien let out a long breath, but the words of agreement took a little longer to come. “It’s certainly not what I expected. But I understand why you protected it.”

The sides of her lips made a small twitch upwards. Cassian stretched his arm along the back of the lounge, his hand extending into her view, the side of his leg pressing into hers. An offer—for her to take if and when she needed it. And perhaps a reminder to Lucien to mind his space. Arwen decided to rest her arm over the top of his and trace the faded veins on the back of his hand as she spoke. “Do you plan on staying here?”

Lucien tilted his head, looking beyond her to the glass windows. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.” His eyes found hers again. “I’m… sorry,” he uttered. “For what Tamlin did to you. For what happened to you.” The apology he couldn’t and wouldn’t give her at Hewn City all those years ago. Arwen hadn’t expected it then, nor had she now but took it with a gracious nod. “I wanted to believe that it was warranted—that he only did it because of what we believed you all to be.”

Behind her, Cassian grumbled deeply, shifting in his seat. Arwen huffed to herself but understood his temper on the topic. 

“You were always too handsome for Spring Court,” she remarked somewhat off-handed. “While the green did suit you, I think you look far better under starlight.” Lucien arched his brows, a crooked smile revealing itself as he attempted to deduce whether her words were flirt or taunt. Not that he’d care for the former, considering he had a mate now, and even Arwen wasn’t sure what she had meant.

“You already have me in the heart of your court,” he said. “Should I be wary if you’re attempting to flatter me?”

“If memory serves me correctly, Lucien, I think I have always been open with my opinion of you.”

“And it continues to surprise me.” Lucien chuckled lightly. “Considering what I admitted I might do to you all those years ago.”

Cassian’s heat enveloped her back, his deep voice in her ear. “What you might do, Vanserra?” he echoed with a darkening edge in his tone. Lucien’s smile dimmed as he seemed to realise the general was still present and his own ill choice of words.

Arwen glimpsed over her shoulder, recoiling as her temple nearly knocked his jaw. “It’s nothing. It was under Tamlin’s order whilst he was in Hewn City. A way for him to escape, and we can hardly blame Lucien for considering it with the way you scowled at him all night.”

Lucien shifted. “Which, might I add, is very similar to the one I’m receiving now,” he muttered.

“Ignore him,” she murmured to Lucien.

“Don’t ignore me,” Cassian corrected with a growl underlining his tone.

Arwen rolled her eyes and moved the conversation onwards. Lucien recounted his time in the Spring Court with Feyre—things that Arwen hadn’t known before and drew every drop of her attention. For himself or them both, he skipped over his experience Under the Mountain, though Arwen’s ears rang with the ghost of his panicked screams, remembering how her own heart hammered before Feyre screamed her name to save him. As their conversation trickled back to a slow, he told her of his apartment in the city, and offered to host her, if she ever wished to visit.

“Thank you.”

Lucien smiled. “I think I was supposed to see your spymaster about his reports on the Spring Court.”

Arwen lifted her chin. “He’ll be in the study, just over in the east wing past the main balcony. Fair warning, he’s in a foul mood.”

Lucien sighed and thinned his lips, bidding her a final farewell before heading off in search of Azriel. Arwen let her shoulders stoop as he disappeared, eyes fluttering and the slight but constant tension in her cheeks releasing. She tipped her head back, resting against the front of Cassian’s shoulder. She had enjoyed the talk—enjoyed seeing Lucien—but it had taken what little energy she had.

Cassian kissed her temple. “How are you feeling?”

It took a moment to find a suitable word. “Heavy.” So damn heavy. “You don’t have to be like that with him, you know.”

“Forgive me,” he growled, “if I’m not overly keen on having outsiders of this court near you.” But Arwen didn’t meet his worry. 

That night, as she picked at her dinner, Arwen looked across to her brother and said, “Thank you.” Rhysand’s smile was soft.

Chapter Text

Chapter 58

Cassian wiped his hand down his face, hoping that he would wick his tire away with it. He had been in and out of Velaris over the past two weeks, dealing with the surging unsettlement within the camps. A stone weighted on top of that responsibility; Arwen hadn’t been handling his disappearances well. Mor recounted to him over a late glass of wine that she had become more volatile of late, particularly in those times when he left. That night, before he had returned, she had broken her drinking glass in her hand and fled the dining chamber after Rhysand tried questioning her.

Cassian wandered down the House’s shadow-shrouded corridors, half thoughtlessly, half with an end place in mind. It was late, but not so late that he felt like accidentally waking her would be rude. He hummed softly, feet taking him a right through the familiar corridor.

At her door, he knocked twice, almost too lightly to be heard. No response followed so he reached for the handle and edged the door open. Arwen’s bedroom was just as dark as the halls, except her window remained open, allowing a stream of the waning moon’s white light to sweep across the hardwood floor. Despite being in the early weeks of winter, Arwen had kicked her blanket off and lay exposed on her back, arms bent to each side of her head. On one hand, he could see a makeshift bandage, crafted from a scrap of fabric. Had done it herself, he concluded from the simple fact he knew the others wouldn’t have settled for such a poor method.

Silent in step, he made his way to her bedside and sat on the edge of the mattress, picking up her injured hand. Blood already seeped through the light blue fabric, but it hadn’t soaked which meant that it was healing as it should. He’d check it in the morning for infection.  

Cassian carefully placed her hand back down then reached for her head, letting his fingers stroke down her temple and to her cheek.

He frowned. She felt wet, as though she had just gotten out of the bath or come inside from the rain. A quick sniff of his fingers confirmed that it was sweat. His gaze moved down to her chest, which moved at a quickened pace. He called her name. “Arwen?”

Her eyes jumped around under her eyelids, twitching at the sound of his voice. A nightmare, he quickly reasoned, only this time she wasn’t thrashing and screaming for them to be warned. Cassian slid off the mattress and instead turned towards it, bracing a knee on the blanket at her side.

He grasped either side of her face. “Arwen,” he called again, louder. “Sweetheart.” As she twitched again, this time shooting through her entire body, Arwen inched under the moon’s gleam and he saw the extent of her condition. Her skin was slick, tendrils of raven hair clung to her neck and forehead, a patch of the bed just under her darkened from it.

Cassian brought his body forward, digging his arms under her back and neck, lifting her into a seat. Arwen’s head lopped against his arm, her chest making small convulsions. He kept calling her name, but it was until he decided to jostle her that her eyes opened. They peeled apart slowly, like a painting breaking from its frame over years. Unlike before, there was no panicked flurry, no hands flinging out to grasp the nearest thing, no gasping for breath.

Cassian readjusted her to lean against his front so he could use a hand to lift her still lopped head. “Hey, hey,” he whispered, unconsciously falling into a gentle rocking. Arwen tipped her head against his shoulder, the only effort given were a few, weary blinks. “You know where you are?”

He got a small grumble in response.

Cassian held her for a few minutes as he decided what to do. She did nothing but continue to lean against him, her breath fanning across his neck. “I’m going to make you a bath,” he told her. Moving to lie her back down, he was stopped by a weak noise and her hand clutching at his shirt. He pried it off to hold it instead. “Come with me then,” he said.

Arwen pushed herself up and then crept off the bed’s edge, standing at his side. Cassian led her with him into the washroom, letting her hand fall back onto his shirt as he leant over the bathtub to set the taps on.

“Same dream?” he asked. The answer was the same every time, but this was the first time she had reacted so distantly. Arwen nodded. She reached past him to the wall lined with additives, taking the one that would fill the bath with suds. She damn near poured the entire bottle. Cassian gave a small laugh and took it from her, “I think any more and you’ll start filling the entire room.”

Arwen sat on the tub's edge, leaning down to swirl her fingers through the rising water. He watched her. She still breathed hard and her eyes were dull, like a blade that had gone blunt. She kept a clutch on the fabric of his shirt at his shoulder, pinching the seam to her palm as if letting go would mean the end of something. Couldn’t see me. Or hear me. A prison. That had been what she told him. He didn’t understand why it was him that she chose, over her mate and her brother but he accepted it. More than accepted it.

He turned the gilded taps off as the water risked overflowing once she placed herself in it. “I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured. “I’ll stay just out there.” Arwen let him peel her hand off. He left, closing the door behind him and sunk down onto her bed.

He ran his hands down his face again, trying to ignore the ache in his wings from the extra flying that Madja had advised against. But it had been weeks and if he didn’t push himself, he would barely be able to carry the weight of another, let alone journey further than Illyria. But by the Mother it was exhausting. Just for a moment, he promised himself, he closed his eyes to the sound of water sploshing.

Cassian jolted, waking from his sleep. He blinked away the remnants of sleep, figuring out where he was because it certainly wasn’t his own chambers. Apples and cinnamon—Arwen’s room. He groaned and placed his feet to the floor. It was still night and the moon had barely moved from where it had been before. 

He dragged his feet along the floor, knocking on the bathroom door. How long had his nap been? It could have been anything from a few short minutes to an hour. “Sweetheart?” With a yawn, Cassian leant against the door and awaited her answer. There was none. “Arwen?” he called again—louder.

Nothing.

He strained his ears and he could hear the ever-so-light sound of water moving. His heart started to fasten.

“Arwen, you need to tell me you’re okay or I’m going to open this door.” His hand already curved around the handle. “Arwen?” With a grunt, he shouldered the door open and tried to prepare himself for what he might find.

Arwen sat in the middle of the tub, knees drawn to her chest. Her hair was wet but hadn’t been in the water for some time, forming slumps that appeared like thick strings from her scalp. She stared, unmoving, at the water. Cassian crouched beside the tub. “Arwen?” he called again. She didn’t respond to him. Bubbles frothed around her like snow, covering her up to her shoulders. “Sweetheart, you hearing me?”

It was like she was a statue, not just unmoving, but not responsive—not hearing or seeing. He touched her face, swiping away the strings of hair. Cassian grasped her cheeks into his palms. “Look at me, Arwen. You need to look at me.” But no matter what he did, no matter if he shook her face or her shoulders, she wouldn’t respond. It was so dark that she resembled a wraith. “Shit.”

He pushed off the edge of the tub and veered out of the washroom. He yelped at Azriel appeared from thin air, the shadows moving like smoke around him. Cassian snarled and pointed a finger at him in warning. “Mother fuck me from above, you’re lucky I didn’t have a knife in my hand.”

Azriel smacked his hand away. “Where is she?”

Cassian squinted. “You were coming in to check on her? It’s the middle of the night.” He didn’t know why he treated it like such a surprise. He was certain Azriel had been doing it since the day she woke.

Azriel squinted back. “I see you already beat me to it.”

Caught him there. “She’s in the bath, Az.” Azriel cocked his head—a dangerous warning to Cassian who had the sense to feel the urge to explain himself more before Truth Teller was driven through his sternum. Knowing how Azriel could be, how rash and untamed he could react, it wasn’t a warning he took lightly. “I put her in the bath because she had another nightmare and was covered in sweat. I went in because she’s gone unresponsive.”

“Unresponsive?”

“Like she doesn’t even know I’m there.” Cassian swivelled back on his feet and lead Azriel back into the washroom. The sight in there startled him. The bathtub still sat full of water, the frothing suds covering a thick layer on top. Arwen was nowhere to be seen. “Wha—”

Azriel cut him off, barging past his shoulder. Quicker than Cassian could conjure a single thought of reason, Azriel pressed up against the tub’s edge and reached into the water. Cassian gave another vulgar curse as he heaved Arwen’s body from under the water. Water spilled over Azriel’s boots as it poured over the lip of the bath and off Arwen’s limp body. Yet her eyes were slit open and coughs sent more water pouring out of her lips.

Azriel dragged her away from it and then dropped to his knees in the middle of the room, holding her back to his front as she dispelled her water-clogged lungs. Cassian tore a towel from the hanger, falling next to them. Arwen hung in Azriel’s arms, her legs splayed out to the side, not a care for anything.

“Get Rhys,” Azriel hissed. Cassian stuck staring, didn’t move. “Get Rhys!”

Cassian lurched back to his feet, the door smashing against the wall as he thundered past it. Not caring whether his footsteps shook the entire mountain, he made it to Rhysand’s chambers in less than a minute. He didn’t knock, elbowing his way in uninvited. Rhysand lay asleep next to Feyre. A single, hard shake to his High Lord’s shoulder awoke him.

“Cass…” Rhysand muttered, drifting off with a croak.

Cassian said nothing, feeling the claws at his mind as Rhysand forced himself into attention. He counted four heartbeats before the High Lord ripped the blankets off and for the second time, had his shoulder barged into. Rhysand stormed across the room. “Rhys,” Cassian hissed.

Rhysand stopped with a fiery gaze and panting chest. “What?” he growled.

Cassian snatched the pair of pants hanging off the closest chair. “It’s urgent, but not urgent enough for you to go without pants.” He thrust them into Rhysand’s chest who grumbled and scrambled to put them on, attempting to walk at the same time.

The pair hastened their way back to the once space chamber. Rhysand careened around Cassian, moving into the chamber and washroom first.

Arwen sat between Azriel’s legs, her head placed against his collarbone. Azriel held the towel Cassian had abandoned to her, one arm around her chest, the other hovering near her face. Rhysand knelt beside them and took hold of her face.

A moment of silence grew, as did the thickness of the air.

“She’s not conscious.”

Azriel’s face shot into a frown and his eyes snapped into a rough examination of her face. Cassian argued, “I woke her up. She got herself into the damn bath.”

Rhysand shook his head. “Her mind—it’s not clear which only happens like this when someone’s sleeping. I’m going to pull her out of it.” His thumbs pressed gently to each of her temples and Cassian could hear his own heartbeat with how silent the chamber fell. The flicker in the High Lord’s face went unmissed by neither him nor Azriel. His brows deepened, eyes shifting as though he saw what she did.

Arwen blinked and her body lifted with a deep draw of air. Rhysand gradually pulled his hands away as she inched her head off Azriel’s front, taking in what was before her. The panic that had been missing earlier now seeped back into existence. Her lip trembled, her hand raising to graze across the forearm along her chest. Cassian waited for the lurch away, the realisation that she was being held by someone else, but it did not come.  

Her fingers curled around Azriel’s arm and she lay her head back on his shoulder, curling her legs in closer. Cassian watched as Azriel strengthened his hold, the hand once hovering now settling on her cheek. His nose buried into her hair.

Water filled her eyes. “I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t escape.”

The confliction pulsated off the shadowsinger—whether relief that he could hold her, and that she held him back, or the torment of his mate’s pain won inside of him.

Cassian laid a hand on Rhysand’s shoulder, squeezing when the High Lord still did not look his way. Rhysand’s face was taut and downturned. Cassian gestured out of the room with his head. Rhysand flared his nose indignantly, looking back down at his sister but Cassian didn’t relent. Azriel murmured into her ear as Cassian pulled on Rhysand again, finally tugging him out of the room.

Chapter Text

Chapter 59

Arwen stared at the painting before her. It was taller than she was and stretched the length of her arms. An extravagant, almost gaudy, golden frame hosted the picture of her mother. Her father’s hung just to the left of it.

A low whistle had her head turning, eyes slowly removing from the strokes of paint. Cassian stood a few feet away at the junction of the corridor. “Breakfast,” he told her.

Arwen looked back at the painting. Usually, art would ignite something within her. It was why the Rainbow had been one of her favourite places in the city, just below that bridge on the Sidra. But today, when she looked upon what used to be her favourite in the House of Wind, she felt nothing.

Rhysand had kept their mother’s portrait up. Had kept her memory.

“I’m not hungry.”

She heard Cassian’s sigh and the heavy steps he took to reach her side. “I don’t particularly care, princess,” he said. “You’re coming to breakfast.”

Arwen had awoken with company in her room that morning. Azriel had pulled her favourite chair away from the window to sit beside her bed. She had barked at him for moving the chair and once he stood, dragged it back into place. In her pathetic defence, it felt like she barely had a wink of sleep. And her wrists—they were tender.

This voice, right in the back of her head, above the nape of her neck, kept whispering to her. It was indistinguishable, but nonetheless, she understood what it tried to tell her.

“Do I look like one of your soldiers?” she muttered. “You don’t order me.”

In the corner of her eye, Cassian peaked a single brow. “I’ll ignore that in consideration that you had a rough night. But you’re still coming to breakfast. I’ve got to go back down to the camps today and I won’t be back until tomorrow. I leave after this morning.”

A stone dropped in her stomach.  

Cassian smiled flatly. “Regret your words now?”

Stubborn, she said, “No.”

He tipped his head towards the adjoining corridor, the smile growing softer. “Come on.”

His hand clasped at her elbow. Arwen yanked her arm away from him, earning a shocked, but not irate, expression. She replaced the connection by gripping the back of his sleeve. His shirt felt slightly coarse—wool to battle the winter, but she ignored it. Her choice. Her hold—her grip. What the voice in her head denied she had the ability of.

Arwen had two choices in her spirit realm.

It only took a year before she mastered control over her body to move through things, to let the tether pull her freely to and from the mountain tops and out of the borders of the Night Court. She could isolate it, stepping through doors so her foot landed solidly on the other side. Nothing, not even the stone of the mountain could stop her from moving through it if she desired.

Or she could remain solid. But she could not touch, nor feel, nor move anything. The corporal realm held power; it would move her if she remained in its way. On the streets of Velaris, she had been trampled once. Didn’t feel the pain of their feet, but bodies rammed hers until she gathered the control to switch over to a form that let them walk through her.

So now Arwen wanted that control back.

Cassian said nothing about the change.

Only Mor was present for breakfast. The whereabouts of Feyre and Rhysand, whom she knew to have stayed in the House, were unknown to Cassian and Mor. Azriel had shadow travelled somewhere also unknown after their interaction.

“I’m taking the day off,” Mor said, smiling across the table at Cassian and Arwen.

Arwen glanced up from her near-empty plate, peering first at Cassian then her cousin. Cassian pretended to have no recognition of the obvious. Mor had work to do—plenty of it—but they were keeping someone around the House. Around her.  

Mor continued. “Is there something you want to do today? We could relax and drink wine on a balcony.”

Cassian snorted. “Could you not think of something a little more invigorating?”

“Says the male who takes naps whenever and wherever he can,” Mor replied, her red-painted lips pursing forward. “Besides, I hardly feel like climbing a mountain right now. And Arwen looks like she barely slept a minute.” Eyes ran over her again. “How was last night?”

Arwen parted her dry lips, but Cassian answered in her place. “It was fine. Arwen and I just stayed up late.”

Mor frowned as she picked out the tomato mixed into her omelette. Arwen offered a derisive smile. “Fucking.”

Cassian, who had poorly timed his drink, choked. The juice splayed across the table and even Mor balked in her seat. Arwen’s smile dropped as she slumped her chin into her palm and scraped the prongs of her fork across the top of her dry toast. She wasn’t in the mood for light banter but wanted her voice heard at least once. 

“Well,” Mor chirped tightly. “Explains the tiredness and your current interest in invigorating activities.”

“Arwen wants me killed for some unknown reason,” he growled, glaring at the side of Arwen’s head. “Azriel is already up my arse without the help of your comments, princess.”

Arwen stared at the far wall, bringing her own juice to her lips. Into the glass, she murmured, “Azriel wants to fuck Elain Archeron. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

She could take the knife from Cassian’s thigh and cut the air with it. “Where did you hear that?” he rasped out. Arwen only shrugged since she hadn’t heard it from anywhere technically. “Arwen, that’s not true.”

Mor made a point to Cassian. “She’s as boring as a wallflower that one. And Azriel is your mate, Arwen, just as you are his.”

Arwen shrugged again, biting into her toast. Mor and Cassian looked at each other and she could see the debate happening between them. They decided to leave the topic and Arwen lost interest in listening. The only thing she picked up on was that Rhysand had gone to the library underneath the House to study something.

Mor ended up following her around, but Arwen had promised Cassian that she wouldn’t return to her room until at least late afternoon. So she listened to the perky blonde and although Arwen was hardly in the mood, she knew that on another day, perhaps, she would appreciate her cousin’s effort. It just so happened that it wasn’t a good day for Arwen.

The muscles at her jaw’s hinge swelled as her teeth were set in a permanent clench. The nightmare remained engrained in her thoughts. Was it to be called a nightmare if it had emerged from her own memories?

Her heartbeat thumped into her ears, the artery in her neck pulsating and twitching.

They stood in one of the darker sitting rooms, the hearth alight to supply light as only two small windows on the far wall offered the remnants of daylight. The dark rug that used to cover much of the floor had been removed recently. Mor dropped herself onto the lounge, ranting about Nesta who Arwen could find little care to think of at that moment.

Arwen ran her finger over the top of an ornamental glass vase. It was cold, despite being displayed near the fire and the edge, even rounded, felt sharp against the pad of her index finger.

Arwen could touch it.

She could move it.

Could break it.

Mor jumped from her seat as the vase shattered at Arwen’s feet.

“Are you alright?” she fussed.

Arwen looked down at the glass with an infectious glee spreading through her. She had done that. She had finally done, what she had begged the world to let her do, for so long. The glee curdled inside of her, reforming into something else.

“Arwen?”

Arwen meandered around the lake of glass and set her eyes on the unlit candlestick holder sitting on the narrow display above the hearth. The three metal strips were curved into whorls, each one higher than the one before. Knocking it off, it landed on the stone floor with a resounding clang.

The anger piled onto her. The anger from the years of screaming at them, doing anything she could to get their attention. Now she could make her mark. Now she could get their attention. Arwen set her sights on a display shelf on the wall. Item after item she threw off the wooden ledge, each one crashing to the floor. Each one the product of her desire.

“What is going on?” Mor asked breathlessly.

Arwen strode towards the bookshelves, not hearing those words, but felt the light touch on her arm. She yanked herself away from Mor, the skin on the back of her neck prickling and her stomach seized in protest. It was Arwen’s turn to touch things.

Gripping the leather spine of a random book on the middle shelf, she pulled it out, letting it fling behind her to the floor. She pulled out another, and another, and another. The symphony of pages and leather colliding washed out the rest of the world. Arwen pulled the room apart, just the way she wanted. She knocked things over that she had near-broken her fingers trying years ago that now only took a light push.

“Arw—Arwen.” Two hands, large and firm, gripped her shoulders, pulling her to a momentary standstill. Azriel’s hazel eyes pursued her own. When had he shown up?

Arwen panted, suddenly aware to the hot streams down her cheeks. Mor was gone. “Let me go. Let me go!” She pulled herself away, letting the wail pour from her lips. Her blood turned to fire; hot and raging. Azriel remained on the spot he stood. Arwen returned to a new bookshelf, reaching high onto her toes and pulling more from their place. Many of them hadn’t been touched in decades.

When there were no books left, scattered, and littering the floor or tipped on the shelves, Arwen turned back around. There were no small ornaments left. Another hard sob racked through her chest. Gripping the edge of a small lounge-side table, she tore it off its legs and hurtled it to the floor. A painting of the Illyrian Steppes was her next victim, pulled down from the wall and skidded along the ground.

The room became unrecognisable.

Arwen marvelled over what she had done—revelled in her marking. Her shoulders shook endlessly as her hands trembled at her sides. Mor returned, Rhysand at her side. He gaped at the room, then at her.

It was only her brother who dared step towards her, even Azriel remaining frozen.

How many times had she stood before him, begging to be seen? How many times had she screamed at his face, only for him to look at something beyond her?

Arwen slapped her palms into his chest.

Rhysand stumbled a step back. Arwen took the step forward and pushed him again. With a foot bracing him, he didn’t falter this time but she still felt how her own strength moved him. How she touched him. How he looked at her.

He whispered to her, “Don’t shut me out.”

She pushed him again, a short scream rising with it, burning her throat.

“Scream at me,” he said. “Scream at me, Arwen. Hit me.”

Arwen couldn’t even see his face anymore, her sight too blurred with her own tears. But she screamed again and balled her fists, using the side of them to thump against his chest over and over again. Talk to me, hit me, cry, scream at me. I will take it. But do not shut me out. Arwen hadn’t shut him out—the world shut her out. That stupid tether, that her wrists still burned at the thought of, kept her trapped. Trapped to him. He forgot her. He cut out the memory of her life from this world, leaving nothing but the ghost of her name. She hit him for how he hurt her. He didn’t see her, didn’t hear her.

But now he did.

The sides of her hands pounded into him, and he kept saying those words to her. Hit me. Scream. Just like he promised, he took it.

Eventually they slowed as her arms grew too weary to keep up. Hands pulled at her from behind that she was too depleted to pull away from. She fell into their chest, arms encircling her. “Cassian,” she wailed, barely able to gather the air to cry his name. “I want Cassian.” Like her punches, she kept repeating it until she was too weak to speak it anymore. Arwen fell to her knees, weight against Azriel’s chest as he held from collapsing entirely.

Chapter Text

Chapter 60

Arwen hadn’t slept. She was too scared to.

Guilt pricked at her upon seeing Cassian return last night. She knew he was needed down at the camps and knew that he took his job seriously, only for her to pull him from it. Trying to rectify, she buckled up her composure and told him that he could return to his duties. Cassian shook his head and kept her company the entire night. He had fallen asleep but she settled for the quietness of his presence alone.

When morning rolled around, he rose with the sun and told her to go eat something while he went to train with Azriel. Arwen didn’t argue. She pulled on the thick gown over her night dress, having swapped the emerald one out for another of a softer material. The kitchen, where Nuala and Cerridwen would be, preparing meals for the House’s residents before moving on to the later waking ones of the town house, was to the left. Arwen took a right. She pulled the sleeves of the gown over her palms and couldn’t keep her eyes straight ahead, especially when she knocked on the door of her brother’s chambers.

No answer.

Arwen twisted the cold knob and peeked in. Empty. Feyre and Rhysand must have slept in the town house. Since hunger didn’t call her yet, she decided to slip into the room nonetheless.

It was the first time she had smelt it—no longer just her brother’s scent, but Feyre’s mingled with it. Her things interweaved between his too. Arwen circled the chamber at a snail’s pace. His boots, as they had always been, were kicked off near the wardrobe. Their mother had scolded him for it even through his adult years.

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked towards the window across from it.

Arwen remembered coming in here the weeks after her mother’s death. She hadn’t even thought about when they would just spend hours sitting, watching the city through the glazed windows, how much work he had ignored to take care of her. He was mourning too, she supposed. Both their mother and father. But it had been her way of mourning—not his. She hadn’t given him the chance to move on in his own way. Hadn’t asked him if he was okay.

Arwen looked down to the dark nightstand next to his bed. A candle had been half burnt away. A ring Mor gave him years ago, simple and black banded by gold, lay next to it. There was also a small bracelet, made from a woven black and silver thread.

She pulled up the sleeve of her gown, eyeing the one on her own wrist. Matching. The ones she made when they went to the cabin alone and forced on his wrist. He had kept it, after all these years.

When Arwen entered the kitchen, she reached for the glass jar full of plain crackers. Nuala and Cerridwen paid her little mind when she paid them none, leaving her to nibble in silence. Once she had eaten what she knew would satisfy Cassian’s pestering on her diet, she set way for her bed chambers to change into something more appropriate for the day.

Yawning and wiping her eyes, she had to blink twice to wipe the blurriness away as an Illyrian form stalked towards her. She arched a brow at Cassian’s dishevelled form. His hair—well, that was always a mess, but his bottom lip, just right to the small pout had been busted. Dark blood crusted the split, remnants of it ingrained into the thin lines of the plump tissue. His nose also was swelling slightly, and a thick line of blood had oozed down to meet his upper lip. Almost invisible marks across his cheek revealed his previous attempts to wipe it away.

He gave her a tired smile. “We may have gotten a little excited during training.”

She didn’t believe it. “Your nose is broken,” she told him, as if he didn’t already know. He made a small sniff then winced at the stupid action. Arwen grabbed his wrist and pulled on him, letting Cassian swivel on his heels to keep up as she took him to her room.

She guided him to the bed, pushing him to sit at the foot’s edge. He did so, albeit a little gruffly. Sighing, she narrowed her eyes at him—a silent accusation for not diffusing whatever happened to lead to it. He had been calm leaving for training, and the same now, which meant that he was in the mind to prevent the escalation. Cassian may be one to give way to his temper, but she knew the signs of it.

Arwen pursed her lips together and stood at his knees.

“You eat something?” he asked.

Giving a nod of answer, she cupped his jaw with one hand to keep it steady and pinched his nose lightly with the other, feeling for the deviation. He hissed and jerked away from her hand at a light squeeze.

“Illyrian baby,” she muttered and solidified her grip on his jaw.

He huffed, wincing again. “You get that from Feyre?”

Arwen nodded, although she hadn’t heard it used since awakening. “I think it fits,” she said. “You and Rhysand are the biggest whiners I’ve ever met.”

“The pleasure of meeting,” he corrected. “And I’d like to add you to that list. ‘My dislocated arm hurts so much, Cassian. Rhys is so mean.’ And, ‘It’s raining, I don’t want to train.’ So don’t think you aren’t a part of this Illyrian babies club we’ve got going on.”

Arwen smiled at his impersonation, momentarily forgetting her work at his nose. She didn’t even realise the movement had come until she found Cassian staring at her lips. They wavered, before strengthening once more and his eyes rose to meet hers. “How you remember that after so long is a mystery to me.”

“How could I ever forget?”

Her smile did flatten at that, though she tried to hide it behind the natural form of her focus. For a moment she wondered why he was even bothered to let her do this, but he was a trained warrior. Anyone wise, especially a soldier, knew to take proper healing when they could afford it. Even Cassian in his bravado. “I can fix this,” she said, inching a half-step closer as she readjusted her grip.

He squinted his eyes in anticipation and she felt his jaw clenched under her hand. Arwen made a small twist with her fingers, realigning his nose. He jolted at the snap but she let go immediately to let him wince off the pain.

“Ah, damn that hurt,” he grumbled and made a small nose scrunch to test her work.

“Baby,” she repeated, smiling again. He laughed. Arwen made a gesture for him not to move and headed into her connected washroom, sourcing a clean cloth and filling a small bowl with fresh water. He reached for them on her return, but she careened them away from his hands with a small ‘tut’. “I’ll do it. You’ll probably make it worse.”

“I survived a war I probably shouldn’t have. I think I’ll be fine with a busted lip.”

“Let me fuss,” she told him. “It’s distracting.” He didn’t argue again. Arwen dipped the cloth into the water and pinched Cassian’s chin. She wiped the blood away on his nose first, then gently pat the cloth to his lip where the split was.

“Can we talk about yesterday?” he asked after minutes of what she had believed was a comfortable silence.

She sighed and wet a new spot on the cloth. “I don’t exactly what to talk about how I destroyed a room.”

He shook his head before she regripped it. “Not the afternoon, the morning.”

The correction made her hands hesitate just before she put the cloth to his skin again. Her brows pinched. “Which part?”

“About Azriel. And Elain.” Arwen’s eyes turned down and she slowed her efforts at cleaning his face. Cassian gripped the underside of her arms. “It’s not true, sweetheart. But where did you hear that? Did Az say something to you? Feyre?”

“Azriel hasn’t said a word about Elain,” she replied shortly. She regretted her words from that morning. It had been her true thoughts, but ones she intended to keep internalised. Now they were open, like pulling the stitches off a fresh wound. 

“Then I’m assuming I should be blaming Mor and her talkative mouth.”

Arwen dumped the cloth into the bowl. “This was supposed to distract me, not make me think about things I don’t want to. I think I’d rather talk about how I disrespected half a library of books.”

Cassian lifted a shoulder with a half-ounce of energy. “I didn’t think we needed to.” Arwen frowned at the sliver of ground between them, not understanding. One of Cassian’s hands rose to rest against her cheek, the other slipping down to her hand. They were near the same height when he was sitting. “You were angry. Frustrated. And have every right to be. I might not understand it, but I don’t need to.”

Tears fled to her eyes—ones she had avoided for hours since they had dried after Cassian returned and she flung herself to him. “I hate it.” Her voice cracked. She couldn’t meet his eye. “I hate that everything is so different. I hate that I’m different. I feel like a stranger to myself. I know I must be a stranger to you.”

“Arwen,” he uttered slowly. “Turn around.”

She frowned at him and his tone. He grappled at her waist and twisted her to face the wall behind them. Arwen met her reflection in the mirror over the vanity. Her eyes dropped to the hands around her waist. His fingers almost met over her stomach. Azriel was right. She had lost weight. Cassian urged the robe off her shoulders, letting it puddle at their feet and leaving her in the silk slip she had become so fond of despite the winter weather. The rest of her was ghastly, but she gave herself the benefit of considering the sleepless night behind her would probably be a factor in that.

“Do you know what I see?” he asked.

Arwen shook her head, because she truly had no idea what he saw. If he saw some helpless girl or if he saw a ghost of his past.

“I see Arwen.” Cassian looked at her. Not her reflection, but her. “And I know Arwen very well. I know that when’s she happy she puts this little dance in her walk. I know she likes to hold people when she’s sleeping.” Arwen cracked a tearing smile. Cassian smiled back at her. “I know that she loves gifts. I know that Starfall is her favourite day of the year. But I also know her when she’s not walking with that small dance. I know that when she’s frustrated, she cries and sometimes she snaps at people. I know that when she’s feeling lost, she gets quiet and likes to think, but I also know she hates being alone. I think it would tear her from the inside out.”

Everything inside of her became light and heavy all at once. Arwen had to look down at her legs to make sure they weren’t shaking.

Cassian stood behind her, his wings almost looking as if they were her own. “I know you, Arwen. Every part of you, even when everything’s not perfect.”

The tears now made treks down her cheeks. Her fingers went to pull the sleeves of the robe over her palms only to remember she no longer wore it. So she used the sides of her fists to dry her face. Her throat burned, but she forced herself to say it anyway. “Thank you.” It wasn’t like him to put his thoughts so concisely together, so emotionally. It would have been as hard for him to say as it was for her to hear. Arwen knew she’d value this moment for a long time.

“If you let the others in, they’ll tell you the same.”

She closed her eyes, nose flaring with a harsh exhale. “I’m not sure I’m interested in that.” Arwen turned around to him so she no longer had to look at herself in the mirror.

“They are,” he said. He lifted his hands to either side of his chest. “But I’m not going to push all that. I got a smile from you today and that’s my greatest victory.” He flicked her cheek.

Arwen gave another, even if it was weaker than her earlier ones. “You were the last person I spoke to,” she found herself saying, not even her thoughts certain where she was going. “I told you that I loved you and you said it back.” The last thing she remembered of her old life. She remembered what happened after that too, the pain and the weakness, but it was the last voice she heard that hadn’t sounded like she was underwater before dying. Arwen wanted him to know that she remembered it.

Cassian sat back down on the edge of the bed and tilted his head. Arwen mirrored it as a line burrowed between his brows. “I don’t remember that,” he said, sounding agitated at the fact. He ran his hands over his knees and frowned at the empty air between them.

Arwen’s stomach shrivelled in disappointment. “Maybe I imagined it,” she whispered. It was possible, that after all this time she conjured a false memory to deal with everything. Arwen wasn’t so sure herself now.

“Whatever it is, I’m glad you have that,” he said. “I wish I remembered.”

Arwen made herself shrug. “It was two hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Would have been nice to have on my conscience.” He tightened his lips and offered her a tired smile. “But I’ll settle for the fact that I get to tell you now instead.” With a grunt, he pressed once more to his feet and shuffled past her. Arwen parted her lips, stepping back to offer him the room to pass. He made it to her door before turning back to see that she was still standing in the same spot. “Starving after that training session. Come keep me company so I can mope about it?”

With a sharp nod, she joined at his side.

As they strode down the otherwise empty corridor, he slung an arm over her shoulder. “Sweetheart?”

“Yeah?” she whispered.

He leant down, still walking, to speak into her ear. “I love you, but if you start feeling like you need to destroy something, come to me. That was my favourite sitting room.” He gave a rumbling laugh from the pit of his chest as she smiled and gave a sigh of contentment, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Today, she felt a little more… Alive.

Chapter Text

Chapter 61

Arwen wrinkled her nose at the view. Dull grey swathed the world, clouds shielded the sky and light snow trickled down across the land. She had spent the night convincing herself of her next endeavour—a bit of shoddy weather wouldn’t stop her, but it would be a pain. Leaving the view, Arwen crossed the House to the main dining room where Azriel and Cassian were already eating.

“Morning,” Azriel murmured in greeting. Cassian offered a sharp wave of his fingers, cheeks puffed with food. Azriel glanced at the general, lips cracking apart with a sigh before looking back to her. “Five hundred years of living and he still hasn’t learnt how to eat.”

Arwen took the chair that left one between her and the spymaster, opposing Cassian who twisted his face into offence at the remark. Before she could pull a plate from the pile stacked in the middle of the short table, Azriel grabbed it for her. He silently worked to fill her plate.

Finally gulping down half of his meal, Cassian pointed his knife at the shadowsinger. “There are some things in life that you don’t do in moderation. Eating is one of them. Never know when your next meal is going to be.”

“Or your next fuck,” Azriel uttered back, placing the plate down in front of Arwen, but his eyes were set on Cassian. Cassian stiffened and his eyes narrowed into a glare. “From my experience, you don’t do that in moderation either once you start.”

Arwen’s hand paused on its reach for cutlery, alarmed at the unfitting conversation occurring over a morning meal. But, in a passing moment, she was glad that the attention had moved on from her.

Cassian ran his tongue between his lip and teeth, placing his knife next to his plate. “I thought we had this conversation yesterday. And agreed to not bring it back up.”

She was missing a piece of the story, but Arwen had no intention to interrupt them. Cassian’s sex life was not of her interest, and quite frankly, she tried to keep her interest out of Azriel’s as well. She knew he had lovers over the decades, finding them in pleasure houses. He never met with them more than once.

Azriel did not reply, turning to look out of the far end of the open room and sip on his drink. Cassian gave a low snarl as he retook his knife. Eyes darting to Arwen, he nodded down to her plate. “Eat.” Since they both seemed hell-bent on ignoring the tension that had just swallowed the room, Arwen did as ordered and continued her reach for a fork.

Shadows smoothed over her thigh. They curled around her flesh like a vine.

“Plans for the day?”

Arwen spent the next moment lathering her toast, feigning concentration to give her the time to build up the strength in her voice. “I want to go down to Velaris. Rhysand’s birthday is soon and I need to buy him something.”

They both looked at her, mirrors of surprise. “I’ll take you down,” Cassian said.

Arwen hadn’t seen Rhysand since she destroyed Cassian’s favourite sitting room. She wasn’t sure if he was staying away to give her space, or because he needed space for himself. Either way, she was grateful for it. His name alone inflicted too many responses within her to be able to predict how she would react upon seeing him. If the anger would boil again. Maybe it would be the emptiness. Or maybe that would all shed way for the love she held for him. That despite all that happened, it hurt her to have been so helpless.

It was like a soup with too many spices mixed in.   

Cassian’s speech to her yesterday had reminded Arwen of that part of herself—her love of gifts. A whisper in her hoped that Rhysand would understand what it meant for her to give him something. That beyond her anger, beyond her refusals of his attempts to speak with her, he still meant enough to her.

An hour before midday, Arwen stood on the balcony, pulling her thick coat tighter around her front. She didn’t know how Cassian was managing in his single jacket. He stretched and released his wings. They were still healing, but he assured her that he wanted to take her down and that he needed to strengthen them with the extra weight.

“Do I want to ask what that was at breakfast?”

He shot her a derisive smile.  “Your mate is a prick is what happened.”

“Is that what happened at training?” She would have thought Azriel would be the one to have the broken nose by the way the conversation that morning went, but Cassian had a stronghold on his indifference to whatever his brother thought of him.

The smile morphed into something softer, and truer. “Don’t worry about it, princess. He’ll get over himself.”

He opened his arms and made a ‘come-hither’ flick with fingers from both hands. Arwen released a breath and stepped into his arms. She ran her hands over his shoulders, linking them behind his neck. She winced at the coarse outer fabric of his jacket over her palms so she kept them high to his neck and let her sleeves protect her forearms. Cassian bent and lifted her from the ground, feeling his fingers indent into her thigh and waist.

She smiled meekly. “Is this how you held Lucien when you brought him up the other week?” His face darkened and she smiled wider. “It can be quite an intimate experience.”

“I’m more intimate with the mountains than that stupid High Fae,” he growled as he stalked towards the balcony’s edge. Arwen admired the stretch of his wings. She had missed this too. Flying.

“Well with how rough I know you are, I think the mountains are the only thing that could handle you.” Arwen immediately pursed her lips as Cassian’s bewildered stare jerked to her, the comedic closeness of their faces making it so much more amusing. When her teeth couldn’t clamp her lips any longer, they stretched into a lip-bitten grin. “Mor talks,” she offered in explanation for her knowledge.

He blinked hard and forced his head back straight, shaking it slightly. “You all need to get a new topic of interest.” With that, he took to the sky.

Arwen tightened her arms at the sudden movement, her stomach plummeting. But—

She was flying.

In over two hundred and fifty years—sixty to be precise—she had never once flown. When the tether pulled her and she released herself to its force, Arwen would dematerialise and reappear within the tether’s boundaries. It was like winnowing… but not.

Despite the flurry of snow, Cassian flew smooth, a soft echo of wind in her ears with each beat of his wings. The wind stole the moisture from her lips and her cheeks stung in the frigidness.

It was over too soon. Cassian landed in a quiet lane that was an offshoot of one of the main streets, giving him plenty of room to land without a far walk to the shops. Arwen took her time stepping out of his arms, her ears twitching with the chatter of the people of the city. The cobblestone was still visible, but white had already sunk into the streams of trenches between each stone.

She shivered.

“It’s so cold,” she whinged, digging her hands into the depths of her coat’s pockets. She hadn’t felt such weather before, even in her prior life.

“It’s because you’ve got no meat on your bones,” Cassian informed her pointedly. He might have been right, but Arwen knew that it had more to do with her lack of feeling for so long. He threw his arm back over her shoulder, drawing her into the heat of his body. “What do you have in mind?”

“I have… No idea,” she admitted. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

That was her thought as they walked onto the main street. It was busy, even for such a chilly, snow-capped day. A City of Night never sleeps, is what they say. Arwen looked into each shop, peering in through windows and across displays. Cassian pointed out a few, but she shook her head at them.

People were looking, she realised. At first she thought it was just at the sight of their general, who did have quite the presence to be noticed. But their eyes sat lower. On her. Many even stopped in their tracks, their lips parting and she could see the recognition slapping them in the face.

Arwen took a deep breath and set her head forward. They were allowed to stare, after all. She would too, seeing a ghost walking. Eventually she pointed to a shop that sold an assortment of intricacies. Arwen took an interest in a range of candles that burned with a flame of every colour of the rainbow—but it wasn’t a gift for her brother. They moved on to another that sold fine accessories that fit Rhysand’s taste. Nothing caught her eye, however.

As they turned back onto the street, Cassian groused, “I’m suddenly remembering how hard it was to shop with you.”

Arwen flicked the fur-lined hood over her head. The snowfall had gotten heavier. “You never complained when you were the one getting the gift.”   

“Yeah, well…”

At his silence, Arwen twisted her shoulder to peer from under her hood at him. He grinned at her. She smiled back. Until she bumped hard into something. Someone. She stumbled for her footing and glanced behind her to find the culprit. A male Fae with a companion was also tipped to the side, finding his step. “Sorry,” she said.

The male met her eyes, his own widening. “No, my fault.” His gaze flickered to her left. To Cassian. He seemed too stunned to say anything more.

Arwen righted herself and reset her breathing. She had seen the male coming. He was laughing, distracted. And she just… Hadn’t moved. It had become such instinct to just pass through them as a spirit when Rhysand dragged her into the city. The ring held no power in that realm. She fingered it, realising that it had prevented her from that habit.

“Arwen?”

Arwen shook her head. “Coming,” she said, bundling her layers even tighter.

Cassian muttered something about food and she agreed to cross over to the Palace of Bone and Salt for something quick to eat rather than finding a place to sit like a cafe. One look at the sky told them they didn’t want to stay in the city any longer than they had to.

Arwen’s nose twitched as they began weaving through the centre of food. There were far more people here. People that had to leave the warmth of their homes for food against those who left for leisure shopping. Their scents clashed together and she found it suddenly hard to take them all in. On top of it, as people walked in and out of shops, the heavy fragrance of their foodstuff wafted through the street. She smelt meats of all kinds, breads and pastries, she smelt sweets, wine, and something bitter.

Arwen lifted her sleeve to her nose but it did little to block her Fae senses.

In her distraction, she knocked into a Fae, and another in her haste to not fall. They didn’t dare say anything with one glance at who she was. Cassian paused the step ahead that he was at. Falling to his side, Arwen clasped her hand around his wrist.    

Her neck twisted around, trying to identify and separate each scent that bombarded her nose. Her boot kicked a stone covered by the snow, sending her jerking forward but was caught by Cassian.

“You alright?

Arwen couldn’t find her voice to answer. Her eyes kept shooting around and she pressed her arm firm against her nose, twisting her body to fold into his side to avoid any more trips into people. Her throat let out an involuntary whimper.

Cassian pulled her away from the main market space and into the shadows of an alley. “Focus on me, sweetheart,” he murmured. His hands pressed to either side of her head, covering her ears. It smothered her sense of hearing, and though it hadn’t been her source of distress, it shut down one of her senses. It gave her more room to process the rest.

Arwen closed her eyes and leant her head against his chest. Her nose filled with the familiarity and simplicity of his scent, weaved with that of the cold sting of snow. Eventually she could lift her head away and peel her eyes open. Cassian dropped his hands from her head to her shoulders. “I’m alright,” she told him, breathless and blinking away the snowflakes landing on her lashes. “I’m okay.”

He offered to take her home, but she still hadn’t gotten anything and didn’t know if she’d find the courage in herself to come back anytime soon. The odours still hammered against her, but on a swift hunt, Cassian bought them both skewered lumps of meat drenched in some sort of sauce from a portable vendor, and they left that part of the city. Unable to finish hers, she gave the leftovers to Cassian to devour.

~

Arwen pressed herself against the front counter, watching the shopkeeper wrap a black box with a silver ribbon. The male, a fae with blue-grey skin, nodded to something behind them. “I hope this is all you need. That storm has come in,” he said. “My brother says it’ll last at least a night.”

Cassian and Arwen glanced over their shoulders. Sure enough, through their hour-long search through the store, past the black and gold décor of the shopfront, the street had gone from being the scene of gentle snowfall to a hazy scene of white and grey. A snowstorm. “Are you going to get home alright,” she asked the fae.

He smiled and pointed to the roof. “I live upstairs. I hope the pair of you get to shelter soon, though. That town house of yours is on the other side of the city, isn’t it?”

Cassian leant against the counter with a grin. “Little storm won’t trap us.”

~

"Fucking storm." Cassian had to grip Arwen’s arm to stop her from being pulled away by the storm’s wind. He let out enough vulgar comments that she was certain he was beginning to make more up. The world was a whizz of white and grey with the odd speck of colour. There was no chance of Cassian flying them back up to the House and the shopkeeper had been right—the town house, their only other formal residence, was on the far side of town.

She had a death grip on her brother’s gift.

“You think you could winnow us there?” he asked, near yelling to be heard over the blizzard.

She considered it, really, she did. “I… I don’t know if I can,” confessed Arwen. If she tried and failed, they could end up completely lost. Here at least they had an idea of where in the city they were. “How close do you think Amren’s apartment is?” Cauldron, she couldn’t feel her hands and her nose stung beyond belief.

“Not close enough,” he grumbled, coming to a stop mid-street. He gestured with the hand not gripping her sleeve to shuffle closer to him. Arwen did so and his wing opened, the membrane rippling against the wind. He let it envelop her, forming a shield around her. “There’s probably an inn nearby. Or maybe Rita’s will still be open and she’ll let us stay there until it’s over.”

The idea struck her. “What about Lucien?” she asked. “He said he has an apartment in this part of town.”

Cassian glared to the air, his cheeks a stinging red. “I’d rather find a box to curl up in.”

“Well I’ll find you in the morning and see if you’ll still defrost alive,” she contended. “He’s nearby, isn’t he?”

He growled under his breath like a peeved predator but submitted to their circumstances and the best solution available. Arwen let him pull her along, growing to the point where she could no longer recognise the streets around her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 62

It was a narrow, two-story building with a cherry-red door that Arwen found particularly fitting. Cassian thumped the side of his fist hard against the wood. It took a minute and another loud knock until the door swung open to a scowling Lucien. At the sight of them, which she imagined was rather pathetic, the scowl erased.

“Are you going to gawk or let us in?” muttered Cassian.

Lucien skirted to the side and opened the door wider. Snow flurried in with them as they scuttled into the building. It was homely, with an open sitting room and dining space connected. A staircase acted as a separator between a short hall to a kitchen and a washroom on the other side. “What in the Mother’s name are you doing out in that storm?”

Arwen held up the box which her fingers had permanently frozen around. “Shopping.” Part of her was surprised she could say anything, given how stiff and frozen her face felt.

“Shopping?” he yelped. “There was a storm warning given last night.”

She turned towards Cassian who had already found his way in front of the raging hearth. The blizzard could still be heard through it as a whistling howl. “Nobody told me,” she said to the air, but there was no doubt who it was pointed to.

Cassian rubbed his hands together and his wings let out a shiver, shaking off the stuck flurries. “I told you I forgot how long it takes you to shop. Get over here.” It was her turn to submit to him, so she offered a weak smile at Lucien and joined in front of the hungry flames.

Lucien went upstairs, returning back down with two rugs. They were soft, so she accepted one and wrapped it around her shoulders. Cassian denied needing the other so Arwen took it as well.

“I have a soup cooking,” Lucien informed them. “It’ll be ready soon.”

She went to deny the offering, but her teeth chattered. “Thank you,” she said instead. Even if she couldn’t eat it, the bowl would be warm to hold.

Cassian settled in his spot by the flames. “This is cosy,” he muttered with a brow arched at the expanse of the apartment. Arwen rolled her eyes at his tone.

“I’m hardly in it,” Lucien replied. “This storm isn’t supposed to pass until tomorrow. Since I haven’t been given the choice, I suppose you’ll be staying here?”

Cassian tightened a smile. “Such a host you are,” he crooned. “You’re welcoming nature has warmed me from the inside out.” Lucien glowered at the general.

“He means to say thank you,” Arwen interjected. “Unless he wants to be kicked out to that crate he was talking about.” His smile loosened into something more natural for her before moving it to Lucien, revealing his playful nature—if still one that bit, as the shapely canines promised.

Lucien eyed it. “I only have one bed but it’s big enough to share if you want both want to take it.”

“I’ll take the lounge,” said Arwen, then patted Cassian’s knee. “He’s happy to take the floor.” Her own grin rose at the sound of his spluttering and swift opposition. Even Lucien revealed his amusement with a tip of his lips. “It is only right to offer it up for me.”

“My wings,” he griped. “If they hurt in the morning, I won’t be carrying you back home.”

“Fine,” she said with a feigned sigh.

Lucien’s soup was sent from the Mother. Arwen attempted to huddle her entire form around it, leaving the hearth to warm her back, managing to eat half. Cassian even acquiesced to forming a compliment. It set them into a genial evening where a bottle of wine, gifted from Feyre, was broken into. Arwen hesitated at the offered glass, having not touched alcohol for so long, but took it in the end. She and Cassian migrated onto the lounge, Lucien taking the armchair adjacent.  

Lucien shuffled out cards between them, but Cassian denied wanting to be involved in the card game. Arwen shrugged and rested up against the lounge’s arm, pressing her feet into the warmth of his thighs on her right.

“Rita’s is a fun place,” she told Lucien. “But only if you like that type of scene.”

“What type of scene would that be?” he inquired as they sorted out their cards.

She tipped her head. “Music. Drinking. Grinding. Probably not your scene,” she decided. He chuckled.

They started on their game, using the lowered table that had been dragged close to their legs as a place to put their cards down. Arwen contemplated her future moves, and couldn’t help but notice Cassian’s eyes set on her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to play?”

He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Lucien played his card, so she plucked her next one out of the splayed set in her hand. The action was instantly met disapproving hum. Arwen tilted her head back. Cassian leant forward and tapped a different card. Humouring him, she placed her chosen card back and played the one he suggested. Within three rounds, Arwen noticed that she had the upper hand.

Cassian remained leaning over her shoulder and by the middle of the game, she had been demoted to a card holder. He had an arm thrown over the back of the lounge behind her shoulders and a still booted foot perched on the table where their empty glasses lay. All sense of personal space had been tossed. “I thought you didn’t want to play,” she sang quietly, his face hovering right next to hers.

“I don’t,” he replied as if it were still obvious. “But I’m not letting you lose to Vanserra.”

Lucien kept a crooked smile, only glancing up from his own hand of cards.

“Don’t you get lonely here?” she couldn’t help but ask. “Living alone?”

Lucien surveyed the room, coming to give a slow shake of his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve lived my life in mansions and palaces. This is the first space that’s ever truly been my own. If I had anything larger, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. But I like keeping it to myself.”

Cassian grew impatient at their conversation and drew a card from her fingers himself, leaning across her to plant it on the pile. Arwen jerked out of the way of his wings. “I suppose you only have to walk out the door to be with people,” she said, more for herself. Her arms grew tired so she lowered them to the velvety blanket covering her legs. The cards were promptly snatched from her.

“You’ve just shown the enemy your hand,” hissed Cassian as she gaped at him. “It’s like I haven’t taught you anything.”

She put her hands into defence. “You play then.”

He did. And they drank more wine, keeping the fire going long into the late afternoon and into the darkness of the night. They had another bowl of soup each for their evening meal. Sure enough, the blizzard wasn’t relenting so they set up spaces to sleep.  

Their conversation turned quieter, and Cassian eventually fell out of it completely. His head leant against the lounge’s backing, eyes half-closed and his arms comfortably crossed over his naval. Exhausted. She didn’t blame him, even if the day hadn’t been much in comparison to a war, he had still fought to keep his wing steady against the storm to hold her within it. He had flown her down, still fending off injuries. He had trained that morning. And he had put up with Lucien, which was a feat in itself. Arwen, though, had a new sense of energy that she hadn’t felt in… a long time. A very long time.

“Would you like me to move so you can have the lounge?” she whispered to him, laying a hand on his leg.

He peeked an eye open, and a subtle grin ghosted his mouth. “We can share.”

Arwen huffed and examined the size of the seat. But he would be content to fall asleep how he was and she could always move him into something more comfortable later. And it wasn’t long before his light snores filled the sitting room. Lucien poured what he declared would be their last glasses for the night. Arwen took it and curled her legs tighter.

She went to say something to him, but was caught by the baffled burrowing of his brows, gaze set on Cassian. “What is it?”

A strange smile lifted his cheeks and it took him a moment to answer. “I was… Always taught to be scared of him. Cassian, the General Commander of the Night Court. Lord of Bloodshed marked by seven red siphons. A warrior like no other. I hate admitting it, but they did scare me. Still do now that I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

Arwen looked to her right, observing her companion with the eyes of someone who knew little truth of him. She understood it, could even put that fear into herself, but it wouldn’t last. It was like striking a match in the wind.

“It’s just seeing him here in his home—feels like I’m being played with some days.” Lucien coughed and folded his arms. “That it’s all some wicked joke.”

“Cassian is a wolf,” she murmured, turning back to Lucien. “All my family are. To outsiders, they are predators with claws and sharp teeth. Hunters. Wild. But wolves are a pack. They protect their own. And once you’re a part of that pact you’ll start seeing what happens when the hunting is done. As cliché as that sounds.”

Lucien’s lips twitched back into their smile. “You’re close with him.”

“Cassian?” Arwen gave a short nod. “I am. Why?”

Lucien unfolded his arms and interlaced his fingers. One leg had been brought up, ankle resting over the opposite knee. “I know that you’re going through a rough time, coming back from the dead and all,” he spoke, careful and slow with each word. She understood why he was likely being sensitive in his choice of phrasing around her. “It makes me wonder; why him.”

“…Why Cassian?” she echoed.

He nodded. “Why not your mate? It’s Azriel, isn’t it?” Arwen closed her mouth, unprepared for such a question. Lucien gulped. “Feyre keeps me to date. I don’t particularly want my head cut off for saying the wrong thing and I think your spymaster would be happy to take the job.”

“Don’t take that personally,” she muttered. Or maybe he should, she thought on a re-evaluation. The realisation of why, and what exactly, he was asking came over her. “Elain is your mate, isn’t she?” Lucien nodded stiffly. “I… I know that they’ve grown close.”

He blinked and cocked his head. The fire crackled in warning of its dying flame. “Actually, since you’ve returned, I don’t think they’ve been around each other. At least I can’t smell it on either of them.” Arwen had avoided all questions that might lead to an answer involving Azriel’s activities with the Archeron sister, so hearing that had come as a surprise. “But she still doesn’t talk to me. Doesn’t acknowledge me really.” He chuckled with bitter emptiness and dropped his head into his hand to rake his fingers through the flame-kissed locks. “You have your mate here too. Yet you find company in another male. I just want to know why. Is there something Azriel could have done? That I should have done?”

Her cheeks flushed uncomfortably and grew tight. “That’s… A lot to answer,” she murmured, tilting her head down and towards Cassian. “I know our situations might look similar, but they’re not. From what I know, Elain is dealing with something entirely different. Adjusting to a new home and a new body. She never knew you before you were her mate. I’ve known Azriel for centuries. I haven’t exactly been open-arms with my brother either.”

“But’s he’s your mate,” he said. “And you’re here with Cassian and not him. Elain likes Azriel, even when I’m right here.”

Hearing confirmation of Elain’s affection for Azriel stung somewhere deep in her stomach. Arwen placed her glass back down on the table and pulled the blanket to her shoulders. “Mates aren’t made to be perfect for each other,” she said with a cracked voice and a raise of a single shoulder. The sting in her eyes promised the ensuing flooding. “My mother and father certainly weren’t. Thinking about Azriel is hard.” Her brows melded together over her nose as she confessed her inner thoughts. The wine was certainly doing its job in loosening her tongue. “Call me a coward but I don’t want to face it.”

“So why Cassian?” he repeated.

The words barely formed to be heard over the still howling storm. “Because it’s Cassian.” Arwen put her chin to her clothed knuckles. “I don’t have to think around him. He lets me forget everything else. I feel safe with him.”

“Do you love him?” 

At that question, she smiled. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I do.”

Her answer seemed to crush Lucien who slumped deeper into his seat and the shadows flickering across his face grew fiercer, as if her answer promised his own destiny.

“I love him that way that I love sunsets and sunrises. The way I loved to draw. I love him the way I love the Rainbow and the Sidra.”

Like the room disappeared around him, he looked only at her again. “But…”

Arwen shook her head and it left a little more hope in him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 63

A thunderous banging resounded throughout the entire apartment. Arwen jolted, lifting her head from the lounge’s armrest. Her legs were entangled with Cassian’s who stretched out towards the other end, their legs meeting in the middle.

The knocking on the door continued as she and Cassian pushed themselves up, but neither made way to answer it. A glance out the window revealed a snow-clothed world, but a clear one. Lucien thumped his way down the stairs, muttering something vulgar about the early hour. Arwen peeked over the back of the lounge.

Lucien yanked the door open and on the front step stood Azriel, head to toe in leathers. Lucien stiffened. “Azriel?” he asked, voice still gruff from sleep. Arwen’s neck lengthened instinctively to get a better look, but then she shrunk back down to look at Cassian. Rhysand must have reached out to him last night.

Azriel pushed past Lucien without even a word of greeting. Arwen shrunk even more as he veered around the lounge and stood over them. Wide hazel eyes darted between her and Cassian, urgency fleeting from them.

“You stayed here?”

Arwen’s lips were dry and her throat parched, which was no matter as she had no words to answer with anyway. She only could look to Cassian, who sighed and tented his knees, the blanket still strewn over them. “In case you didn’t notice, there was a bit of a blizzard that I didn’t fancy flying through.”

Azriel scowled. “It was hard to miss. Why didn’t you come back before it started? Or go to the town house?”

Lucien shuffled into the shadows of the room. Arwen felt like a child being scolded, even though Azriel’s glare had shifted onto Cassian. Why had he come down here?

Cassian sighed with an empty chuckle, raising his hands halfway before letting them flop against his legs. “Why are you here, Az?”

Azriel had no answer, but the question seemed to bounce through him. He looked up to Lucien, then down to Arwen who held his gaze only because she had nowhere else to look, then finally Cassian again. As if he was just realising where he was.

Cassian pushed from the seat and stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, laying his hand on Azriel’s. “You can ease up, Az. Everybody is safe, sound, and warm. Except for me since I had your damn cold feet on me all night,” he said, moving away from Azriel to smack the side of Arwen’s calf. Cassian straightened with a chuckle. “We’ll come home since you’re missing me so much.”

He started to gather his boots that Arwen had taken off him last night so she leant down to do the same. Azriel remained silent, almost swallowed by his shadows and did not offer Lucien an apology for barging into his home so early. Lucien didn’t seem keen on stepping into the light to demand one.

They head out the door, Arwen murmuring a low thank you to Lucien as she clutched the black box. Cassian leaned into her shoulder. “Sleep alright?” he asked her. She nodded mutely. He continued looking at her, the silent question etched into his skin when she glimpsed back at him.

Arwen parted her lips with a breath and glanced ahead where Azriel stalked onto the street. She hadn’t expected him to be there in her waking moments. Hadn’t, especially after her late-night confessions with Lucien, known what she would say if she saw him. The claws had dug themselves back into her, dragging her down into the depths she managed to clamber out of yesterday.

Cassian straightened and squeezed her shoulder. They took off into the sky and back home to the House of Wind. Cassian placed her down on the balcony but looked over his shoulder towards the city. “I need to see Rhys.”

“You haven’t had breakfast,” Arwen murmured disapprovingly.

Cassian, however, grinned at her. “I see I’ve been wearing off on you, and I’ll say the same back. Besides, I’ll eat the High Lord out of home before I go hungry.”

Azriel folded his arms beside her. “I’ll make sure she eats.”

Cassian nodded firmly, and with a beat of his wings, soon became a black blur against the grey plane of the sky. Arwen watched him until she couldn’t anymore. When she turned around, Azriel still stood waiting just feet away. They walked with an agreement of silence to the kitchens.

Arwen took an apple, munching away on it between the corner of two benches as the shadowsinger hunted down something more suitable for his appetite. As he heated the oats, he asked, “What’s in the box?”

Arwen untucked the arm that had been held to her stomach with the other, holding the silver-lined box of black. “Rhysand’s gift,” she answered.

He stirred the pot, the concentration in the action making his eyes thin. “You used to take more than a day to find something,” he mused. “I remember that you had him waiting an extra month once because you had to wait for a shipment to come in.”

She had spoken to the merchant at the very last minute and the silk Arwen wanted that year had already been sold so she had to wait for the merchant’s next return. But feeling the material in her hands had been well worth the wait. It was almost a shame she had it tailored into a shirt for him and not herself.

Arwen shrugged. “Took all day. Probably why we got caught in the storm.” In truth, she wasn’t even sure he would like it. It was only that pinch in her gut that she trusted.

“And why you had to stay at Vanserra’s.”

Her chewing slowed. “You don’t like him,” she said. Not a question. Was it because he was Elain’s mate? Elain showed no interest in the idea of that bond with the fire-head. But the scent of the mating bond would be strong enough for him to sniff out if they were near each other.

“I don’t see why you do,” he muttered.

“Because he’s a decent male,” Arwen proclaimed, her edging louder. Stronger. More defensive. “And I don’t think he minds me either.”

Azriel snarled lightly to the air, his face twisting in distaste. “You’ve met him four times.”

Her cheeks burned—with anger, frustration, or some sort of embarrassment, she didn’t know. “Yet I feel like I’ve had more intimate conversations in those four meetings than I ever have with you.” The words tumbled out her lips before a thought of reason could grapple them back into her throat. Azriel forgot about his meal, stiffening, and staring at her with something between fury, and like she had just slashed him across the face. Wounded.

The silence between them became long and painful. Just as Arwen began to feel like she was becoming a statue, Azriel snapped back to his cooking meal, shrouding his face from her. “He has a mate, you know.”

Her jaw inched open. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m very well aware of that fact. I’m also aware that his mate doesn’t seem to even want to acknowledge his existence and maybe he’s looking for someone to talk to.”

He pursed his lips tight together, the skin under the bottom one stretching as his tongue pushed from the inside. Cocking his head to the side, he said with a voice so flat that it was something belonging to a nightmare, “Maybe I have that in common with him then.”

Arwen’s hands dropped to her sides, her lips parting and closing. The pathetic argument, I’m talking to you now, came to her tongue, but unlike before, she smothered it back down. He had moved on from her—she had seen it. Had been there watching each day. It wasn’t fair for him to say that. “You didn’t have to come down,” she whispered, hearing the failing in her voice. “You ignored the bond for ten years, I’m sure you can resume doing so.”

The way he looked at her was so unexpected that something in her stomach dropped. He turned away from the pot, the planes of his handsome face that natural honed a sharpness now softened and... Weak.

“You haven’t realised, have you?”

The heaviness inside of her nearly pulled her to the floor and her fingers loosened around the apple and the box. Arwen was almost too scared to ask. “Realised what?” she croaked. 

“The bond, Arwen.” She could count on one hand how many times she had ever seen such a cracked expression upon him, but there it sat. Arwen felt his next words inside of her, but her mind refused to put them together into a coherent thought. Azriel placed a hand to his naval. “I still feel it, but it’s… Broken. It shattered the day you died, and it never came back.”

She couldn’t feel her face. That was the only thing reeling through her. I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my face.

“It hurts.” He frowned at the ground between them, each word struggling to form. “Every single day, I wake up and I have to prove to myself that you’re alive. When you didn’t come home yesterday… Y-you weren’t here when I woke up. I couldn’t smell you.”

Arwen searched inside of herself. She searched and searched. But there was no pain that he spoke of. There was no bond inside of her at all. 

“I feel like I’m fighting myself.”

Arwen turned around, placing the apple core on the bench but kept the box in her grip as she pushed the sides of her fist into the marble, bracing down with her weight. A blazing heat travelled up her spine. Her knees failed in their strength and she buckled slowly down to the floor. Keeping the box tucked to her stomach, Arwen curled in the shadow of the counter’s corner.

She scarcely discerned Azriel kneeling next to her.

“Arwen?” he whispered. Her name in his voice became a dagger’s tip to her heart.

“I-I…” The words refused to come. But she forced the strength, even if as she spoke, not every vowel and consonant made it to her ears. “I can’t feel it.” Her eyes shot away from the stained wood to the spymaster. “Bath,” she mumbled with a slight hoarse in her throat.

The confusion crossed his sculptured face but she didn’t bother to explain. Searching into the depths of herself, Arwen pushed back to her feet, clutching the countertop until she found steadiness. Azriel rose with her, her boundary of touch remaining unbroken.

She didn’t know how it happened, or how it long it had been, but she awoke from her own trance as she submerged into her bathtub. The water was clear, no lathers or oils added this time. It engulfed her—gave her something to feel when a piece of her was now missing. It kept her safe.

Arwen still wore her underthings, which were plain as could be since she had been more attentive to her choice of outerwear yesterday.

Azriel crouched next to the tub, turning the golden faucet off near her feet. She couldn’t help but stare at him. Couldn’t help but search again. After all this time, she hadn’t noticed it’s disappearance. It had been gone through her half-death, but that she had expected. Then on her return, everything felt heavier and harder and… And she missed it.

For so long she had wanted it gone. Wished that the Mother hadn’t fated her to a male that did not wish to be hers. Yet she still grew to cherish it and in the short time they had together… Now it was gone, and perhaps it would never come back.

Azriel leant against the edge of the tub, letting one hand dangle in. Two of his longest fingers teased the water, forming small ripples along the surface. “Do you wish for me to leave?”

Arwen stared at his fingers. And though she didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything, he understood her answer. Azriel turned his back to the wall, leaving his arm to dangle with now all fingers but his thumb breaching the water as he sat. She leant her head against the bath’s curved lip.

It was hard to pull her thoughts apart. It was hard to understand whether she should be elated at the discovery. The emptiness inside of her, however, could never be something celebrated. It reminded her of the prison—the unfeeling. The loneliness.

Her eyes inched towards him, observing his dark shadow in the corner of her eyes. “Why are you here?”

Arwen had been certain he would ignore the bond. That he had moved on and wouldn’t be prepared to have her back in his life. That he would turn more to Elain in a silent declaration of his interest and pursuit of affection. But the bond was gone, and he was here. He had always been there.

Azriel chewed on his tongue, staring intently at the counter opposite him. A shadow slipped from between his finger, moving through the bathwater like spilt ink. “Because I want to be,” he said. “Because I need to be.”

Arwen frowned, eyes moving permanently back down to his fingers. “Because you need to… Smell me?” she murmured in question, recalling his earlier declaration.

“Yes,” he said. “It helps calm me. But you didn’t give up on me.” Arwen couldn’t drag her eyes away from the scarred hand, shadow and water mingling around it. But she listened. “Not even after ten years. Now it’s my turn.”

He wasn’t giving up on her. What did that even mean?

It was a question she knew even then that she would in long debate of. That she would spend nights wondering to what context and extent those words stretched to. But it loosened a piece inside of her. The tiny bite of her heart that she had refused him before.

Arwen’s hand moved under the water, rising through the pooling shadow until her fingertips brushed his. They repeated the motion, testing each way it made her feel. He kept his hand there, allowing her every authority of control. She hooked her fingers over his, letting the water take most of her weight, and looked to the tiled wall.

Chapter Text

Chapter 64

Arwen contemplated for an entire day. When Cassian proposed the idea, she had straight-up refused. She could already picture how it would go. He had given her until the sun reached the horizon to think by herself—to work up the courage and convince herself one way or the other.

So now she stood on one of the House’s balconies, dressed in a simple white dress that she knew was once Morrigan’s and waited for Cassian to take her down to the town house for a dinner party. Just the Inner Circle, he had promised, with the inclusion of Feyre’s two sisters—if they deigned to join.

The idea of being around them all, being around two people she had yet to formally meet—Arwen couldn’t begin to imagine what it would feel like. Would they expect her to speak, or would she be allowed to slip among Azriel’s shadows? Did she even want to remain unnoticed? After so long of being stuck unheard and unseen, perhaps she could be the night’s entertainment.

But the urge didn’t arouse itself. Not in the ferocious, consuming way it had on that day she pulled the sitting room apart and abused her brother’s chest. Since then, that fiery anger had weaned. It still existed, but not in a way that it shrouded everything else.

Cassian appeared from behind the glass door, Azriel on his heels. They were both dressed smart—not in their leathers, but draped in dark, fitted fabrics. Cassian’s hair even looked somewhat tamed, half pulled into a tie at the crown of his head. Azriel, she found, looked remarkably handsome. Still on each of their hands were the siphon-embedded gauntlets.

“You said this wouldn’t be formal,” she demurred to the general, pinching the side seam of her dress. It wasn’t the dress that was anything terrible, but her hair was flat and her skin wasn’t in its best condition. She could have done with some kohl around her eyes and some colour to her cheeks.

“It’s not,” he said through a click of his tongue. “But we haven’t had the chance to play dress up in a while.”

Azriel gave a sidelong glance to his brother. “And he has someone he wants to impress.”

Arwen frowned in confusion as Cassian sent him a light scowl, before realising that Nesta Archeron may be present that night. Arwen has her suspicions, but she avoided attempting to confirm them. Nesta had saved Cassian’s life, but it didn’t blur the rest of her treatment towards Arwen’s closest friend.

“You’re no less overdressed than I am,” Cassian barked back.

Azriel, as smooth as a silk, replied: “I’m not pretending to hide my reason.” At the end of his words, his eyes slid to her.

Arwen let her thoughts rise to her face, but dared not speak them aloud. She looked back down to the city, spying the outline of the town house far below. She wrung her fingers at her stomach. Cassian stepped up to her side, bracing his hands on the ivory railing.

“We can leave tonight at any moment,” he told her quietly. “Just give me the signal.”

Arwen nodded but knew by this point that she would refuse to use the offer. She was going, and she would stay the entire night. With her mouth dry and her stomach unsettled, she selected to wrap her arms around his neck in an urge for them to leave rather than voice her readiness. She heard Cassian grunt something of a short laugh and lift her off the ground.

Her eyes caught Azriel’s over the general’s shoulder. He smiled at her—the movement tight, and made for her benefit, she noted.

Soon they were in the air. Cassian didn’t take his time flying this time, perhaps cautious that too much delay would offer her the chance to change her mind. He informed her that Lucien was invited, but had declined on the point that he and Elain had a recent interaction that had not ended well for either of them. Part of Arwen was upset that he wouldn’t be there, but a greater part happier to know that she wouldn’t have to sit in the middle of that tension.

They landed feet away from the door of the town house.

Arwen looked upon the door. It hadn’t been long since she had been inside of it. She knew every inch, where there would be small piles of dust behind forgotten pieces of furniture and ornaments. Where the painting was that was always crooked. Rhysand would fix it at least once a week, growing more infuriated that it wouldn’t remain straight, only for Cassian to sneak along and tilt it once more in full awareness of the agony it caused his High Lord.

But this would be the first time she would enter alive again. It was almost poetic that it was Cassian that had flown her here, just as last time.

She wondered if she needed to knock.

Arwen took the lead since the two males remained at her either side and strode towards the door. Her fingers curled into a fist at her side in preparation to tap against the wood, but upon reaching the threshold, they curled around the handle instead. It was once her home—was it still now?

She had planned to leave once. Had her bag packed and the plan formulated in her mind to go to Amren’s.

Arwen twisted the knob, hearing the chatter from inside. The door swung open, welcoming her with the faintest of creaks. The voices become louder, even through the remaining foyer door. A shiver trilled down her spine, having forgone her coat as her mind knew the town house would be heated. Diluted light scattered across the fogged glass of the foyer door. She pushed beyond it.

The rug she had died on was long gone.

“Fashionably late,” Mor drawled.

Arwen and her accompanying Illyrians moved into the dining room. Feyre had seated near the head of the table, but the rest of the party remained standing. Rhys had his hands braced against the spine of the head chair, half bent over it. Mor stood closest to the entrance, a full glass of wine in her hand. No Amren. No Nesta. But Elain stood between the table and the far wall. The quieter Archeron girl was draped in a lavender gown with a broach of emerald pinned above her right breast. Arwen didn’t miss how Elain’s eyes went straight to Azriel.

The pang of hollowness struck through her again. Broken. The bond was broken for Azriel. And gone for her. The one freedom she hadn’t begged for in all those years of solitude. But the utter pain it caused to see Elain’s shoulders soften at the sight of the shadowsinger had Arwen wondering if the bond was indeed entirely gone, for she could not feel such agony without it.

Then Elain’s eyes met hers and the torment turned to cold fire. Arwen knew her face held no warmth, nor did she even put the effort to fake a smile that she had once been so perfectly trained to do. It didn’t matter if this girl liked her.

Elain shifted, glancing across to Feyre but it was Rhysand who manoeuvred his way towards Arwen. “Elain,” he said with a gentle smile, “I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Arwen. Arwen, this is Feyre’s sister Elain.”

Arwen didn’t deign to speak first so after an awkward pause, Elain said, “It’s easy to see the resemblance.” The strain on the words confirmed that Elain knew of Arwen’s once status as Azriel’s mate. Even now those doe-like eyes flickered over Arwen’s shoulder towards him.

A hand—Cassian—on her back gave her the urge to speak. “It’s nice to meet you.” Firm, and though not unkind but trained ears could hear her displeasure. She hoped they’d hear it—hoped they pull the female in front of her away.

Elain glanced to Rhysand, though she seemed just as uncertain of him as she was of Arwen. Rhysand, who either read her tone or the room, made a gesture for Elain to return to her spot and slipped in front of Arwen to replace her, sitting against the lip of the table. “I’m glad you came,” he murmured. Words that were meant for none other than her, but still sure to be heard.

Arwen nodded and looked down at her wrung hands. Cassian and Azriel moved out from behind her, the former taking a position next to Mor and opposite Elain, Azriel on his other side. It left the seat opposite Feyre open for Arwen. “You don’t have to invite me to these things,” she whispered. “I know that… I know that I’m not the most welcomed company.”

“No.” Rhysand shook his head, bowing it until his gaze could meet hers and draw it up. “No, that’s not what I think at all. What any of us think. There’s nothing more I want tonight, than for you to be here.”

A smile that she couldn’t help inched at her lips. “Even more than Nuala’s lemon tarts?”

He laughed, the sound of silky night. It was such a paradox to their last meeting. No pounding fists or throat-tearing screams. Laughs and smiles, however little they were. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Even more than those delectable treats.”

Well, that certainly was a raging compliment.

Rhysand led her to her seat, untucking it from the table to let her slip in before he took his own at the head of the table. His hand breezed over the back of his shoulders as he moved. Arwen couldn’t decide if she liked the arrangement or not.

Their food soon appeared, each plate already perfectly filled with a fine cut of meat, drizzled in a warm, creamy sauce.

“I heard you and Cassian got caught in that snowstorm.” Arwen looked up to find Feyre smiling at her. “Where did you end up taking refuge?”

“Lucien’s,” she answered, cutting into her meal. It hung in the air for a moment before Cassian added to it.

“You had a sweet little time, didn’t you?” he crooned from Mor’s other side. “Playing card games and drinking.”

Arwen caught Rhysand’s soft smile directed at her, a slight furrow in his brows betraying the question behind it. “I seem to remember you doing the same thing,” she murmured, eyes set on her plate. “Then practically falling asleep on me.”

“You have good cushioning.”

Her eyes thinned into a glare, but he was too shrouded behind Mor for it to be seen and dropped it. But Rhysand did lean back in his chair and give a slight warning cock of his head towards his general.

Feyre sipped at her wine. “Lucien can be a fine companion to have around,” she told Arwen. “If you’re in his good graces, that is.”

“I know,” Arwen snapped. “I’ve known him far longer than you have.”

Red rose to Feyre’s cheeks as she stammered to answer, then decided to take another drink instead. It probably wasn’t fair on Arwen’s part—technically Feyre had spent more time with Lucien than she had. But it was just that people continued to forget she existed before. That she had a life. This wasn’t some introduction to their home life—this was her home.

A claw gently scrapped at her mind’s constant defence. She let him in just enough to convey her pang of regret before shutting him back out. It wasn’t Feyre’s fault. At Feyre’s smile to Rhys, and then to her, she knew it was shared and the moment forgiven.

Straightening her spine, Arwen looked across the table to Elain. “You haven’t spent much time with him.” Elain’s already pale skin turned ghostly, and Arwen felt the thickening of the air from across the entire table. “He is your mate after all.”

The face that was an image of supple beauty—not at all like Arwen’s harsh features—turned down to her plate as she said. “He is nothing to me.”

Arwen ignored the glances that shifted between warning and cautious curiosity. Mor’s hand moved towards her under the table, but a second thought held it in a hover. “Because you haven’t given him a chance, or yourself.”

Elain’s knuckles whitened around her cutlery and Arwen was mildly impressed when eyes finally met hers. “I owe him nothing.”

“That’s not what I said,” Arwen replied bluntly. “But you owe it to yourself. A mate is a bond that is for life and you will be connected to him until you die. Perhaps you would not be happy with him, but how will you ever know that if you do not offer it a chance?” Until you die. To those words exactly.

“And I see that you are so close to your mate.” The light, flowery tone did little to mask the sharpness of the words. Elain looked to Azriel, then back to Arwen. “Perhaps that shows that they are not always perfect matches. I have no interest in mine and you have no interest in yours.”

Arwen loathed the idea of letting Elain have the last word, but her tongue became lead and her mind emptied. She didn’t dare look at Azriel. Perhaps at her efforts, the dinner only lasted another half an hour before their plates were scraped clean and wine glasses were left unfilled. Elain left swiftly to the upstairs rooms.

Arwen took her time to migrate into the sitting room. Feyre, Rhysand, and Cassian shared the main lounge, Mor and Azriel each taking to an armchair. Arwen paused at the perimeter of the seats. Azriel’s hazel eyes swerved to her. And then left just as fast. Part of her was content to stand there—it is what she had done for the past two hundred odd years. Stand there. Watch them talk and drink and play. It became easier to tune it all out, to let her mind wander. Where she could not dream, she learnt to walk within her mind awake.

Arwen couldn’t get Elain’s face out of her head. Her elegant beauty no doubt would turn heads in every city. The way her face lit upon seeing Azriel. The way Azriel had given her Truth-Teller that was currently strapped to his thigh, as it always should be. The way Azriel just avoided her gaze.

Heat burnt the tips of her pointed ears, the hearth’s flames drying her eyes as her thoughts became waves in the surge of a storm.

A graze on her hand shattered them. Rhysand had risen from his chosen seat, one hand lightly holding the ends of her fingers, the other extended towards the empty spot. Arwen looked between it all, attempting to discern what she had missed.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” he asked.

Giving a tight shake of her head, she took the three steps towards it and fell onto the lounge between Feyre and the armrest. Her brother perched atop of it, folding a leg under the opposite knee.

“We were just saying how… interesting the night has been,” Mor divulged, a spark in her eye.

Arwen anticipated the reprimand now that Elain had left, but it did not come. Looking to Azriel again, she waited to see if he would look at her. No. “The food was nice,” was all she could murmur. The meat’s sauce—it had once been her favourite. A special recipe by Sven that Rhysand had convinced her to give to him.

“Perhaps it was best that Nesta didn’t show herself,” Cassian replied in the silence. “As entertaining as that was.” Mor scolded him. Cassian threw his shoulders to his ears in dismissal. “I love it when Arwen’s feisty.”

“I wasn’t intending to be rude,” she whispered, but it seemed to go unheard. And she wasn’t—it was just… Hard to keep her mouth shut. “And it was hardly feisty.”

Rhysand leant himself forward to speak directly to Cassian rather than over Arwen and Mor’s heads, but the tilt of his body lifted the heel of his boot. It caught on the leg of a mahogany side table, its contents rattling. He cursed as the empty vase dangerously tipped, reaching out to grab it.

Arwen flinched at the shattering glass next to her. Rhysand hissed and cursed again. Her eyes drew to his hand that he held open near his stomach. Her brother was too busy glaring at the now broken vase, the shards of glass scattered across both the table and floor. But Arwen saw the thick beads of red that began to pool from the deep cut. It soon turned to a constant stream, a dark line curving to the underside of his hand where beads dropped to his pants. 

“We may have a drunkard for a High Lord,” Mor said with a crooked smirk.

Rhysand snarled something else, but Arwen didn’t hear it. Her heart was in her ears and throat, the latter which had swelled painfully close. She snatched the wrist of his injured hand, the movement catching them both off guard. He looked away from the mess to her, unspeaking and attentive.

Arwen opened her mouth, but nothing came so she stood and pulled him out of the sitting room. There was no resistance from him. Leading him to the washroom, Arwen pushed him in front of the bath and then pressed on his shoulders until he sat on its edge. Silently still, she searched the draws of the vanity for their scraps of medical supplies.

Seeing what she took out, Rhysand smiled and said, “It is just a scratch. It’ll probably heal by morning.”

Arwen stopped moving, staring at the collection of materials she had rummaged out. But she couldn’t stop. He was hurt. Rhysand was hurting and she was going to do something about it. “I know,” she croaked and turned on the sink. Pulling on his arm, she guided the cut underneath the running water to clear it, very much aware that he was looking at her rather than the wound. “Please just let me.” When the water ran clean, she pressed a clean cloth to the deep cut and kept a steady pressure on it.

He sought out her eyes. “Is… Are you trying to apologise for the other day?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Good.” His eyes were alight tonight, the darkness that usually cloaked him nowhere to be found. Perhaps that was for Elain’s sake. “I was going to tell you not to bother.”

For fifty years she had watched him be in pain. Constant and draining, with no escape. And Arwen had to stand there. She had tried to do something—had attempted to break the barrier again and choke Amarantha as she lay soundlessly asleep next to her brother, a pleased smile taking to her lips even in slumber. Had tried to pull the knife in Rhysand’s leg sheathe free because he couldn’t use it against her. Had tried to stand between them when Amarantha forced herself upon him. Nothing ever worked. Then a young human girl came along and did everything that Arwen couldn’t.

When the bleeding stopped, Arwen patted his skin dry and retrieved the jar of white cream. Using her thumb, she lathered the antiseptic across the length of his palm, unable to ignore the sting of tears.

Rhysand let out a breath that might have been a chuckle but left unformed. “You’re acting like this is going to kill me.”

Sniffing hard, she said, “Well there’s no other High Lords around to bring you back from the dead so I’m not taking any chances.”

“Considering I’m one of four people in this city that have returned from the dead, I’d say my chances are remarkably positive,” he sang, holding his hand in the air as she reached for a bandage. It was deep, but as he had said, it would probably be already scarring by morning. Even the scar would fade within a week. “Apparently, we don’t need all the High Lords and my High Lady’s power. You didn’t.”

Arwen shrugged. “Neither did Amren. You brought us both back.”

“I brought Amren back through the Cauldron. You were different.” He tilted his head, a shadow passing over half his face from her own form blocking the light. “Do you remember?”

She shook her head. A lie.

“Do you remember anything?”

She shook her head again. Another lie.

Tucking the end of the bandage in, Arwen took the escape to turn around and press the side of her thumb to her eyes to plug the tears. Her hands were trembling. Rhysand whispered her name, a soft hand on her elbow turning her back around.

He sat there with her, just watching as Arwen worked through the emotions that rampaged her head. Somehow he knew that was what she needed. When the last tear had fallen, they said nothing as she made the lead to join the others, but her feet stuck to the floor in the hallway.

The oakwood door to her bedroom was just down the hall, on the left hand side, closed.

“It’s empty.”

She jolted. “What?”

He inclined his head towards the room. “Your bedroom. It’s cleaned out, but I never let anybody occupy it. It will always be yours.”

She knew that it had been emptied not a year after her death but hadn’t realised that no one else had been inside after all this time. A raw delight swelled inside of her—a small peace of mind she could have it at any time. “Thank you, but Cassian is taking me home tonight.”

“I know. I just wanted you to know that it was there if you ever needed to escape the House.”

Thundering footsteps clapped against the staircase.

It was Nesta that emerged from below. Arwen hadn’t even heard her go down. The cold female stared at Arwen as she strode across the hall, a slight sneer set on her lips but one that Arwen didn’t feel was for her. Rhysand shifted to stand just in front of her, giving a slight tilt in his head towards the Nesta. A warning. A greeting. Both?

Arwen and Rhysand returned downstairs, the latter already informing Feyre that he had been pampered for the small wound. Azriel was near invisible within his shadows and Cassian was in the middle of snarling off at something Mor said. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause.

“Home?” the general prompted gruffly.

Arwen nodded and he practically leapt from his seat, stalking from the sitting room. Arwen looked across the sitting room again. “Goodnight,” she said and did not wait for their answers before scuttling along after her friend.

Cassian’s grip was tight, near painful, and barely gave her a second to secure her hold before they were in the air.

Chapter Text

Chapter 65

Cassian was gentle in placing her down on the balcony, but that was the only moment of tenderness to be seen from him. His wings were tight to his back, stiff shoulders hardly moving with each stride that led him inside. Arwen pinched the skirt of her dress and hurried after him.

It took a moment of jogging to reach his side and even then she required a longer than usual gait to keep at his pace. “Cass?” she called softly. He didn’t answer but a head tilt and a glance that didn’t quite make it to her signalled that he at least listened. “Cassian, please talk to me.”

“Not in the mood for talking, princess,” he grumbled.

She caught his hand and had to dig her heels into the marble floor to hold against his build and determined nature. He only stopped as their arms both reached full tautness. “Then let me talk,” she said. He stared at her, then at the wall to the side. “What do you need?”

He tightened his lips and swallowed hard. “It’s nothing,” he answered, a purposeful gentleness honing the words. Blanketing what he felt beneath. “I don’t need anything but a good sleep.”

Arwen risked a step forward, hoping the slacking of their arms wouldn’t give him the opportunity to move away. But he remained in place, so she took another. “It was Nesta, wasn’t it?” The flare in his nose answered. “What did she say to you?”

“Something that shouldn’t piss me off but somehow did.” The muscles of his jaw rippled. “I don’t know how she manages it.”

A wrinkle formed between her brows as she examined him again. “Would you like to work it out?” she asked. “Train, I mean. I know it's late, but we could take up some torches.”

“Train?” he echoed. “You and me?”

Arwen nodded. “We could get into one of the fighting rings if you want. Punch it all out.” She hadn’t been in the training ring for such a long time that she would be lying if she said the idea didn’t make her nervous. But her feelings didn’t matter when it came to helping him. If that’s what he needed, Arwen would make it happen.

His lips careened into a smile that she knew was for her sake yet it made her feel like a child who had just naively asked for the impossible. “I appreciate the offer, sweetheart. But you wouldn’t take one hit with the way I need to punch right now.”

She sized herself up. “I could. Let me help you.”

Cassian sighed and turned to face her fully. He pulled his hand from hers then settled both around her waist, the curve of his thumb to indexes measuring its width. The flame of determination in her flickered, but did not extinguish. His warm hands slid up either side of her rib cage, pointedly marking each one with his thumb that could easily be felt through her skin. Then they cupped each arm, encircling the flesh, stroking his hands down as he lifted them between their bodies.

“If you want to train,” he whispered, “I will train you every single day until you could face the Blood Rite like it was a training course. But you have to eat more than you are. I know my own strength and I refuse to put us into that position tonight.”

Arwen let out a sharp breath of despair. It returned again—the feeling of uselessness. Only this time, it wasn’t something beyond her that kept her from helping. It was her own inability. “Can I do something else, then?” she pressed. “I can bake you brownies?”

Cassian gave a sharp chuckle, the bitterness still seeping through it. “You don’t need to do anything.”

She bounced on the balls of her feet. “I do,” she whispered feverishly. “I do, Cass because you’ve done nothing but be here for me. I don’t want to be a burden.”

Louder, sterner, he said, “You are not a burden, Arwen.” His hands lifted to clasp either side of her face and the distance between them shortened. “It has been my absolute honour to be at your side. In the years gone and those to come.”

Arwen held his forearms in return. “Then let me share the sentiment. Please.”

She felt the brush of his sigh against her hairline, his thumbs making idle strokes against her cheekbones as he took the moment to think. “I suppose I could use a drink,” he murmured.

“I’ll get you a drink if you get a fire going in the sitting room,” she bargained. At his agreeance, Arwen swiftly veered herself into the nearest cellar and poured him a glass of his favourite wine, but kept the bottle in hand as she sought out the closest sitting room.

Cassian knelt in front of the hearth, stoking the fire which was just beginning to eat at the wood. The rest of the sitting room was unlit, leaving the room in a soft darkness. Handing him the glass and placing the bottle aside, she dragged over pillows and piled them on the floor in front of the flames, then tossed a throw blanket to soften the carpeted ground. Only then did she kick off her heels and sink into the makeshift arrangement, sitting at a generous recline with the pillow’s support. Cassian soon joined her, staring languidly at the fire.

Their settling was followed by a long silence, a void that neither was eager to fill.

Arwen blinked warily. “I’m trying,” she said quietly. Cassian arched a brow, half-turning his head away from the hearth. “To eat,” she clarified. “It’s just hard to some days. My body doesn’t want it.” She didn’t want him to feel like his efforts were in vain—that she did hear him, did listen and try.

“I know you do. You had quite a bit at dinner—nearly ate all of it.”

Her head lopped to her shoulder, a huff of amusement escaping her. “I was attempting to speed up the night. Apparently, I’ve lost all my diplomatic skill.”

“Elain wasn’t exactly that welcoming of you either,” he offered.

Arwen interlaced her fingers over her knee. “No surprises there. She could barely take her eyes off him all night.” Cassian tightened his lips, sealing whatever struck his mind behind them. Dropping her shoulders, she nudged his. “I know, Cass. I know that they grew close. I can’t exactly blame any of them, but…” Arwen stared at the fire for a moment before peeling them away to meet the hazels. “But it still hurts to know.”

“Well, whatever it was, won’t matter.” Shadows and light danced across his face. “You have something with him that she never will.”

Her lips tightened, an emptiness settling once more in her stomach. The expression crossing her face betrayed enough that Cassian frowned at her. “No,” Arwen whispered. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

“You mean…” His voice had turned hoarse.

Shrugging, she wiped pre-emptively at her cheeks for the tears that had yet to fall. An echo of the ones she had let come in the days before. “It’s broken for him. Like I’m still dead. And I feel nothing. No bond, no shattered remains of it.”

Arwen listened to the long inhale he took and watched his slow blinks as his eyes shifted towards the darkness beyond her. “Fuck,” he uttered, lips barely moving. She mouthed an agreement. “How…. How are you taking that?”

“How am I supposed to?” she shot back, letting her head fall against the pillows to look to the ceiling. She didn’t need some service repayment for her efforts all those years ago. Not some affection out of debt that he felt. Shaking those thoughts, Arwen turned onto her side. “Enough of me, I’m here for you. What happened back there?”

His mouth drew open, and from it came a deep laugh. Short but warm and true. Small wrinkles formed at the corners of Cassian’s eyes as he faced the fire first then her. “I can’t tell you now.”

Hooking a hand over his shoulder, she leant in closer. “No, you have to.” Despite the even smile, there were still remnants of what was beneath it. He shook his head. “Cass, please. It clearly upset you.”

“And now I feel a little pathetic,” he drawled, taking a long swig of his wine. “I told you it’s nothing. I’m not upset about it anymore.”

She poked his cheek. “Then you can tell me.”

He shook his head, but she saw the wear of her argument. A long sigh filled in the short silence before he spoke. “She insulted my hair,” he declared in a single breath through bared teeth.

Arwen cocked her head, lips parting. Her eyes traced along the landscape of his face then to his dark locks. “Your hair?” she murmured in a haze of confusion before the amusement hit her. Her lips curled into a smile that Arwen adamantly attempted to smother. A General Commander of one of the most fearsome armies, insulted by a comment on his hair.

Cassian snarled to the air as she pushed her mouth into the end of his shoulder to hide it. “I told you, it’s pathetic. I don’t care what she thinks about my hair, but she just knows how to piss me off at every exact moment. We haven’t even talked in… In weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, lifting her mouth as the grin refused to waver anyway. “I shouldn’t be…” Laughing? She wasn’t laughing. Moving her line of thought on and pushing herself up straighter, she told him, “If it’s any consolation, I love your hair.”

A dark brow arched to her. “Is that so?” he hummed, humouring them both.

Arwen nodded and rested her weight against one arm so the other could reach up to his face. She raked the tips of her fingers through the strands that had been pulled into the tie, letting her fingertips scrape against his scalp. He smiled curiously down at her, blinking in rhythm with each stroke. “It adds to your charm.”

His smile tipped higher on one side. “And what charm would that be?”

Her eyes squinted with her grin and she shook her head. “You can’t trick me into flattering you.”

He laughed, letting his head drop against the pillows. The sound ebbed naturally, and he let his fingertips trace the length of her spine. “Is it so terrible to want it from you?” he asked. “I can flatter you right back.”

Arwen shook her head again to hide her growing amusement. Her eyes found their way back to his hair where her fingers twisted around a loose strand just behind his ear. “Sometimes when you would be sleeping, I would make small braids.”

His lips shot into a grin. “I wasn’t asleep.” Arwen bowed her head as heat prickled at her cheeks, much to his mirth as a deep laugh followed. “You always thought you were so sly.”

Burying her face in the front of his clothed shoulder, she let out a muffled moan as he continued to laugh. His own fingers clawed their way up through the nape of her neck, through her loose hair, offering a small massage in consolation. When Arwen finally brought herself to lift her head, she found him with a gaze set on her that held none of the bitterness of before. Taking the victory of her efforts, she turned her head to rest her cheek on the muscle just under his collarbone, dropping her hand from the side of his head to his chest. Her fingers made idle strokes to trace the tattoo that she knew was underneath his clothes, stretching from his far pectoral to his shoulder.

“Do you think Rhys messed with Feyre’s mind?”

She felt his small jolt underneath her. “What?” he uttered, if a bit defensive of his High Lord and Lady.

Arwen smiled and gave a loose shrug. “Azriel and I are anything but perfect. Lucien and Elain could barely say one thing about each other. My mother and father were hardly in a healthy relationship.” She avoided speaking any assumptions of Cassian’s situation. “I’m not sure I even know of any mates that are happily together except for them. And they’re grossly perfect which leads me to assume he’s turned her mind to mush.”

His chest rattled with another chuckle, reading her derisive tone. But it was softer, because what she said was true—not about her brother and Feyre, but the rest. And if Arwen was right, he would be adding himself to that list. Cassian blew his lips out as his hand dropped from her hair to the small of her back. “Kallias and Viviane are happy from what I hear. They’re mates.”

“Damn.”

Her eyes closed as his gave the crown of her head a kiss. They remained closed, her mind even wandering to contemplate the idea of falling asleep where she was rather than going back to her empty room. A hand lay on her wrist that had stopped to rest on his chest. Cassian grasped it lightly, but the focus went to his thumb. It rubbed gently over the scarring that looked like dozens of hot wires had been wrapped around it. Arwen’s arm clenched, a knee-jerk instinct to pull away. But she held that impulse and instead of an ache seizing her heart, it became a new tether. A soothing link between them and proof that it was real. That she was there.

His shirt wrinkled under her fisted fingers, a silent plea for time to stand still.      

His chest lifted with a deep breath, lulling her eyes back open. “It still feels like a dream sometimes,” he said. “That you’re here.” 

“It does for me too,” she replied, staring at the tethering of their hands. Under her palm, each thud of his heartbeat was a constant promise.

Cassian moved his hand up from her wrist, smoothing his palm over the back of her hand. “A good dream?”

Arwen didn’t answer.

The hand still at the small of her back crept higher until he was curling hair away from the side of her face and hooking it behind her ear.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Arwen tilted her head up until she could look him directly in the eye. He was still awaiting her response. “I… I don’t think I would have made it this far without you.” Her eyes dropped back down to her wrist and the weight of his gaze followed. “And I don’t think I could ever thank you enough for that.”

The hand over hers squeezed as she tipped her head back up. Cassian’s hazel eyes shone with a watery reflection of the fire, glints of moonlight between. Placing her other hand against the floor, Arwen pushed herself up higher and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. Lingering there for a moment, she tried to convey her every ounce of gratitude. Every ounce of affection for him she held.

Sinking back down, a serene quietness encapsulated the room. Arwen settled her cheek back down on his chest. Cassian said nothing, but with his fingers, trailed them first along the line of her jaw, then the backs of them repetitively against her cheek. And finally, his palm shrouded away the rest of the world as the pad of his thumb stroked down the bridge of her nose, dipping down to her lips where he pulled gently at their slight pout before restarting at the top of her nose. Over and over again.

“Sweetheart?”

Near asleep, she could only hum in response.

“Is the offer of baking some brownies still on the table for tomorrow?”

A smile stretched over her cheeks and she nodded against his chest. Anything he wanted. Pulling her knee up, she rested it over his thigh and curled her leg around his, intending to stay in the exact position the entire night.  

Chapter Text

Chapter 66

Arwen placed a steaming tea down on the table. Rhysand perked up from where he had held his head in his hand, looking between her and the mug. “Thank you,” he said through a hoarse chuckle that told her he knew he needed it as much as she assumed. She nodded and moved around him.

Cassian and Amren sat on the opposite side of the table, amidst an argument that Rhysand had drawn himself out of.

“Where’s Azriel and Mor?” she asked, sliding a plate of sliced fruit across the table.

Rhysand rapped his knuckles against the wood. “Mor went to Hewn City this morning. Azriel… left too. To the mortal lands I think.”

“You think?” Arwen frowned and took the seat next to him. “You don’t know where your spymaster is?”

After a long sip of his tea, her brother muttered, “He didn’t deign to inform me. Went in the middle of the night and left a note.”

Curious and concerning information. “What are you doing today?”

“I am going to pay Helion a visit. Feyre is coming with me,” he said. “He’s got some books that I want to have a look at.”

“Books?” she echoed. “Don’t you have other things to attend to?”

Rhysand looked into his cup with a small laugh. “No, it’s important that I find them. If they exist.”

Arwen remained seated in silence, her thoughts travelling far from Velaris.

~

A week passed and Rhysand’s birthday rolled around. Arwen sat on the edge of her bed, dressed, and with the black box in hand. Azriel still had not returned. The morning sun still welcomed her through her drapes, leaving honeyed marks along her floor. Soon Cassian knocked at her door. The skirt of her emerald dress swept between her near bare feet, which were clad in strapped sandals.

Greeting Cassian with a smile, Arwen slipped her hand into his and they headed out to the balcony before taking flight over the city. Landing before the town house, Arwen made a small screech as he attempted to place her down on the snowy cobblestone road.

“Why the fuck would you wear those shoes in winter then?” he grumbled, exaggerating a grunt as he lifted her back up.

She hmphed. “Aesthetic.”

Dumping her at the small step before the door and sending her a look of disbelief, he rapped on the front door. It was Mor that greeted them, dressed in a sweater and pants. Arwen smiled at her and entered first.

Rhysand stood in the common sitting room with Feyre under his arm, both smiling softly as they talked with Azriel who stood in front of them. Arwen paused in the threshold at the sight of him, her heart beating twice in one second. Leather still clad his toned body, the two siphons on either hand dull like they had been recently exhausted.

Heads didn’t turn until Cassian trailed in behind her, his footsteps resounding. He immediately headed to Rhys, bringing him into a brotherly hug. Arwen remain on the threshold even as Mor passed her to drag Feyre away from the males and into conversation. Looking down at the box, she fiddled with the silver ribbon, second-guessing her choice.

When Rhysand’s voice died out, her eyes drew up. Cassian had turned to Azriel, their conversation falling quiet but civil. Rhysand sauntered across the sitting room and Arwen straightened. His lips moved into a soft smile, hands delving deep into the pockets of his pants as he twisted into the hallway. She turned with him.

He looked down at her hands. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Do you not know me at all?” she sang quietly. Rhysand chuckled. Tightening her lips, she offered him the present while they were in the solitude of the empty hall. “Happy birthday, Rhys.”

He took the box and pried the ribbon off under her watchful gaze. Peeling off the lid, he peered down curiously at the contraption. It was a black band about the width of two fingers, made to sit on his wrist. “You’re going to have to tell me what this is.”

Arwen smiled to herself. She pulled it from the box, tossing the box to the side where it disappeared on account of her magic. Pulling out his hand to hover between them, she placed it on his wrist and fitted it to his size. “It’s like a sand timer of sorts,” she told him. “I know you always get lost in your own world when you work so I thought that this might help.” Thumbing the indiscrete silver dial on the side, she pushed it forward until two clicks came. “Each click is an hour. When that time is up, it’s been enchanted to heat and remind to take a break.”

Rhysand hadn’t taken his eyes off of her the entire time but Arwen knew that he listened to every word. “It’s an amazing gift, but admittedly not the best I’ve been given this year.”

Well if that wasn’t a small punch to the gut. Arwen blinked. “I’m sorry it didn’t live up to the standard,” she said, sealing her shock behind a flat voice.

“It is a high standard,” he continued. “It’s one of a kind and I’d been wanting it for so long that it was driving me crazy to not have it with me. I used to have one, but I lost her.” A tremble went up her spine. Her, he was talking about her. “I think that was the worst day of my life.”

Her cheek ached where she bit the inside of it, eyes turning glossy. Arwen thought of his time Under the Mountain, Feyre dying, the war. “I’m sure there’s been worse,” she croaked, unable to meet the eyes that were a mirror of hers.

“There were bad days,” he agreed. “Days that if I didn’t have a family and an entire court relying on me, I don’t know if I would be here. But I will never forgive myself for what I said to you that day. For not listening to you. The cost was your life. If I had known you would be waiting for me in death, waiting for me to bring you back, I would have taken a knife to my chest the minute after your heart stopped.”

Hot tears rolled down her face and Arwen struggled to withhold the quivering of her lungs. Using the hard part of her palm, she wiped roughly at her cheeks. “That would have been stupid, Rhysand,” she said, her voice scratchy. “We would have both been dead with no way back.”

“Semantics,” he whispered.

She let out a blubbering sound that might have become a laugh under other circumstances. Well aware of listening ears only a room over, Arwen forced her composure, rounding off her shoulders. Looking at her brother, she saw everything she had missed. Every part of him that she had wanted to see. Her arms rose from her sides and she rose to her toes.

Rhysand’s face shifted in those few seconds of movement. His shoulders seized up, his back lengthening. But as soon as her arms latched around his neck, she was enveloped within the stronghold of his arms. Arwen’s eyes clenched shut, tears beading between her lashes and her knees became weak, but he held her entire weight. Rhysand gripped her as though she might disappear in the very next second.

Then and there, Arwen decided that she would never tell her brother about what she had been through. How she was tethered to him. She wanted to forget it all, wanted to never have to think about anything during that time. She wanted her brother back and if that meant pretending, she would do it. For all their sakes.

They stayed in that embrace, neither interested in releasing. Cassian may have become her rock in these past weeks, but Rhysand had always been her pillar. Her best friend.

Soon she couldn’t hold herself together and released her cries. Arwen felt the seclusion around her, breaking her eyes apart only enough to find that he had winnowed them up to the privacy of the sunroom on the upper floor that looked over the garden. 

How long they stayed there—only the sun, the sky, and the Mother knew. But after some time, they moved onto the large chaise in front of the windowed wall. Despite being only a few hours after sunrise, Arwen already felt exhausted enough to fall back asleep.

At an itch on her nose, she used the end of his shoulder to cure it, but her nose twitched even more as her brain took in an unrecognisable scent. She had noticed it earlier but hadn’t realised it came from him.

Rhysand sighed and gave a small laugh. “Amren’s gift. A cologne. Feyre doesn’t like it.” Resorting back to her own hand, Arwen wiped her nose again. He didn’t smell like himself. Rhys laughed again. “Message received. Just don’t tell Amren.”

“Don’t need to warn me,” she muttered, but the thought had her glancing back over her shoulder towards the closed door. “Shouldn’t you be down there? It’s your birthday after all.”

“And I get to spend it how I desire. But—” he shuffled to the edge of the chaise— “will you wait here for a moment?”

He slid to his feet and left the sunroom with nothing but a soft ripple through the air in his wake. Pulling her feet underneath her legs, she looked back to the garden. This used to be her favourite spot to draw.

As promised, it was only mere moments before Rhysand returned, his footsteps near silent. He sat back down on the chaise, the hand closest to hers rolled into a fist. “I don’t know if you want this, but it’s not mine to decide what to do with.” Unfurling his hand, he revealed the silver chain and that that bluish-green iridescent light swirled across the inside of a delicate vial. “You can throw it in the Sidra if you want. I just wanted it to be by your hand.”

Her fingers ran over the vial before curling around it entirely. Arwen looked to Rhysand as she took it from his hand and pulled it close to her stomach. “You kept it?”

He nodded.

She studied it long and hard. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Does my opinion really matter?” he asked. She sent him a look that told him she wanted to hear it, nevertheless. She could decide after to listen to it or not. Rhys looked down at her hand. “I want you to wear it.” I want you to forgive me.

It was more than just an apology gift for dislocating her shoulder. It was a piece of her—a piece of her memory. The last Starfall that they truly shared with each other. Starfall had once meant everything to her. “You’re not supposed to be the one giving gifts on your birthday.”

He smiled and leant toward her, pressing a kiss to her hairline as his thumb stroked her far shoulder. “This is a gift for me.”

They stayed in that sunroom until Mor hunted them down on account of a lunch being served. Considering it would be rude for the guest of honour to be missing, they joined the rest of the Inner Circle downstairs. Arwen held the necklace in her fist.

As Arwen passed the main sitting room, her feet came to a stop at the sight of the back of a neatly pinned crown of golden hair. Nesta Archeron sat alone in front of the low fire, her head bowed. Arwen took a step in enough to see the book in her lap.

There were a lot of thoughts that appeared in her head at the appearance of Nesta—so many that there was little room left for her to sort through them one by one. So it came as a surprise to both Arwen and Nesta when she marched across the room towards the bookshelf adorning the far wall. Prying a well-read romance from the packed line, she turned back and held it out.

“I think you would like this.”

Nesta looked at it like Arwen was handing her garbage found in a sewer. Not even bothering with a response, the eldest Archeron angled herself away and returned her gaze to her book. Arwen’s chest seized, a panicked sense of loss claiming her. She truly had lost all confidence when it came to conversing, not at all like how she had once been.

Rhysand appeared at the room’s threshold, waiting silently. Arwen looked between her brother and Feyre’s icy sister. Her lips moved a few times before sound arrive. “It’s one of my favourites,” she said and placed it down on the lowered table near her legs.

‘Don’t take it too personally,’ Rhys said into her mind as she joined him in the hall. ‘Being my sister has probably kicked off a few of the likeability points since she despises me. And so has your relationship with Cassian.’ Arwen peered up at him as the tone dropped low even though there was no need to watch his volume inside her head. Rhys only looked down at her, neither accusing nor approving. ‘That is something we should talk about.’

“I’m not certain I understand what about,” she said aloud, fiddling with the necklace’s thin silver chain between her fingers. Cassian’s laugh sounded from the dining room where plate bottoms scraped against the mahogany of the table.

‘Why do you think Azriel has been keeping his distance?’

Mor appeared in the hall, her face taut with frustration. “Cauldron bite me, Rhysand. If I have to wait one more minute to eat—”

“We’re coming,” Rhysand cut in with a bright grin, shoving his hands back in his pockets as he sauntered around their cousin. Mor made a motion of strangling him behind his back, her fists still clenched at her sides as she marched behind him, Arwen only a step away.

Happily taking a seat between her brother and Cassian, she began inhaling her meal. Even Cassian seemed impressed by the vigour of her first bites. It wasn’t until a small piece of food lodged in the back of her throat that her knife and fork clattered against the ceramic of the plate. Arwen coughed into the crook of her elbow, still perfectly able to breathe, but faced with the irritation of the food stuck to the wall of her throat.

She waved away Cassian’s assisting hand at her back, pushing away from the table as the racking of her chest failed to cease. Huddling down onto herself, she faced away as her coughs grew raw, fighting for air between each one.

“Arwen.” Two hands came to her shoulders, their grasp almost painful. They were easy to recognise as Rhysand’s. He moved in closer, one hand moving to her chest, the other to the back of her neck as he pushed her up. It was hard to see him through her tear filled eyes, but Arwen discerned the wild panic in them. She tried to communicate that she wasn’t choking to death, but the scratch of her voice only agitated the sensation more. “Breathe it out,” he whispered and she realised he had been speaking longer than she had listened. “Please.”

Soon she was able to purge the irritation and suck in a proper lungful of air, slumping in her chair. Rhysand’s eyes hadn’t left her, examining every inch of her face. It was as she looked into them, as she felt the flicker of what he did from a ghost of their mind’s connection that she realised what was going through his head. How similar her coughs sounded to the ones that she died choking on. The expectation to see black blood drizzling down her nose.

Arwen briefly closed her eyes as she reset her chair, cheeks flaming as eyes were pinned on her. Motioning to her throat, she muttered, “A pea.”

Feyre snorted, immediately covering her mouth with her hand. Azriel, opposite Arwen, sent the High Lady a short but cutting look.

“Good gods, girl,” Amren sighed with a bored roll of her eyes. “Think about joining one of the theatre groups.”

Arwen bared a small smile as Cassian took her plate and used his fork to shovel the remainder of her peas onto his own plate. “It got caught in my throat,” she offered in pathetic explanation, reaching back for her meal only for Cassian to give a mirthless, incredulous laugh and begin removing the small cuts of carrots as well. “I’m not going to choke to death on carrot—give me that!” Arwen snatched it back, sour at the missing quarter of her meal. “For my next death, I plan on it being far nobler than by poison or peas.”

“Do not make jokes of that,” said Azriel, his voice like venom to her blood. “You are not the one who has to live with your death.”

“Good thing I do not jest,” she replied, ignoring the looks directed at her. “I despise that I let it happen to myself.”

Rhysand’s hand laid on her arm. “It was not your fault.”

She looked down at it. “I know I didn’t pour the poison in my own cup, Rhys. But I still knew something was amiss.” The look he gave her—it was broken. He didn’t want this talk, he didn’t want to remember. To feel the blame.

“You know,” whispered Mor. Arwen dragged her gaze away from her brother to her cousin. Mor’s grim face had grown pale. “You know who did this to you, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Cassian’s hand slammed against the table, shaking every plate, cup, and fork on it. Arwen stiffened in shock at the aggressive display. “Like hell it doesn’t!” He swivelled in the seat to face her, his face a painting of wrath. “I have lived without knowing for over two hundred years. Do you not think that isn’t agonising? That it hasn’t tormented me?” 

She kept her composure. “It doesn’t matter because they are dead. And from what I know, it was a horrible death.” Arwen couldn’t tell if those words placated the general, or only turned his fury into something colder and more hidden.

“Arwen.” Azriel’s voice called to her like a song she couldn’t resist. She looked across the table. He stared at her, palms eased onto the mahogany. “Please.”

Arwen blinked and looked to her brother. “I’m honestly disappointed you never figured it out.”

There wasn’t even a need for her to say the name. Realisation crossed his face like the cut from a dagger. “Ianthe.” He spat the name in a whisper like it was the filth it deserved. 

Arwen looked back towards Cassian. “You see? It doesn’t matter because she’s dead. Thanks to our High Lady and a certain death-god.” Feyre didn’t smile when Arwen’s gaze passed to her, giving only the tiniest nod to confirm the manner of the priestess’s death. “This is a horrible discussion for a birthday lunch.”

Despite her very clear hint, Azriel said, “Thesan’s servant died the same evening.” He frowned at his plate, hazel eyes darting at things she could not see. “She was the only one other than the cook to touch your food and drink. Rhysand searched the cook’s mind and found nothing. Searched Thesan’s. Ianthe was there on his invite and was accompanied by one of Thesan’s guards all morning. I found nothing.” And that haunted him—haunted him because it was his job to know.

“Ianthe didn’t touch my drink,” Arwen said. She fingered the base of the wine glass in front of her. “But she spoke with that servant. Convinced her that Rhys and I had—” she shook her head with an empty chuckle— “relations.” Feyre frowned in confusion. “That we were fucking.”

The High Lady paled. Rhysand glared at the space between himself and Arwen, the muscles in his face ticking. The rest of the table remained in dead silence.

“Ianthe gave her something to slip into my drink that the servant believed would help cure me.” Arwen scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I figured out that Ianthe had done something, but other things came up and I forgot about it until it was too late.”

Before she had even finished speaking, Rhysand’s chair scraped against the floor. Feyre leaned for him, but her hand only brushed his before he left the dining room completely. Arwen remained seated, part of her wanting to go after him, the other part knowing that he wanted space. And she didn’t particularly feel like someone in the position to offer comfort to another.

Feyre did soon leave the table, taking Rhysand’s unfinished plate and her heels clicked against the stairs. Arwen didn’t bother looking up to examine their faces—their reactions—nor did she feel like finishing her meal.

For the first time since her revival, Arwen let herself feel anger at her own death. Not the events after or with Rhys, but at what had happened to her. The naivety and assumptions that the servant made—the rumours that could have spread from it.

Cassian next stood from his chair. Arwen perked, breaking her long stare at the glass in front of her. Reaching for him, her fingers pinched the fabric of his pants near his hip. He sighed and smiled down at her, his lips flat and his eyes dull. Placing a hand at the nape of her neck, he whispered, “Come on,” and waited for her to stand with him.

His hand dropped to the low of her back as he guided her away. Arwen peeked over her shoulder. Azriel remained seated at the table, not even looking up as they left the dining room.

Chapter Text

Chapter 67

A rough shaking roused Arwen awake. Her throat gave a short grumble before her eyes opened, blinking lethargically. She made out the black material of fitted slacks just beyond the rose-coloured sheets of the bed. Everything in her cried for more sleep.

“I was beginning to think you’d never wake,” came a familiar voice, accompanied by a soft chuckle. Rhysand dropped to a kneel beside the bed she had crawled her way into at the town house. “My next plan was tossing water on you.”

Arwen inched her head higher, peering beyond him to her window, wondering how early he had awoken her. But she could not see the sun, which meant that it was overhead. Late. Her mind scoured for a memory of the night, to remember if she had a nightmare that would have had her feeling like this. But she had slept right through.

“You missed breakfast,” her brother continued, his voice shifting to a more pointed tone. She pushed against the mattress, letting the blanket pool around her hips, and wiped at her eyes. “I can bring you something if you don’t feel like getting up.”

Arwen shook her head. “Not hungry,” she managed to get out. But she would get up. She couldn’t remember a time when she had slept in so late. She pulled her silk-clad legs out from the blanket, shifting them to hang over the edge of the bed, but paused at the sight of what covered the floor.

Carpet. Even just letting her feet hover over it sent uncomfortable itchiness across her skin. She had taken her shoes off last night sitting on the bed but foolishly kicked them away. Rhysand had already found an answer. A pair of flats appeared in his hands within a blink. “Or I can carry you out,” he offered.

Arwen took the shoes. “How did you know?” Her shield was still in place and steeled. She would know if he had gotten through it. But even then, he seemed to be able to read her mind.

“Because you’re my sister. I can tell your hunger from your thirst just by your scent.” His eyes stooped to where she pulled them onto her feet. “But I still have to wonder why.”

At first she put it down to her body not being used to foreign fabrics, but even as everything else grew less and less irritable, the rounded, coarse loops of the rough carpet fabric never ceased to erupt nausea within her. It wasn’t until recently that she put the memory together—of falling onto the carpet in the town house’s main hall. Dragging her body across it in hopes of reaching the door. How each inch of crawling along it scraped at her knees then her cheek. It was the last thing she felt. It was like a stain in her memory. She remembered Rhysand and Azriel, flashes of their faces beyond the haze, but she hadn’t been able to feel them. Or hear them.

When Arwen didn’t answer the unasked question; he didn’t push.

Downstairs, Cassian was the only one to have remained. Mor, Azriel and Amren returned to their respective homes. Elain and Nesta hid away in a small reading room, sitting together but unspeaking. Arwen could only see them through the crack in the door.

Feyre smiled as Arwen entered the main sitting room, a small stack of discarded papers on the side table next to it. Cassian took residence on the armchair, seeming to have been in a conversation with her that ended moments prior. “I hope you slept well, Arwen. Cassian was intending on waking you at dawn for a training session, but I convinced him otherwise.”

The general shrugged as Rhysand quietly left the room. “She’s the one that wants them.”

“Maybe this afternoon,” Arwen murmured to him, falling into the opposing armchair. “Thank you, Feyre.”

“What’s gotten you so down today?” he asked. “With a sleep like you had, you should be bouncing off the walls.”

“I know.” She wiped at her eyes again. “Just tired.”

“Or hungry,” Rhysand’s voice called from the hall. He arrived back with a plate of buttered toast that must have been put together with magic considering how fast it was made. Despite her earlier insistence of not having an appetite, he placed it on her lap.

Arwen never did eat it. The morning—or rather, midday—passed over slowly. Cassian, Rhysand and Feyre had something to attend to outside the city for the afternoon so Cassian took her back to the House of Wind. She headed straight to her room and took another nap.

When she awoke again, feeling far more refreshed as one should after a long sleep, the sun had been replaced by the moon and starlight. Arwen groaned to herself, flopping from her stomach to her back. Now she could use some food.

Her bare feet padded down the corridor, almost mindlessly, her head far away from the world in around her. That was, until her pointed ears twitched at an unexpected sound. The soft hum of a pianoforte key. Food became a long forgotten venture as she turned down the offshoot that beheld what were once chambers for hosting guests. They still technically were such rooms, but since Velaris had been a hidden city, they weren’t often used. Arwen continued down to the only chamber that the sound could come from.

An old music room.

The sound of pianoforte stopped long before she reached the threshold. Shadows would have warned her coming to their master. It was a plush room, with smooth hardwood floors and long curtains pulled across the two tall but thin windows. A seating arrangement played audience to the ebony pianoforte and the fiddle set in front of it. An audience of none for the shadowsinger who sat at that pianoforte, his hands now resting on his thighs as he stared at the empty stand where sheet music would sit.

It wasn’t terribly surprising to find him here. Arwen had once learnt to play at her mother and father’s command, but never took to instruments the way she did pencils. Azriel rarely touched it, only in the privacy of his own shadows. They all knew he had dabbled in playing, but never in performance for them. He had told her it was like a meditation for him. Something to do alone and undisturbed. Not for the joy of others.

“I can go, if you’d like,” she said. He probably came here under the impression that she would be asleep for some time more.

Azriel’s chin turned to hover over his shoulder, not quite looking at her. “I don’t mind.”

Arwen slipped further into the room, eyeing the seats before choosing to move across to the pianoforte. She sat down next to him on the small bench, keeping her eyes on the ivory keys. “What were you playing?”

His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. “A Once Dance.” His scarred hands lifted from his thighs, fingertips skimming across the keys before softly pressing down on a select few, moving them again, and pressing down to offer her a slice of the tune. She knew it—a song of two lovers destined to only have one dance, separated by their families’ feud.

“That’s a sad song,” she noted quietly.

“That is one way to look at it,” he agreed, eyes finally meeting hers. “Or one might see it as a beautiful moment. A moment that will never be forgotten. Cherished for eternity.”

“And the rest of that eternity is spent remembering what could have been but wasn’t.” Arwen straightened her back, examining the keys and placing her fingers on the ones she recalled. Pressing down, a low and soft sound played. Her fingers moved again, pressing down on a new combination. The end of the song. The moment the two lovers knew that it was the end of their story, however short it was.

She winced at an off sound but couldn’t figure out which finger was placed wrong. Azriel’s hand drifted over her arms. Her stomach tightened as he grazed the back of her left hand, his thumb nudging hers wider to rest on the key next to it. She played again, the melody like a lullaby to her ears. Being all she could remember, Arwen pulled her hands away from the keys, and from his touch.

Azriel had his other hand join again, a new melody playing. This one was just as soft and slow, but lighter. She didn’t recognise the tune but smiled and listened with her heart. “I like that one,” she whispered when he finished.

“Redamancy.”  

Her head tipped towards her shoulder as she fingered a random key in front of her, the single note ringing throughout the room. “I wish you played for us. Happier songs, perhaps. There’s been too much grief lately.”

“I just played for you then, didn’t I?” he said, the tease evident. “That song was happy.”

That was true. He had played for her—which he had never done before other than the sneak peeks she had stolen over the many years both in death and her early life. “A proper gathering then. With drinks and singing and dancing.”

Azriel smiled, broadly and she was tempted to call it a grin. He shook his head. “I have no desire to hear Rhys and Mor singing again.”

“I noticed Cassian isn’t on that list.” Arwen hummed to herself in thought. “He’s not actually that terrible, though, is he? Perhaps after a few drinks to warm up his vocal cords.” Azriel’s laughter was softer than a silk pillow. If she could bottle up a sound, she would choose that one. “I’m not on that list either.”

He turned that smile to her. “I’ve been refining my skills in the art of politeness.”

Her jaw broke apart. His laughter grew as she jabbed his elbow with her side. “Rhysand used to tell me that my singing was like hearing the morning birds sing,” she informed him with mocking righteousness.

A smirk crossed his cheeks. “Rhysand is a skilled liar.”

Arwen put a hand to her chess. “Could you hear that, Azriel? It was my heart breaking by the betrayal. My own family leading me into a lie.” Rounding off her shoulders, she let her own smirk reveal. “It is fine I suppose. I’d been lying to him for years. His hair looks awful when he lets it fall to the left.”

Azriel scoffed at her. “And you let him go on for years prancing around in his own court looking as foolish as he did?” She lifted the bone of her shoulder to her chin in her façade of innocence. “I must admit to my own lie then.” Arwen had to wait for him to continue as he looked back down to the pianoforte, her heart beating like a drum being played. “Your voice is the single most beautiful sound that I have ever heard.”

Nothing could have prepared her for the sensation that washed over her. The light-headedness, the tingling in her feet, the utter surrealness that made her believe this might be a dream. “I do not think you need to refine your skills in politeness with the way you flatter me,” is all she could say. He hummed distantly and it left a silence between them. “Rhys… Rhys said you were avoiding me.” Her stomach twisted as soon as she said it aloud, immediately wishing to shove the words back down her throat. She wasn’t ready to have that conversation.

Azriel set a heavy gaze on the ivory keys. “Is that what you want from me?”

She wished he hadn’t asked that even more. Arwen didn’t know the answer—didn’t understand Azriel or herself enough to know what she wanted from him. His attraction to Elain was undeniable, as was the fact that their bond was broken. Did she want what might have been? Was this yearning inside of her a result of what was lost? To want something she could not have?

At her silence, he continued. “I will give you everything you need and desire. You have shown me what that is.” He would not meet her eye, no matter how hard she pined for it. “Forgive me if I cannot remain close to see it unfold.”

Arwen looked straight. “You have your own desires and needs to seek after. Do not weigh yourself down concerned with mine.”

“Are yours being met?”

Her brows twitched together at such a simply worded question that meant so much more than any single answer could satisfy. The thought of even attempting to had her heart fluttering with panic.

“Do you have what you want, Arwen?”

In a stumble to avoid figuring that out, she murmured a small: “Yes.”

“Then I am not concerned.”

Though she remained a statue on the small bench, everything inside of her slumped. Azriel closed the polished black casing over the keys, the hard sound of the wood meeting breaking the fragile air between them. “I’m sorry,” she spat out as he began to move away. He paused. Arwen turned to him. “The day that I… Died. I avoided you.”

Dark brows formed a trench over his straight nose. “Avoided me?”

She nodded. “When Cassian took me to the town house. I wouldn’t let you see me. I wish I hadn’t.”

His face turned downward as he sat back in the seat and shadows swamped him like a cloak. Arwen didn’t try to imagine what he might be thinking or feeling, but when hazels lifted to her violets, she was shocked to see the confusion swirling inside of them. “What do you remember, Arwen?”

Her lips parted. “R… Rhys and I fought when I started to feel strange.”

He looked at her like she was the strangest thing on Prythian. “You had felt ill? For how long?”

Arwen wrung her hands in her lap. “A few hours maybe. I told Rhys but he was upset about what happened at Dawn so Cassian took me home. What do you remember?” Cassian hadn’t recalled their last exchange of words either. Perhaps she had recreated the entire day in her mind.

He didn’t answer her. “What did we say to each other that day?”

There was an answer he searched for—she could see it in his eyes. But she could only offer him what she knew. “We didn’t speak at all.” A stillness overcame him. The same unreadable coldness honing his features that the court of Hewn City is an audience to. Lethal. “Azriel?”

Like his name plucked a chord, he twisted silently off the pianoforte’s seat, shadows whipping around him. Arwen barely stood by the time he was already out of sight in the hall.

Arwen dashed into the hall that he was already near the end of. “Az! Azriel what is it?”

He pivoted like a storm that suddenly changed wind. Arwen continued running towards him until they were only feet apart. “Rhysand is a skilled fucking liar! That’s what it is.” She didn’t have the chance to ask anything more before his back was to her and he was gone. Arwen stood dumbfounded, her mind reeling.

Snapping from it, she continued her chase. But by the time she caught up with him, her feet stopping inches away from the edge of the open balcony, he was only a black dot in the sky, barely distinguishable from the night.

There was no way for her to get down.

Her feet skipped back towards the House. It was late. He had to be home by now. “Cass! Cassian!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 68

His name tumbled from her trembling lips. “Cassian.”

Cassian lay on his stomach across his bed, deep in a nap. At her voice, he roused but didn’t fully wake. She leant over him, vigorously shaking his shoulders. Azriel had been so angry. She didn’t know what he was talking about, what he would do.

Cassian jerked onto his side and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low moonlight to make out the details face. He squinted up at her, a hand rising to his face as if to wipe it before it snapped out toward her instead. “Ar...” Kicking the blanket that had been up to his hips away, Cassian swung his legs over the edge and sat up along the mattress’s edge. “What’s wrong?”

Arwen’s chest heaved with each breath, so very aware of the carpet underneath her bare feet. The coarse fabric prodded its way between her toes, and she swore she could feel every individual fibre. “A-Azriel. H-h-he—”

“Hey.” Cassian clasped his hands to either side of her face, forcing hazels to meet violets. “Calm down. Is someone hurt? Is Azriel hurt?” Arwen tried to pull her head away to look over her shoulder as if she could find Azriel standing somewhere behind her, but the general did not relent his grip. “Talk to me. You have to talk to me.”

She shut her eyes, focusing on each breath as Cassian had taught her to practice after her nightmares. He counted to her breaths. Arwen blocked out the sensation of anything below her hips, pretending that she couldn’t feel the carpet. Azriel was more important. “Azriel. We were speaking, and he got angry and stormed off. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Cassian kept his voice calm and slow. “Angry about what, sweetheart? What were you talking about?”

Gods her mind would think straight. Her eyes fluttered to the far corner of his ceiling as she collected them once again into something Cassian could understand. Her toes curled upwards, her stomach twisting and tightening and dropping all at the same time. “He says Rhys lied to him. I think he’s gone down to the town house.”

She watched his face shift with that information. His eyes turned away in thought as hers had, his breaths growing even but long. “I’ll go after him.”

Arwen snatched his wrist as he moved onto his feet and veered around her. “Take me with you.”

“Stay here,” Cassian told her.

But Arwen did not let go of his wrist. They shared a silent moment of looking at each other, defiance and stubbornness ruling their stances. She couldn’t stay behind, thinking and worrying until someone deigned to return to her. “Please,” she uttered. He looked down to her hand which held his.

Soon they were flying over the starlight city. Arwen shivered against the winter’s hissing winds that belted against her bare arms. The town house front door had been left ajar. Arwen tore through it first, though Cassian had a grip on her wrist now, not letting her get ahead beyond a reach that he could pull her back.  

Lights filled the town house and scents hit her nose, leading her to the sitting room. Before she entered past the threshold, Arwen could already see the tipped armchair, as though it had been thrown towards the hearth. Mor and Feyre stood together, staring wide-eyed at something along the wall adjacent to the arched entrance. Mor looked to Arwen upon her arrival, red painted lips parting.

Azriel had Rhysand against the wall, a forearm to his throat. Her brother, for all it was worth, looked nothing short of calm. He held Azriel’s eyes, arms by his side. Cassian knocked into Arwen’s shoulder as he bolted past her, wedging between the High Lord and spymaster.

“Azriel, what the fuck are you doing?” he growled when Azriel would not give him the space to push away. Cassia gripped his shoulders but even his strength could not tear Azriel away.

There was nothing in Azriel’s eyes except hatred. Cold and vicious loathing. “Tell him,” he snarled to Rhys. “Tell him what you fucking did, Rhysand.”

The strength in Cassian’s arms visibly wavered against the spymaster, his eyes darting unsurely between him and Arwen’s brother. Arwen stepped further into the room, Mor snatching her hand that she couldn’t be bothered to hold back. Now she could see Rhysand’s eyes. They were slick with tears that had yet to fall.

Feyre’s shuffling and hard looks at Mor informed Arwen that she had already tried to intervene only to be told to stay back. Never interfere with an Illyrian fight. Even Arwen didn’t dare. Yet.

“Did what?” Cassian's voice had dropped to a low, dangerous yet wavering tone.

Rhysand looked down, not a tendril of his power to be seen. He wouldn’t aggravate the fight, she realised.

“He altered our memory,” Azriel filled in, the edge in his voice becoming rougher. “He went into our minds. That day was a lie.”

“Rhysand is being a prick again,” Nesta drawled in a bitter hiss. It was only then that Arwen noticed Nesta and Elain standing on the stairwell that was just visible from the far entrance to the sitting room. Nesta’s face was fixed into a sneer, but there was a trace of glee as well. Glee that her brother was being pounded on. Elain’s face had paled by numerous shades, eyes fixed on Azriel but her sister’s hand on her shoulder held her from moving. “How surprising.”

“Stay out of this, Nesta,” snapped Cassian. He shoved his way deeper between the two males. “What day?” he demanded, looking at both for whoever who give him the answer. Arwen’s mind ran blank, not feeling Mor’s hand squeeze hers so tight that her fingertips tingled. Rhysand had changed their memories of her death. Cassian ran the same line of thought—she could see it formulating when he glanced at her. “Rhys.”

Azriel pressed himself closer, his nose nearly brushing Rhysand’s. “Give it back.”

“Azriel!” It was Elain that dashed forward, tearing from her sister’s grip. Golden hair bounced off her shoulders with each bound down the stairs, her hand outstretched.

“Elain!” Nesta screeched.

“Don’t.” Rhysand did not look at her but it was unmistakable who the order was set to. Softer, calmer: “Elain. Do not get any closer.” Elain paused half way between the bottom of the stairs and the males, Nesta quick to seize her wrist with a withering glare. Rhysand stared at Azriel who had not taken his eyes off the High Lord. “You won’t want it.”

“I want the truth,” Azriel breathed through his teeth. The fabric of Rhysand’s jacket wrinkled under his tightening fingers. “I need to know what happened. What I did. Wha… what I said.”

Rhysand, in defeat, tipped his head back against the wall he had been shoved against. Azriel took the sign and loosened his grip. Beside Arwen, Mor inhaled sharply. Arwen watched as Mor seemed to travel someplace far away though her body remained there. Cassian too turned away from his brothers, head bowed and chin cocked. Azriel took three blind steps back, unblinking.

It was now that Rhysand sought out Arwen’s gaze. He mouthed: “I’m sorry.”

Cassian fisted his hand and put it to his lips. He looked like he was going to be sick.

“Rhysand,” Mor whispered—in disappointment and horror. But Arwen realised that Mor was looking at her. Arwen shifted on her feet. She didn’t know what Rhysand had made their memory to be—had no idea how different the truth was.

Cassian scoffed. Once, then twice. He looked at Rhysand like he had three heads and a tail.

Arwen saw her own memory before her. She saw Rhysand standing in one of Amarantha’s personal chambers, his head bowed as he was forced to submit to one of her orders that Arwen knew was tearing him from the inside out. She saw the same defeat and loss. A day when she could do nothing.

Azriel’s long strides took him back towards Rhysand, his hands as fists by his side. Feyre stepped forward as well, her hand outstretched but Arwen was quicker. In a blink, she winnowed across the room. Her back pressed against the warmth of her brother’s chest as she faced Azriel.

“Do not touch him.” The sharpness in her own voice surprised her.

He faltered at the sudden sight of her and Rhysand was quick to wrap an arm around Arwen’s stomach, ready to yank her to the side. Azriel didn’t look at her though—refused to. Cassian stood in a readied stance to their sides, eyeing each of them carefully.

Azriel’s chest heaved against his plain leathers. “He took my last memory of you.” A plea to her and a strike to her brother. “I have been remembering a lie. All because he was ashamed!”

Rhysand voice sliced past her ear. “I did it for you!” She grappled at his arm that tightened around her, wanting to be ready to move forward at a moment’s notice.

Azriel snarled to the air, his wings flaring. “You want me to believe that you didn’t do this for your own sake? So we didn’t remember what you fucking said to her? That you ignored her plea for help. Telling you that she was sick!” He stole another step forward and Arwen lengthened herself to remind him that she was there. That she would protect her brother—even from him.

Rhysand’s hand began to edge her to the left but she battled it. “If I did it for my sake,” he said, just as carefully as before, “then I would have found a way to erase it from my own mind. But I have lived with it every single day. I gave you a memory that was good.”

Azriel shot forward. “It was a lie!”

Arwen braced her hands against his chest, using every ounce of her strength to push against him. Azriel stumbled back on his heels, the flicker of his eyes down to her in that moment that first time he had looked at her since he left her in the hall of the House.

“Do not. Touch. Him.” She waited for another scream, for him to try again or for Cassian to intervene.

“It’s your fault that she died.”

Rhysand hardly breathed behind her. “I know.”

Azriel stared at the floor between them. “And it’s your fault that she lost her wings.”

“Azriel,” Cassian barked but his voice was lost to all but Elain who flinched.

Her brother’s arm loosened around her as if he expected Arwen at any moment to lurch away from him. “I know.”       

Arwen met Cassian’s eyes. They asked her if she wanted to leave, if she wanted him to step between them and take her away. She tightened her grip on her brother’s arm.  

“Glad we’re on the same page then,” is all Azriel had left to say before he twisted himself away from Cassian’s approach. The front door shook the entire town house in his wake.

She wasn’t sure what happened in the next minutes. Minutes? It might have been an hour. The world flurried around her, bodies shifting and her own being tugged along. The next moment that reality becomes clear again, Arwen is seated in a chair at the island bench inside the kitchen. Mor leant against the opposite side of the table, a wine glass near full of golden champagne.

Cassian stood at Arwen’s shoulder, his shadow looming over her. He sighed and the shadow moved across her. He touched his forehead to hers, then he pressed a kiss to her cheek. Then he placed one to her temple, and then the crown of her head. Arwen blinked through them, keeping her attention on her fiddling fingers. “Do you want me to take you home?”

Shutting down—she knew that’s what she was doing. It was all she had for so many years because nothing else worked. Shut it down and shut it out. Arwen didn’t know what she was supposed to feel. It seemed a common theme since coming back to life.

“You should just take her, Cass,” said Mor. She looked down at her still full glass. “I need more.”

“I’m not going to drag her off her seat, Mor,” Cassian shot back. “She can stay here the night if that’s what she wants.” He let out another grumbling sigh and spun to brace the small of his back against the island, folding his arms across his sternum as he stared at the wall behind Arwen. Arwen slid her legs from the seat. Cassian’s hand shot out for hers.

“I’m okay,” she told him, her voice even and stronger than she expected. “It wasn’t my memories that were messed with.”

“Do you want me to stay?” is all he asked.

“Come for me in the morning?”

Nodding, he let her go. Arwen’s feet took her from the kitchen, her pace slowing in the main hall but she already had a sense of where she was going. Turning down past the main rooms, past the stairwell, her hand curled around the brass knob of his private office door.

Rhysand sat in his chair, head thrown back against it like it had been against the wall. One foot was pressed against the lip of the desk which had scattered parchment across it so unorganised that she could hardly see the wood below it.

Arwen didn’t say anything as she entered, shutting the door behind her. Walking around to his desk, she skimmed her eyes across their titles. She reached for the ones that she could first easily identify as foreign correspondence, organising them by court.

“You don’t have to clean up my mess,” he muttered. “Please don’t, actually.”

Arwen didn’t want to know the memory he gave them. It wasn’t true, no matter if it might have been better.

“I’ve never followed your orders before,” she replied. “I’m not going to start now.”

“Arwen.” She ignored him, tapping the letters against the table to straighten them and finding a spot on his desk to pile them. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “The others are doing a fine enough job at it without me joining in.” And she was tired of being angry. Tired of feeling that way at her own brother. “I’m sorry for coming back to life and ruining your plan.”

He gave an exhausted huff that was something close to a laugh. “Even Feyre is upset at me. Can’t wait for Amren to find out. No doubt Mor will be over at her apartment first thing tomorrow. If she hasn’t left already.”

“I’d suggest quickly reconciling with your mate then because you won’t have your balls by lunch.”

“She does have a peculiar fondness for threatening them, doesn’t she?” Arwen hummed in agreement, her lips even twitching into a light smile. “That was stupid of you. Stepping between Azriel and me. If he had any less control over himself, you would have been hurt.”

She picked up a complied set of parchment, trying to read through the first page. “I wasn’t going to let him hurt you.”

“You would protect me against your own mate?”

She placed the paper back down on the table. “He’s not my mate anymore. But I think you already knew that.” Rhysand held her gaze and Arwen read right through it. Azriel might not have told him outright, but her brother would have found out through a thought in his mind. “You’re so disorganised it’s a wonder anything gets done around here.”

“That’s why I need you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 69

The sun was beautifully warm against the back of Arwen’s neck that early morning. Despite the blanket of snow covering most of the land, the sky had not a cloud to be seen and was a pleasant companion as she sat on the mountainside rooftop.

Cassian, however, was not.

They sat across from each other, one of his knees tented toward the sky with his elbow thrown to rest on it. In the other hand, extended to her, a chunk of apple was being offered. Arwen shook her head, her voice breaking. “I can’t.”

“Then we don’t train,” he stated. “Simple.”

The bargain she had accepted the day before. Eat more, she could train with him. She cladded thick leggings and a loose black sweater, keeping her arms warm until she was feeling the heat of a training session. All he expected of her this morning was to eat the apple. The red skin was beautifully ripe and the juices looked sweet as anything, but the mere thought of it in her stomach was revolting. He had even cut the small piece of offered her now with his knife. Bit by bit, he told her. He would sit there with her until the entire thing was eaten.

Reluctantly, she took the small piece from him and forced it into her mouth. The initial sweetness turned to ash on her tongue, and she barely held back a gag. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t eat the whole thing.

Cassian cut a new piece.

“Do you take pleasure in being cruel?” she drawled, clawing at the piece and shoving it into her mouth as she had the first.

He pointed a hard gaze to her. “I take pleasure in seeing you healthy. Trust me, I want to train with you. I like knocking you on your ass.” He cut her another piece and winked. “I get a good view out of it.”

Arwen took it, but this time she had to pause when it reached her lips. Her stomach made a loud complaint and her mouth dried. She pled with her eyes, letting the paleness she knew had overcome her face speak for her. But Cassian only arched his dark brow. Squeezing her eyes tight, Arwen forced it past her teeth, each chew slow and like grinding through dirt.

As soon as she swallowed she knew it was a mistake.

Lurching off to the side, it all came back up her throat, leaving an acidic taste in her mouth. She threw up all the small pieces of apple she had eaten then dry heaved as her stomach cleared itself off any remaining traces. Cassian pulled her already tied hair away from hanging at her neck. With the contents of her stomach fully expelled, Arwen slumped back against his front, her chest shaking in a dry sob of exhausted frustration at herself.

“I can’t train you like this. In fact, you should be in bed being checked over by Madja.”

She pushed away from him, burying her forehead to her knees. “No.”

He sighed. “Let me take you down to the town house today. I’ll have Rhys send for her—”

Arwen slapped away the hand that aimed for her shoulder. “No.”

“Fine.” Cassian pushed off the ground and left her to sulk alone, moving on to stretching by himself. It wasn’t long before he was joined by Mor, Feyre and Azriel who all donned their training gear.

Arwen buried her head deeper between her knees, stubborn enough to not move from the rooftop as they trained off to the side of her. But everything inside of her felt weak and broken. She was sick of it—sick of feeling sick. Sick of crying and being like she was.

At the sound of boots against stone, she forced her head high, watching from the corner of her eye as Feyre sat down next to her, a glass of water in hand. Despite being mid-winter, the High Lady had beads of sweat across her forehead.

~

Cassian glimpsed at the sight of Feyre and Arwen in the short distance, using the break to set up new equipment. A good part of him was glad Arwen couldn’t keep to their deal. An apple wasn’t enough, even if she ate the whole thing.

Azriel edged up to his side, his sights set on the same spot. “How long has it been?”

“Two days,” Cassian answered under his breath, using Feyre’s voice to cover his own. “Can’t keep anything down.” The torment in the shadowsinger’s eyes was more vivid than any paint Feyre used. Cassian had to wonder how it felt—how strange it would be to know you are seeing your mate but not feeling that bond anymore. If Azriel was clinging to something that he used to feel, or if the mating bond had nothing to do with what he felt now. “Have they ever talked alone before?” he asked, gesturing towards the females again.

“No,” Mor answered.

“Eavesdropper,” he shot at her.

Mor lifted her hand with a vulgar gesture.

~

“Rhys is glad you’re not upset at him,” Feyre said. “Drunk himself into a mess the other night because he felt so bad.” Arwen played with the laces of her boots. “You’re not angry with him, are you?”

“Do you think I should be?” she inquired, looking at Feyre through her lashes.

Feyre frowned to the ground. “I’m not sure how would feel if I was you. I just know when you’re upset at him, that he’s upset with himself.”

Arwen sniffed and wiped her sleeve against her mouth for the umpteenth time, trying to remove any trace of the taste of her own vomit. “Our last memories together weren’t so spectacular, Feyre. Even without being poisoned, it was near one of the worst days of my living life.” Second to her wings being shorn out of her back and her mother being decapitated in front of her very eyes, knowing that she was going to be next. “So part of me wishes he changed my memory too.”  

“Rhys told me what happened.” Feyre lengthened her legs, pointing her toes into a stretch. “He said he would take it all back if he could. If you asked him to take that memory from you, I think he would.”

Arwen squinted against the bright horizon, breathing in the vastness of the land. Taking back that day wouldn’t change how she felt now. He would have to wipe two hundred and fifty years’ worth of memory. She wasn’t sure if her brother was even capable of that, but she did know that he would have to see everything in order to take it. And that wasn’t happening.

Arwen knew exactly how it would make him feel to know that she had been with him Under the Mountain with him. And she wasn’t interested in letting either of them relive it.

Feyre must have mistaken her silence for ignoring. “Arwen… H-Have I done something to upset you? Said something? I feel like you do not wish I was here.”

She looked over her High Lady, remembering what she once was. A mortal with skin hanging to bones and hollow cheeks. A young girl with nothing but a bone to throw at Amarantha. Arwen decided to speak her truth, or at least part of it. “I resent you, Feyre Cursebreaker.”

Feyre blanched, Arwen’s words striking her like a blow to the stomach. From the corner of her eye, she spied the others tuning into their conversation.

Arwen looked back to the horizon. Feyre had done everything she couldn’t. Had been there for Rhysand—had been his salvation when Arwen wanted nothing more than to be that for him. She blinked away a weariness. “For reasons that I can’t explain to you. But please do not take that as me not liking you. It is hard for me to talk to anybody these days. My resentment of you is my own fault. Rhysand treasures you, and so will I.”

Feyre’s voice grew soft and low. “I wish to understand. He treasures you also and I know that I am more than glad we all have you back in our lives, even if I did not know you in the one you had before.”

Arwen stopped hearing her halfway through, a sudden murkiness overcoming her as though she had been pushed underwater. A sense of dread—cold claws of it climbed up through her stomach. She became heavier than the mountain she sat upon.

~

Cassian blew out a breath that puffed his cheeks, sharing a look with Mor as they eavesdropped on Feyre and Arwen’s conversation. He began contemplating how to intervene—how he would keep them both content. But both his friends had kept their calm composures, willing to listen and speak. Hearing Arwen’s confession of her feelings towards her brother’s mate wasn’t much of a shock to Cassian. He understood that she rarely enjoyed company outside of her small circle, especially these days, but he was surprised to hear the extent of it. Resent.

Arwen didn’t hate Feyre. Wasn’t angry at their High Lady. Resent sounded like a word chosen from long nights of thought. A single word pulled from all others to explain how she felt.

His eyes drew back to the scene, intending to call Feyre back to spar with Mor. But Feyre was occupied holding Arwen’s shoulders. A shot of worry cut through him but he numbed it in favour of composure and strode towards them. The feeling doubled at seeing Feyre’s troubled features.

Cassian fell just behind Arwen’s shoulder on the opposite side to Feyre. “What is it?” he asked, taking charge of holding Arwen’s shoulders.

“She just dropped out of it,” Feyre answered, glancing over her shoulder as Mor and Azriel approached.

“Dropped out of it?” Arwen lopped her head back against Cassian’s chest, her weight slipping onto his slanted thighs. Her eyelids fluttered half-closed. He quickly came to understand what Feyre meant. Switching his hold to one arm, he used the now free one to cup under her jaw and lift it up. “Arwen?”     

As he continued attempting to reach a reaction from her, to know whether she was lucid enough to hear him, Mor felt at her pulse then listened to her breathing. “She hasn’t been eating,” Mor noted as Azriel knelt by Arwen’s calves next to Feyre. “She could just be weak.”

“It’s only been two days,” Azriel countered with a hard shake of his head. “That doesn’t send people into a faint like this.”

“It hasn’t just been two days though, has it?” Cassian countered. “She’s barely been able to eat since she came back. Or sleep. She’s exhausted.” Her arms hung limply over either side of his thighs, fingertips grazing the stone ground. Arwen’s eyes were now closed and he hadn’t gotten a response. “I’ll take her down to her room. If she’s not better after a rest, I’ll get Madja.” She could be irritated all she wanted at him for it.

He was just about to shift her into his arms when Mor leant forward, grasping at Arwen’s chin. “No,” she muttered. “I think you should get Madja now.”

Cassian peered down at the unconscious female in his lap. Blood, a deep crimson, trickled from her nose. He cupped the back of her head, tilting it upright but there was no response from her, not even shifting under her eyelids. “I’m taking her to the town house.” His gaze sliced to the shadowsinger. His shadows had congregated around him, leaving him a cloak of darkness even under the direct sun. The outermost ones stretched for his once-mate as if they could bring her into that cloak too. “Azriel, go get Madja.”

Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t take his eyes off Arwen’s body—off the blood on her nose.

“Azriel,” Cassian growled again. His brother didn’t move. Every muscle had tensed like he was trapped in a cage of his own existence. Cassian’s eyes dipped to Azriel’s scarred hands. The sides of them rested against each thigh, palms facing inwards to each other. They trembled.

Mor glanced between Azriel and Cassian, taking the former’s shoulder and calling his name once more. On the same response, like she didn’t exist, Mor shook her head to Cassian.

“Feyre,” he called instead. “Can you—” Feyre was already nodding, wings that weren’t quiet Illyrian appearing from a void at her back. “Madja,” he reaffirmed. “I’ll meet you at the house.” He looked to Mor again, shifting Arwen into his arms. Mor continued to kneel by the stoic spymaster, gripping his forearm and whispering to him. She spared only a glance at Cassian to nod and silently convey that she would remain.

Chapter Text

Chapter 70

“You’re saying there’s nothing to be done?” Rhysand asked steadily. He sat in the chair pulled to the bed’s edge, his knees spread wide to make room for the proximity as he held a clean cloth to his sister’s nose that wouldn’t stop bleeding. Feyre stood behind him, constantly massaging his shoulders.

Cassian grunted in agreement and raised his brows at the healer.

“You are not hearing me, High Lord,” the ancient female said. “Physically there is nothing to be tended to. It is something beyond my senses and capabilities.”

“You must have something for her.”

“I can leave some herbs if you’d like,” Majda proclaimed. “They won’t do much except make a nice tea though.” Rhysand sighed but nodded and offer his gratitude for the healer’s efforts. Madja returned him a grim, wrinkled smile. “She has come back from the dead, High Lord. Perhaps her body knows that it has messed with what ought to be.”

Cassian couldn’t smother his glare at those words. At what it meant. With that, the healer collected her wares and left the bedchamber. Feyre moved from her mate’s side to Cassian’s, her feet angled to the door. “Would either of you like anything? Something to eat or drink?”

Rhysand shook his head mutely. Cassian smiled at her and gave her arm a light squeeze. “No, but thank you.” Feyre nodded and with one last look towards the bed and her mate, left them to be. He sauntered closer to the bed, leaning down and bracing his hands on the end frame. “She doesn’t get a damn break, does she?” he remarked through a laugh that was as empty and dry as a barren desert.

“Neither have you,” Rhysand said, tearing his eyes away from his sister for the first time since Cassian had hauled her into the town house. His throat bobbed. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for her.”

Cassian wasn’t yet over Rhysand’s meddling with his memories—a fact which his brother knew would be held over his head for a long time to come. But he couldn’t help but wish he never knew the truth. Tamlin, the fight, seeing the aftermath. The memory he had up until a week ago had been hard, but it hadn’t been… That. “She’s worth fighting for, Rhys. I’ll do it every day until I’m dead.”

Rhysand turned his head back to her, removing the cloth to check. The bleeding had slowed but was still constant. “Which you will be soon if you don’t get that break.” Cassian frowned. “I want you to go to the mortal lands for a week. Lucien is down there. You don’t have to work, just… Drink, eat, sleep. When’s the last time you got a full night of sleep?”

“Last night,” Cassian answered truthfully. “I don’t need a break.”

Rhysand quipped a small, sad smile. “You don’t want to leave her,” he corrected. “It’ll be best for both of you. She’s grown dependent on you, Cass. And I have a feeling you have to her as well. How are you going to take being away from her? What if you have to leave for a month? Two?”

His fingers flexed around the wooden frame as his rolled his neck in a moment of thought. “Then I have to leave. You’re asking me to leave her when I don’t. When she’s not well.” Cassian shoved off the frame, folding his arms instead. “You said you didn’t find what you were looking for at the Day Court. What is it exactly that you were hunting?”

“An answer for this.” Rhysand moved a hand down to her wrist, thumbing the harsh scarring. “The dreams she’s had—I think she was stuck somewhere. It’s why I could bring her back after all these years.”

~

Arwen rubbed at her eyes, quietly climbing down the staircase of the town house to the lower floor. She had a hankering for something salty to eat and she wasn’t sure how late it was when outside of her window was nothing but starlight. As she turned onto the main floor, eyes set on the kitchen towards the back, the floor creaked behind her. Arwen glanced back but had her heart set on the kitchen.

Rhysand had come into the hall from the sitting room. “I didn’t hear you wake,” he breathed and eradicated the distance between them.

“I thought everyone would be sleeping,” she told him, letting her eyes close as he placed a hand on the back of her head and kissed her hairline. “Do you have nuts around? Preferably salted?”

“Nuts?”

Arwen nodded and turned back to the kitchen. Rhysand’s steps trailed behind her and she began scavenging through all the containers and cupboards. “Where’s Cassian?”

There was a pause before he answered. “Cassian has gone to visit Lucien.”

Smiling in success upon finding a crumpled bag tucked away in a corner, she held it to her chest and scoffed. “Visit Lucien? Cassian would rather have his nails pulled out.”

Rhysand muttered something behind her. Arwen turned and dug her hand into the bag. “He’s gone to the mortal lands,” he added. “He’ll be back in a week.” A week? Arwen now sensed the lack of his presence. Her brows pushed together over the bridge of her nose, forming a large wrinkle as she stared at the ground between them. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged, still caught on the fact that Cassian wasn’t nearby. Not just out of the city, but out of Prythian.

“You sort of collapsed out of nowhere, sweetheart. I’m not expecting fine to be an answer.”

“I’m hungry,” she said a bit snippily, holding up her nuts.

His eyes dropped to it. “That’s something I suppose.”    

“And I want Cassian back.”

Rhysand’s nose flared with another hefty sigh as he braced his palm on the island bench at his side. “It’s only a week.”

She knew that. Arwen knew that it was only a week and she had lived far longer without their company before. But she needed his hand to hold. Her lip trembled in a weak attempt to smother down the utter and absolute panic through wrought through her at that moment. Her fingers whitened around the paper bag. Arwen tossed it behind her on the bench, knowing that she very well might drop it and send her snack spilling.

Her mind spiralled into a world of haze, sinking down into to deepest points of her darkest thoughts.

Rhysand appeared at her side, bringing her into a wing-enclosed embrace. “I know,” he whispered, rocking their bodies. “I know, sweetheart, I know.”

~

Arwen trekked back to her bedroom, paper bag crumpled under her grip. It was her old chamber, though the carpet had been removed in favour of a wooden floor that felt soft and smooth under her feet. Like Rhysand had told her, it had been emptied of her belongings, but the bed was the exact same. And the closet now had some of her old dresses lining them. What was most unusual, though, was the slumped Illyrian form in the vanity chair pulled near the window.

Arwen had noticed him when she woke, but pushed his presence aside in favour of her now satisfied hunt. Placing her food safely on the bed, she crept up to him and lifted his hanging chin with her fingers. “That is a terrible place to fall asleep,” she said as Azriel jerked himself awake. Arwen was surprised that he was even in the town house. For the past week he had been relentlessly avoiding Rhysand like he was prophesied to be the harbringer of a plague.

He waved his hand across his face, his fingers latching onto her retreating ones as though he was going to push them away. But he held on to them instead. He took a moment to examine her and then the room. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I’m hardly alone,” she murmured, drifting away from him and back to her bed, bringing the bag into her lap. The lack of his touch hit her harder than she expected. “Rhys and Feyre are still downstairs awake, and I swear I can almost feel Nesta’s glare through the walls.”

Azriel’s lips twitched into a morose smile. “Because the company of two mates that can’t keep their hands off each other for a single night and a female that knows only how to hiss are pleasant company.”

Arwen plopped a cashew into her mouth. “There’s Elain too,” she prompted, just to read his face as her name was spoken. He only held her gaze, unreadable as always. “But I think she’d rather speak with the dirt than me. Perhaps you are right.”

“Elain,” Azriel drew out quietly, “Would much rather speak with dirt than to anybody here.”

Arwen cocked her head. “That’s not true and you know it.” His head bowed, eyes pointing at the hands he clasped between his knees. “I’ve missed this room.” Arwen ran her hand along the blanket, gazing upon the oakwood dresser and the matching vanity, the large mirror attached to it. She couldn’t help but wonder how she would sleep knowing that Cassian wasn’t just a hallway away. There had only been one night she had spent here without him and she had barely slept, but that was for other reasons.

“Me too.” He seemed surprised by his own admission, clamping his lips shut and taking a moment to reopen them. “This is the first time I’ve been in here since…”

“I died? I’m not afraid to hear those words, Az.” Kicking her feet onto the bed, she rested against the headboard. “There’s no pretending it didn’t happen.”

“It feels like it was only days ago.” Arwen shot her brows to her hairline. His chest strained against his leathers with a long inhale, rubbing his hands together as his stare remained fixed on them. “Side-effect of having a memory given back,” he explained. “It feels new. Fresh. I can’t close my eyes without seeing it. I keep feeling the moment the mating bond broke and I knew…” Knew she was dead.

Arwen kept her breathing even as she placed the paper bag aside. Her throat bobbed hard and heavy as she shifted her legs off the edge of the bed once more. Azriel finally looked up as she approached him. He looked so utterly, lethally handsome under the moonlight. In the shadows where he belonged. One curled around his ear at that moment, no doubt whispering something that only he could hear.

Azriel stood. Arwen rose to her toes, slowly winding her arms around his neck. His hands immediately explored the canvas of her scarred back, one smoothing across the low of her spine and capturing her side, the other hooking over from the back of her shoulder, caging her in.

She breathed in his very scent, making a prayer that it would never leave her memory. Her fingers cinched around one of his leather straps, lips pressing into the muscle of his shoulder as she watched the winking stars beyond the window behind him. The tips of his fingers snuck under the hem of her pants, the pad of his thumb trailing back and forth across the bone of her hip.

The embrace quickly crossed a line between sweet comfort and something else. Arwen unwound her arms and peeled away with a generous stride backwards. His grip came loose immediately. He cut out her memory for a reason. It didn’t matter what he could say—she had to watch him slice each piece of her out of his life like she was the décor on a cake that nobody wanted. “I need sleep.”

Azriel nodded his head as though he was accepting an order. “Of course.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 71

Feyre and Rhysand were spending the day at the House of Wind, hosting audience to members of the city. He had invited Arwen to attend as she always once did, but the idea of holding a smile for so long—even if it was real at seeing the people of her city—seemed an exhausting act.

So instead, Arwen took the opportunity to spend the day shopping for Winter Solstice. And her companion was Azriel. While it had been in part because she didn’t want to spend the day alone, the offer came far more at the reason that when she mentioned buying gifts, Arwen saw the mild panic in his eyes.  

Now prepared for her body’s reaction to the ghastly temperatures, her face was rimmed by a thick fur hood, her arms were weighted under two jackets, and she had pulled on leggings underneath her pants. Azriel smiled under a ducked head when she came downstairs, donning only a simple sweater himself.

Arwen had barely slept the past two nights, in a constant state of anxiety that kept her tossing and turning no matter how many herbal teas she downed to relax. She and Feyre had spent hours into the night just gone talking about art—much to Rhysand’s annoyance who seemed to yearn for his mate’s company in the bedroom. Arwen let herself believe that he just wanted a body to fall asleep next to.

With the crooks of her elbows turning red at the straps of bags cutting into her skin, Arwen called for a break. Azriel only had a single package that was easily tucked into the pocket of his pants. He did offer to take her bags, but she waved him away. It was part of the fun, she told him. They found a seat inside of Sven’s restaurant, giving up their favoured outdoor table for the indoor heat of an oil fire that burned on one of the poles, a glass cover keeping the flames from licking out.

“Stop looking at it,” Azriel scolded her.

“He won’t know if I eat them,” she drawled. “Just a few. I bought him so many!”

The shadowsinger scoffed at her with laughter soon following. They had spent an hour in Tickling Tongues, a sweets store that had just opened in the week past. Arwen had brought a jar of almost everything for Rhysand. The one she held in her lap now became a new favourite after sampling, which had her debating whether she could hand it to her brother willingly. The store had almost sold out of everything by the time they got there, and she didn’t know if she could survive until they managed to restock.  

Azriel reached across the small, round table and plucked it from her hands before she could even whine. Arwen’s jaw dropped by an inch at the audacity. Sven came out with their meals at that moment and Arwen forgot about the sweets, smiling at her pasta. Until she picked up her fork.

“Something wrong with it?” Arwen forced the pit in her throat down with a hard swallow and shook her head at Azriel. “Can’t eat?”

She nodded. “I’ll try.”

Twisting the prongs of her fork into the dish, she focused on a past memory of how it would taste. How delicious the sauce would be once it lathered her tongue and how full it would make her before she even reached halfway. Pushing a small bite past her lips, she prayed for the same taste. But it turned to ash on her tongue and her throat tightened in warning.

The fork clanged against the side of the dish as Arwen slumped into her chair, frustration curdling in her chest where tiredness already prowled. She wanted the food. She wanted to eat. But her body refused it.

Azriel leant over the table again, adjusting her fork so it didn’t risk sliding off the plate and onto the floor. Not that she cared. “You ate this morning,” he reminded her. “Would you eat mine instead?”

She only had to glimpse at his chicken salad to know. “No,” she croaked.

Azriel picked at his meal as she stewed in her own irritation, though she could tell that he felt bad for the fact. When Sven returned to check on their meals, a pulse of worry came to her face at the sight of Arwen’s untouched plate, Azriel simply asked if there was anything they could take the food home in. She could try again at dinner.

They returned to the town house mid-afternoon and she nearly floated to the ceiling once she dropped the weight of the bags off, sending them off to her bedchamber with a wave of magic. Elain worked in the garden, tending to the small growth of plants that continued to bloom through even winter. Arwen stoked a fire in the sitting room, planting herself in front of it with a new book.

She only broke from the pages when a steaming mug was placed in front of her. Her dry lips parted, eyes turning towards the window where darkness was beginning to befall the land. “You read my mind,” she said, smiling at Azriel as she took the tea.

“Rhys and Feyre will be home soon.”

The gentle parting of her lips turned round. He wouldn’t remain to see Rhysand. “Thank you for the company today.”

His throat bobbed as he glanced off to the side. “I think I should be thanking you. The others might actually enjoy my gifts this year.”

Arwen frowned. “They always do.”

He said nothing to that, the front door creaking closed a minute later with his departure. Sighing, she placed the mug on the stone of the hearth to keep it warm and returned to her book. She hoped that she could read long and late enough that she might fall asleep in front of the fire—it wouldn’t be the worst place. Rhysand would move her if he was awake by the time she did.

But the next sound that had her pointed ears twitching was not that of her High Lord and Lady’s return. Arwen turned stiff as Nesta Archeron moved into the sitting room, not even deigning to look down at her as she glided towards the bookshelf.

Thumbing the place in her book, Arwen straightened her shoulders. “Gilded Memories,” she said. Nesta didn’t stop but her eyes cut toward Arwen. “It’s a good book if you like sloppy romance.”

Nesta yanked a book free, a perfectly shaped brow raising with disdain. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

Arwen had miscalculated her reservoir of patience as she already found herself snapping, “Nobody can say anything to you without being struck back down. I haven’t done anything to you, yet you act like I’m dirt between your toes.”

There was almost nothing to show that Nesta heard her. She situated the book into her arm, cold eyes remaining on those that lined the shelf. “Do not pretend that you are any different from the rest of them. From your brother.”

Arwen rose to her feet, back to the hearth’s now raging flames. “You judge me on an assumption. And do not dare speak of Rhysand to me like that to me or you’ll soon know the meaning of blood loyalty. You stand in his home this very second because of his courtesy.”

Nesta spun on her heels, book at her hip and Arwen had to remind her body to remain still underneath the piercing eyes of the oldest Archeron. “It is hardly courtesy. I do not make the mistake to forget that Feyre is the only reason he has not shown me the streets where he believes I should be sleeping.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “After the way you treated his mate, you should be glad your home isn’t the pits of the City of Nightmares. They’d make good use of you there.”

“At least I recognise when people do not wish to be around me,” Nesta hissed between her teeth. Arwen’s chest heaved. Nesta jerked her chin towards the distance. “Your High Lord had to resort to sending the general away just so he had a break from you because you cling to him like a child refusing to let a toy go.”

Something blunt struck Arwen’s stomach. She knew that Cassian was in the mortal lands, but Rhysand hadn’t bothered her with the details of the reason for his visit. Was it true? Cassian wouldn’t… Rhysand wouldn’t have sent him away because of her, would he?

“At least,” Nesta continued, making each step towards Arwen a parading march, “I realise what I am worth to these people. I know exactly what they think of me and don’t let fantasies control that. You lost your mate’s interest so now you’ll play with the next best option until they wear of you too. Trust me, I know how it works.”

Arwen saw Rhysand in Nesta’s face. The licks of the fire’s heat had turned to whips of ice against her legs. She began to relive that day, even punch that her brother’s words sent to her soul.

Something caught Nesta’s eye in the hazed reflection of the marble behind Arwen’s head. A weight set her shoulders lower, but the cold female set her chin high, jaw ticking. She turned slowly and Arwen just made out through her blurred, stinging eyes her brother standing in the threshold.

Mor had a fierce grip on his shoulder, Feyre clinging to his other hand.

Nothing short of hot fury consumed the air around him. “You will get out of this house, Nesta, before I snap your neck because that is what happened to the last person who spoke to my sister like that.”

Nesta dared challenge him. “I spill a few truths and you’ll ignore what your mate wants for me?”

“Feyre is lucky that I’m even offering you the chance to walk away alive,” spat Rhysand. “Speak one more word to my sister and I will rescind that offer. You have an hour, and if I even scent you on Arwen again, you will be hunted out of this city. Have I made myself clear enough?”

Feyre looked devastated—devastated at Nesta’s actions, devastated at what her mate commanded—but she did not speak out to argue his order. Mor fought against Rhysand’s attempt to move forward, tendrils of darkness slipping over his shoulders like a harness of armour.

“Where will I go?”

The question was aimed at Feyre, but Rhysand answered. “I don’t particularly care.”

Nesta seemed to stifle all signs of her emotion, bottling them up inside of her and welding the cap shut. Her heels clicked against the floor, the only sound throughout the entire town house. “You’re a hypocrite, Rhysand.” She tossed the book she had chosen minutes prior onto the lounge and left the sitting room on the far exit.

Feyre murmured something to Rhysand before trailing after her sister up the stairs.

“Is it true?”

It took a moment for her brother to pull his eyes away from the stone glare they were set in that pierced the spot Nesta once stood. “Nothing she said is true, Arwen.”

But she didn’t believe it. And she had good reason not to. “Did you send Cassian away because of me?”

He took Mor’s hand that remained on his shoulder, speaking something to her that went missed by Arwen’s ears which had blood rushing through them. Mor nodded and moved to follow Feyre’s footsteps. Once their cousin had gone, Rhysand held a hand towards Arwen. “Come outside to the garden with me.”

“I’m not moving until you answer me.”

“And I won’t be able to think straight until I’m not standing under the same roof as her.”

Arwen blinked and rocked slightly on her heels. Eventually, she strode forward, but passed the offered hand and led the way out to the frosted garden, the kiss of winter cruel in comparison to the encapsulating warmth inside.  

Rhysand was quick to curve her into his embrace, though Arwen settled for lowering her forehead to his shoulder, leaving her arms at her side. “Cassian is not gone because of you.”

She used her forearms to battle for space between them. “Do not tell me lies, brother. He has no reason to be there.”

He grappled at her wrists, trapping them from tearing away. She didn’t still entirely, but she needed to hear the truth, even if she could not handle it. It would break her, but it would be better than living a lie. “He didn’t want to go, Arwen,” Rhysand said. “Refused the idea.”

“But you still sent him.” With each second her voice grew louder. “You sent him away because of me.”

He dipped his head close to hers, their breath fogging into a single cloud. “I sent him away for you. Not because of you.” The remainder of her fight ebbed away, leaving her with nothing but the bitter cold. “I sent him away exactly because of the reaction you had when I told you. What if he had to leave for longer—somewhere more dangerous? Cassian did not leave your side until I commanded it as his High Lord. So do not for one second believe it is because of what Nesta said.” A second passed. “Because of what I once did.”

Her shoulders rose and fell with laboured breaths. Her eyes cinched shut as she shook her head wildly. “I don’t want to be a burden, Rhys. I don’t want to—”

“Never,” he cut her off.

Chapter Text

Chapter 72

Arwen had forgotten what day it was. In hindsight, she was sure Rhysand never mentioned it for that exact reason. Feyre had left an hour ago with a remark about a painting studio in the city and Elain was curled up in her room somewhere as usual. Mor and Azriel were likely at the House of Wind, and Nesta… Well, Arwen didn’t know where Nesta had gone. Nobody told her and she never asked. But she was aware Rhysand still wasn’t particularly happy with whatever those circumstances were. Arwen commented that his love for Feyre must be stronger than the mountains the city was built within if he kept his temper for her.

“It’s testing me,” he had replied lowly, but added a wink to Feyre who was listening in.

Now she sat with him in his office, sorting through his personal letters as Rhysand reviewed the drafts for the new treaties with the other courts that he and Mor had been putting together.

“With love?” she read aloud. Rhysand frowned at her, then at the letter she held up which was signed with a beautiful cursive signature that led into a heart. “Do I have to inform your darling High Lady of your relations with…” Arwen checked the letter again. “Helion?”

He snatched the letter from her hands, tossing it to the side. “Prick.” But a chuckle came a moment later. “What are you thinking for lunch? I don’t expect Feyre will be back till late so we can do whatever you want.”

“Oh, I see.” Arwen pulled up her knees to press them against the edge of the desk. “So I wouldn’t have had a choice if Feyre was here.”

Rhysand thinned his eyes at her. “I meant,” he began slowly and flicked her nose, “that if she was here we would have come to a compromise. But she isn’t so it is entirely your choice.” Arwen winced at the flick, swatting his hand away as a smile played her lips. A loud knocking reverberated throughout the entire house. Rhysand peered up over her head towards the office door. "Maybe you will have to compromise after all.”

She didn’t understand what he meant until the second knock came along with a call of complaint in the guttural voice of Cassian. The legs of her chair scraped against the floor, the loose dress swishing around her legs like the waves that lapped in the Sidra. Veering out of the office, Arwen looked down the long hall, the foyer entrance on the far side.

Cassian had grown impatient as she felt, already stepping inside, the talons on each great wing just missing the top ledge of the doorway. As she met his hazel eyes, even from the distance, he smiled. Arwen’s feet were moving before she commanded them to, barely feeling the slight thud in her knee with each step, soon turning into a run. His arms were opened before she reached him.

“Cassian!”

Leaping up, she flung her arms around his neck and her legs latched around his waist. He caught her weight, not even a stumble under the brunt of her force. For the first time in a week, she felt perfectly safe.

His laughter flooded her ears and if it was possible, she held him tighter. “Hi, sweetheart.”

After the past three nights spent in doubt of his return and running Nesta’s words over and over and over again in her head, feeling him hold her back with the same vigour, the same unwillingness to even let air slip between them was a relief that Arwen would never find the words to describe.

~

Rhysand smiled at the pair that had just become oblivious to the rest of the world. It reminded him of a time so long gone when she would run to Cassian in the same way when he visited their camp. How his mother would have to pry her off him.  

Cassian kissed her cheek where he could, her head deeply buried within the slope of his neck and shoulder. Rhysand could see all of it in his face—the worry that had only stacked over the course of the week, especially when he refused to tell Cassian anything of Arwen’s state when he checked in through a mind link. And the relief that now he could see her for himself.

~

Rhysand knew what was coming which is why he situated himself in the middle seat of the longest lounge, guiding Arwen to the one on his left, Feyre taking the right. Mor and Cassian each took up an armchair. Amren, like Azriel, was ignoring his existence for an undefined length of time. Though, he assumed Amren’s annoyance was less with the memory itself and more to do with the fact that Rhys meddled with her head unknowingly at all. But his balls were still intact so he was pleased with that outcome.

“I couldn’t stand to hear Lucien’s voice anymore,” Cassian told them, “So I headed up to the camps a few days ago instead.” Rhysand translated that as he couldn’t stand not working and needed a better distraction. But it also explained the heavier weight on his shoulders, the hardness in his eyes. The camps weren’t exactly in the best state—not that they ever were. “Spring is a dump though. Lucien says it’s nothing but remains.”

“I’ll be going down before Solstice,” said Rhys.

Arwen leant forward, elbows digging into the tops of her knees as she cupped a glass of ruby liquid. “Do you have to? He can rot down there alone.”

“I’ll be seeing to it that, that is exactly what is happening.” He tipped his own glass to watch how the wine stained the inside only to dissipate and leave it clear again. “We think Beron is looking at expanding into human territory. He’ll need Tamlin’s permission to be at those borders.”

His sister raised her shoulders. “Stab them both. Problem solved.”

Cassian lifted his drink in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

“And about twenty new ones made,” Rhysand chuckled. “The pair of you make me feel better about my decision making every day.” He turned to Feyre. “You see why I’m glad I have you?”

Mor tipped her head and said to no one in particular, “And I am a pebble in your shoe, apparently.”

“You are a gemstone in his shoe, Mor.” Arwen winked at her cousin, but Rhysand noted the weakness in the movement and the waver in her smile. “Don’t downgrade yourself.”

She hadn’t eaten all day either. Lunch was forgotten on account of Cassian’s return, and Rhys didn’t feel like being the advocate of morose memories and said nothing of it. At dinner, she had retreated to her room in favour of a nap that hadn’t done her any good by the rings under her eyes.

“I think that it is good to have a variety of opinions on a matter,” said Feyre and Cassian teased her on the neutrality of her position.

As they laughed and bickered, Rhysand watched his sister. Violet eyes set on watching the match between Feyre and Cassian blinked slower with each moment. Weaker. The signs he had seen in the hours leading up. Moving around like she had constantly just battled Ramiel, like her muscles ached even though she never complained they had.

Arwen’s weight began to tip sideways, the wine inside her glass tilting closer to the thin rim. Rhysand lurched forward as the wine poured out. Cassian cursed in surprise, but Feyre and Mor had already been expecting as Rhysand was. He cupped her forehead first, keeping her from tumbling off the seat, letting the wine glass fall from her hands, its contents spilling along the floor, glass shattering. It was wiped away by Mor’s magic in a second anyway.

Cassian had risen from his chair, but Rhysand remained the image of ease, softly pushing her back upright and then guiding her to his side. Arwen’s lashes still fluttered as she hovered in the liminal space between lucid and unconscious. Laughter fled the room.

“This is the fourth time,” he said to Cassian quietly as he situated her head into his lap, pulling her legs onto the lounge. “Not as bad as the first. Lasts a few minutes to an hour.”

“Madja—"

He cut Cassian off with a shake of his head. “We’re going to see Helion.” Rhysand glanced at Feyre, if only for the strength it offered him. He had been speaking to Helion ever since he saw something in her mind. The High Lord of Day already knew of celestians and Rhysand trusted him enough to share the details of his sister’s condition. At first it was seeking an answer to why he was able to pull her out of death, and now it was for this. “After Solstice though. Poked and prodded but not until after the fun,” he recited the deal they had made. “If anybody has any idea, it’ll be him.”

“It’s like she’s getting weaker instead of stronger with each day,” Mor murmured. She was getting weaker each day, Rhysand corrected to himself.

“You think it’s smart to wait until after Solstice?” Cassian asked.

“I think it’s the only way she would agree to it,” Rhysand replied. “Azriel hates it more than I do. But if it goes from bad to worse in the next week, then she won’t exactly be conscious enough to argue the travel.”

“Should we take her up to her room?” Feyre asked, but Rhysand shook his head. Each time it happened bar the first, she had sought him out straight after waking. That might change now that Cassian had returned, but it was all the same. He could see the uncertainty that made her eyes turn dull each time—perhaps a wonder of how much time had passed or trying to recall where she had left off. He could slip into her mind during these moments, but her thoughts were blurred and messy.

“This place feels too quiet,” Cassian said after a minute, his eyes still on her form.

“Azriel comes through the day when Rhys and I are working,” Feyre answered, but it wasn’t the question Cassian was asking. “Elain still keeps to her room.”

Rhys cracked his lips apart, contemplating the best way to say it when Mor cut to the chase. “Nesta no longer lives here.”

He sent her a half-hearted glare as Feyre sighed. It had taken a toll on his mate, but she understood and agreed that Arwen had more right to have the town house as a home than Nesta.

Cassian arched his brows. “Explain,” he simply said.

Rhysand sent him the memory of what he had walked in on that evening. A concoction of frustration, rage and grimness painted Cassian’s face. “I’m paying for the rent,” he added. “I’ve offered her every job under the sun but she won’t take them.” Of course, Cassian already knew that part, but Rhysand wasn’t sure how Cassian would take having Nesta being thrown out like she had been and wanted to ensure his general knew that he was giving his mate’s sister more than she deserved. If Rhysand’s suspicions were proven true, Cassian would be in a difficult spot.

The question was still hanging—what had become of Cassian and Arwen. He had danced around the subject with Cassian, but his brother always replied that they were exactly what they showed. Rhysand could still distinguish the certain eye Arwen had when it came to Azriel, but it was far dimmer than it ever had been before. Not in a lack of feeling, he realised after a while, but in resignation. The same look he had knowing Feyre’s wedding to Tamlin was approaching.

“Glad I wasn’t there,” is all the general said through a low breath. Rhysand wasn’t sure how he was supposed to imagine that night going if Cassian had been present, but he wasn’t about to question and find out.

Chapter Text

Chapter 73

In the days leading to Winter Solstice, Arwen hardly saw Rhysand or Cassian—even Feyre and Mor became occupied enough that finding an hour to spend with them became a task in itself. Amren appeared twice, the first time with an excuse to search for something in the town house but the entire visit was spent peppering Arwen with questions on herself and the daily doings of her brother. The second time she simply came around to eat—the sight still shocked Arwen who stared as she guzzled down a good portion of meat that Nuala cooked her. Apparently she hadn’t eaten in hours since she had no food in the apartment, the habit of shopping for it still lost.

The rest of her time was spent skilfully avoiding Elain, and in the company of Azriel. Arwen had asked why he had so much free time to occupy in the town house with her. His answer was that he was able to perform his work at night, which he preferred.

His shield covered them now, a shimmering dome that protected the small rooftop terrace from the breeze. The siphons on each gauntlet made pulsating glows. Arwen used her own magic to warm the space, letting them sit comfortably at the iron table, a stack of cards between them.

Arwen eyed her set. “Rhys says you’re speaking to him again.”

Azriel, perched across from her had near perfect posture compared to her lazed slouched, her feet propped on the clawed feet of the table. “Unfortunately, it is part of my duties. Cassian is useless at conveying what I need him to.”

Cassian had taken less time to forgive Rhysand’s meddling, though she would guess it would take him much longer to forget. And that is why she believed that perhaps Cassian purposefully mis-relayed information, forcing Azriel into proximity.

She placed her card down. “I know you’re upset that he went into your mind,” she said—carefully, softly. “But I think he did it for the right reason. Whatever memory he gave you was obviously better than the real thing.”

“It was a lie.” The same thing he said that night.

“A better lie though?” she challenged.

Azriel tipped his head, eyes set on the stacked cards along the table and his own hand. “I could have saved you.” He tossed a card down, ignoring her heavy stare. “If I had come minutes earlier it would have changed everything. He changed that part of my memory. In the one he gave me, you died without warning and there was nothing I could have done. There was no cure but you weren’t in pain. In my real memory we didn’t speak. I barely saw you for a minute when you were alive and you died suffering. In the one he gave me, we had dinner together. We spent the evening talking on one of the balconies alone before Cassian took you home.”

Arwen could barely look at the cards to think of which one to play, so she pulled one without thought and placed it down. “What did we talk about?”

Azriel frowned at her newly placed card. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” She pressed forward against the table. “Rhys gave that memory to you because he thought that is what you would have wanted. I’m here now to listen.”

“You won’t want to hear it now.” Cold. Distant. Spymaster. His shadows swarmed him.

“There is very little you could say to me, Azriel, that would hurt.” Her own cold truth. Arwen couldn’t imagine anything he would say that would change how she felt. How shadowed her world felt. How the dull clouds overhead seemed a perfect metaphor for her life. “Very little that would change anything.”

He played his card, letting his fingers linger around it before he retreated, delaying an answer if he decided to give one at all. “I told you that I loved you. You were upset because you wanted to tell me first and told me I had no patience.” He leant back into his chair, licking his lips and nodding down to the pile in an urge for her to play her next card.

Arwen forgot she was even holding any. That was the memory Rhysand gave him? She tried to imagine how she would have felt to hear it then—how she probably would have been upset that he beat her to the confession, but secretly unable to hold her excitement.

But he hadn’t said it and neither did she. Arwen died and they cursed her name and left no memory of her existence. Now they shared nothing but a broken bond, and she battled the confusion of whether what she felt was a ghost of that connection, or something else. And if she had to guess, she would say that he felt the same—that her sudden reappearance muddled what he thought he knew.

Even if she heard it now—even if he stood and declared his love for her today, Arwen wasn’t sure she could accept it. Because how could she trust it?

~

Cassian had shown up on the doorstep of the town house with the traditional solstice decorations. Feyre, who had yet to celebrate one in the Night Court, wasn’t pleased to have the large pile of pine dough at her feet until she was assured that it was proper and expected. After greeting Feyre, Cassian curved around to Arwen. She grinned as he kissed her cheek, the pressure tipping her off her feet.

“Someone is in a good mood,” she remarked.

“Why would I be anything else?” he asked with a cheek swelling grin. He moved around to her back, large hands massaging her shoulders. “I’m also in the mood for a drink.”

“Hot cocoa or wine?” Feyre inquired.

“When has ‘I’m in the mood for a drink’ ever been answered with something that wasn’t alcohol?” His face appeared next to Arwen’s again. “Red? White? What’s the princess in the mood for?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I might take that hot cocoa.”

The answer wasn’t taken well but ironically at the weakness of her argument, he gave way. Arwen curled herself on the armchair, holding the warm mug with a heavy rug thrown over her lap as Cassian and Feyre drank and decorated the house. It was… Awful. Nothing hung straight and some of it was not in the right place. One wreath even caught fire.

It both annoyed and amused her, but she didn’t have the energy to go around fixing it all like a servant to a clumsy master. Proud of their work, Feyre and Cassian fell into the lounge with the dregs of a second bottle from Rhysand’s cellar.

Azriel shuffled in, still shaking snow of his dark hair and jacket when he paused at the threshold and beheld the new decorations. “What the fuck?” Cassian and Feyre threw their heads back with raucous laughter. He didn’t even shed his jacket before setting on fixing the nearest decorations.

“Eh!” Cassian bellowed, trying to hold a façade of insult that was ruined with another laugh. “I did that.”

Azriel didn’t answer with anything but a look of disbelief. Arwen smiled over the lip of her mug, watching him meticulously fix everything. It was such an Azriel thing to do. Noticing her slackening grip on the mug, she gathered the energy to place it on the ground next to the armchair and tugged the rug underneath her chin as another bout of drowsiness took her. She didn’t lose all sense of alertness, instead, it was like bobbing on the surface of water.

When she came to it, Mor had planted herself on Arwen’s armrest, her arm thrown across the back of the chair. Arwen frowned at the sight of something white and fluffy before her, just making out Amren’s scowling face that was like a pebble on top of a snowball.

The scowl turned on her. “What are you looking at, girl?”

Arwen could only smile and shake her head in denial of any thought. “Nothing.” Her answer seemed to strike amusement around the room, the skin around Cassian’s eyes wrinkling with another round of laughter and even Azriel, quiet in his corner, smiled to the ground.

~

Arwen baulked at the sight of Elain moving from the kitchen into the dining room, a hot plate of steaming potatoes in her hand. She hadn’t been aware Elain was helping Nuala and Cerridwen cook. Arwen stammered right in the middle of the hall, Mor knocking into her shoulder before careening around to get to the food being placed. Azriel, who she could see was already inside helping arrange the dishes to fit, smiled at Elain. He took the plate from her. Arwen’s stomach twisted at the sight.

Even though she knew it wasn’t what was happening, the only thing she could see was the sight of him accepting food from a female. The moment of a bond’s acceptance that Arwen would never get to experience.  

Her hand blindly sought out the body she sensed coming up behind her. Rhysand stopped at her side when she took his wrist. “I… I don’t think I can eat tonight.”

He twisted his wrist out of her hand, taking her own in his instead. “Just sit with us then. Try a little.” Arwen didn’t want to admit it outright, so she looked up to him and pled with her eyes. Don’t make me sit with her. Don’t make me watch them. Rhysand glimpsed beyond her to the room where their family congregated. “This is a family night, and it wouldn’t be complete if you weren’t here. It’s been too long.”

“I—”

“Sit between Feyre and Cass. Or I will be moping all evening on account of your disappearance.”

Arwen cocked her head. “Do not blackmail me with your moping.”

“Do not blackmail me with yours,” he shot back. “Nobody will mind if you’re quiet. It’s just nice to have you here.”

Arwen kept her mouth tightly sealed because the only thought she had was, I have been here. Every single year. There had not been a single Winter Solstice she had spent away from his side. Since she couldn’t formulate any other argument than that, Rhysand took it as a victory and dragged her in by the hand. He moved Cassian a seat over and only released her hand once she sat, then found his own seat on Feyre’s other side.

Cassian, still half-drunk and out of current events, gave her a look of innocent curiosity. “You can have my serving,” she told him with a small smile.

His lips stretched into a grin at first, fierce hazel eyes darting back to the food but the realisation trickled back in and he looked over her again. His hand took hers under the table. Arwen looked over the food, tricking herself to point her focus on the large chunk of ham but truly her focus turned to Azriel in the far corner of her eye. He sat next to Mor at the end, Elain on Mor’s other side.

Even when she felt his eyes on her, she did not look up. Cassian dug into his meal and Arwen traded his hand for his thigh, gripping the muscle through the cotton fabric of his pants that surprisingly weren’t leather. Her plate remained empty, but she planned to at least touch desert.

“What are you getting me for Solstice?”

She shot him an amused look. “You used to ask me every year so I will give you the same answer—”

“It will be socks if you ask me again,” he recited with her, downing another portion of his wine. “Do you actually have socks ready to give me?”

“I do. They’re white with little flowers sewn on.” She had to buy new ones, but with the inside joke having run so long between them, it felt wrong not to have them at the ready—just so he knew that her taunt wasn’t just a taunt. “The shopkeeper was very… interested when I told her what size I needed them in. She’s only made them for children before.”

He nudged her side with his elbow. “You know what Feyre told me? Apparently in the human lands, feet are comparable to wingspans.” And other things, she filled in, half-shocked at his decency to watch his words at the dinner table. He frowned at her. “How the hell do you know my foot size?”

Arwen shrugged. “Mor talks.” Feyre, on her other side, snorted into her drink. Arwen shared a grin with the High Lady who covered her chuckles behind her hand. In truth she had borrowed one of his unused boots for the day and taken it down. The seamstress seemed quite displeased with the dirty shoe being placed on her clean counter.

“I must have made a lasting impression then,” Cassian proclaimed, winking across the table at Mor who only perked at the sound of her name.

“Yet she never came running back,” Arwen couldn’t help but sing under her breath, knowing full well that he could hear her. Her voice travelled further than she thought as Rhysand and Amren coughed before giving up on stifling anything and laughed freely.

She might have left the conversation there, venturing into territory she wasn’t sure was safe to be held in such company, but with a quick glance around the table, she found Azriel looking down at his plate. Pretending she didn’t exist.

Arwen smirked at the frowning warrior. “You may have size, but your performance is in question.”

Forearms braced against the table, he leant in close to her ear. “Move your hand three inches higher and you’ll see the performance I can give you.”

Rhysand saved her from responding. He closed his eyes and shook his head, singing a horrid tune over top of the other voices. Cassian pressed his lips to the high point of her jaw, just next to her ear and chuckled deeply to himself, leaning back into his seat and drew into conversation with Feyre, leaving her to stew in the comment.

Arwen’s attention fell back to Azriel. It was like he had heard nothing. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but something was better than nothing.

Chapter Text

Chapter 74

She couldn’t help but smile on the morning of Winter Solstice. Having little wine the night before, she was one of the first to awaken. Arwen held Feyre’s present in hand—the one for her birthday. Since it was the first gift she would be giving her High Lady, and her brother’s mate, she had this idea that it should be special… Personal.

Feyre and Rhysand took their time to emerge from their rooms, Arwen beginning to stare at the clock in impatience, but they weren’t the last to arise. Rhysand swept her into a hug despite having seen her only hours before. She hugged him back with the same vigour also despite the fact, smiling at the Illyrian leathers he donned.

“Happy birthday, Feyre,” said Arwen, handing her the small, wrapped package.

“I’m being spoilt with all these early gifts.” But smiled, nevertheless. Clawing at the packaging, Feyre revealed the thick journal within.

“It’s a tracking book,” Arwen explained. “The paper is thick so you can put samples of any paints you buy, test them watered down too. I thought it would come in handy.”

“It’s wonderful.”

The three of them settled into a late breakfast, but Rhysand barely touched his before Cassian and Azriel appeared behind him. They hauled their High Lord right from his seat, the three of them giddy like children. Arwen decided the winnow after them.

She perched on the roof of the cabin, clearing a section of snow off with her magic. Drawing her knees up and pulling a thick rug around her shoulders, Arwen watched the three of them build their fortresses and prepare their ammo. She might have been warmer back at the town house. Might have had more company and a softer seat. But this had been her own tradition for two hundred and fifty years, forced along each time. Only this time, she smiled through it and sat there willingly. They were so distracted by their endeavour, that Arwen wasn’t sure they even noticed her dark form against the rest of the white roof.

Their dialogue was nothing but insults and taunts, and a few shouts mixed in between. She did eventually wander into the cabin itself, making herself a tea and lighting a fire for the sake of her frozen hands. After a few hours, Mor and Feyre arrived, the latter remaining caught on the existence of the snowball fight for an hour more.

Cassian stalked inside first, trudging snow everywhere. Mor laughed as Arwen rolled her lips between her teeth. Rhysand entered behind him, sour-faced but at least taking the moment to clear his boots and dishevelled hair at the doorway.

“By the look on your faces, I guess that leaves Azriel as the victor?” Mor crooned.

Azriel entered last, a small but firm smile stuck on his cheeks. Cassian waved Mor off like he hadn’t just spent the past three hours vying over that title and headed straight to the fire to heat his hands. Rhysand stuck his under his armpits.

“So nothing unusual,” Arwen remarked.

Mor barked with laughter. Cassian and Rhysand scowled at her but she earnt Azriel’s approving eye. A moment of shameful greed overcame her in that moment. She was in her home, with her family. Feyre was the only relatively foreign thing about, but Arwen was glad she was there. But what she was truly greedy over was the fact that there was no Elain. No Nesta. No talks of work or politics. Like how it used to be. Like she could wipe the past two hundred and fifty years and it would feel like nothing has changed.

And maybe it was dangerous—to forget.

~

Arwen convinced them into a new competition. They collected coal from the fire and evenly split it amongst themselves—Mor and Feyre favouring watching from the small deck with hot drinks instead, delegated as judges. Arwen knelt along the ground, rolling and compacting snow together, the image of a great snowman in mind. They worked in a circle, faces downturned in concentration that she couldn’t help but amuse herself with by looking over them every few minutes.

Cassian’s ended up as tall as he was, but a little lopsided. He left towards the treeline with a comment about finding sticks for arms. Arwen waited until he had left to sneak a closer peek.

She gasped. “He has way more coal than us!” Rhysand was too busy marking his own snowman’s face to hear, but Azriel scurried over at the accusation. It was true. Cassian’s snowman had far more coal than hers did, giving him enough to detail the outline of a scarf and buttons as well as a neatly made face. She barely had enough to make an angled smile.

“Cheating bastard,” Azriel muttered. With a quick check over his shoulder, he quickly worked at pulling the black chunks out of the compacted snow. He divided what he took between them and the pair hurried back to their own creations before Cassian returned. Rhysand remained oblivious. She had to admire his dedication.

Cassian returned with a pile of sticks, going about snapping them into the desired proportions. It was until he turned to his creation, that he paused. Arwen diverted her gaze, pretending not to notice the silent glare that passed over her as he hunted down the one responsible. Although, he committed the crime first, she reasoned.

“You bitch.”

Arwen found Cassian staring at her. “Me?”

He stalked forward, a grabbing hand extending towards her. “You didn’t have those when I left,” he growled, nodding downwards.

She followed the line of sight. Straight to the coal she had in her hand.

Damn; she would not be making her debut as a criminal any time soon. Her free hand shot up, pointing at Azriel on her other side. “It was—”

She cut herself of with a shriek as he grabbed at her. Arwen twisted her way out, looking to Azriel for support but he only stepped away. She had just tried to pin it on him. Cassian launched after her again, shouting a command for her to surrender the stolen assets. Arwen, in turn, leapt to Azriel.

She clung to him as Cassian clung to her. Her feet were hauled from the ground and her viper grip on Azriel’s neck dragged him into the midst. “It wasn’t me!” she cried. “It wasn’t me!” Cassian jostled her around, trying to both keep her in his hold and reach around for the coal she held in the hand not wrung around the spymaster’s neck. The world became a blur of white and black. Azriel bowed his head, trying to duck away from her encaging arm. Cassian clawed at her fisted hand that she pressed to her stomach, unrelenting in its hold. Arwen hung between them both, the toes of her boots just scraping the snowy ground.

All three of them laughed.

The feeling of her lungs shaking in such a way was so foreign to Arwen that she wasn’t sure what was happening at first until she could hear her own higher pitch above their chesty ones. Their hands became a tangle, and she couldn’t tell which belonged to who, and as Azriel began to fight off Cassian instead, she barely remembered the reason for the scuffle.

Arwen fell back onto Cassian’s hard body, through him, feeling a collection of snow splatter and soften their fall. She brought Azriel with them and he crushed down on her front. She gasped for the stolen breath, even if there wasn’t much left through her fit of laughter that turned into a wheeze when she wasn’t able to stop.

Azriel rolled off her first, giving her the space to tip off Cassian. She hit the soft ground on her elbows and knees. Rocking, Arwen attempted to gain the momentum to rise, but on a downwards rock, ass to heels, she couldn’t find the energy to move forward. Pushing to her hands, she let her head hang and used the muscles in her arms to press up but that too failed.

Something hot trickled down her nose. She lifted a shaking hand to wipe at it, already scenting the blood. On confirmation at sight, she erased the evidence on her pants.

A warm hand laid on her back and with her remaining strength, Arwen lifted her head and smiled at Cassian. “I’m okay.” In that moment, she was more than okay.

He took an observation for himself and that’s when Arwen noticed it wasn’t his hand that was touching her. It moved as another joined it, the foreign strength lifting her upper body straight and she fell against Azriel’s shoulder.

With the depleted energy she had, Arwen gave another laugh, the sound breathy and hoarse. Until she looked at the fallen snowman. Distraught warped her features. “Th-that’s mine,” she wheezed. Cassian guiltily looked over the indistinguishable mound. Her shoulders would have slumped if they weren’t already. Azriel’s small laugh sounded in her ear as he gave a sympathetic rub to her shoulder. “My snowman.”

Rhysand came to stand next to it, using the toe of his boot to nudge a clump of coal. “I think that was an act of sabotage.”

Cassian spluttered. “I fell. And she stole my coal!”

“You had more than your fair share,” she retorted.

Rhysand looked over his shoulders. “Judges?!” Mor and Feyre both yelled their agreeance of cheating. He grinned at Azriel. “That leaves you and me, Az.”

“Azriel is the one who took the coal and gave it to me,” Arwen said. “I was just the recipient of the goods.”

She almost laughed again at the proximity of his glare. “We were supposed to be partners in crime,” he muttered into her ear, the warmth of his breath tickling it.

Rhysand held out his arms. “Then I claim victory by default.”

Arwen looked over at his snowman. And frowned. “You cheated too.”

He had the audacity to not pretend to understand why she would accuse him of such a thing. “I did not. I was working to myself the entire time.”

Cassian perked at the accusation as if he wasn’t just under the same fire moments ago. “What did you do, Rhysie?” Rhysand glared at him.

“That snowman is far too perfect,” she proclaimed, gesturing to the smooth edges. “You used magic, didn’t you?”

He dropped to a kneel so he matched all their heights—a tactic that did not go unmissed. Rhysand smiled softly at her. “Arwen, I swear to you that I did not cheat.”

Arwen gathered her energy once more and pushed off Azriel’s front, crawling along the snowy powder until she was knee-to-knee with her brother. Grinning, she pinched his chin. “You lie, brother!” She laughed again, throwing her head back to the clear sky before drawing it back. “Your eyes thin when you lie.”

He twisted his chin out of her hold, grinning to the plain beyond as he cursed to the wind.

Mor slapped her hands against the deck's railing. “He lies! Sentence him to the gallows!” Feyre laughed and nearly spilt her drink, thanking Arwen for the clue-in for future use.

No one won the snowman competition. Rhysand scooped her up rather haphazardly, having her half-tipped over his shoulder as they made their way back into the cabin. But she knew the act was a hidden one of support—so she didn’t have to hobble into a chair. So, they didn’t have to see her weakening state.  Mor was quick to shove wine into her hand which Arwen took without complaint.

Rhysand smiled down at her blanket-engulfed spot on the lounge before his lips twitched into a flat line. He crouched beside the rolling arm and reached for her jaw. She winced at the flare of pain. “Just a bruise,” he muttered, returning the smile. “Nasty but small.”

“I have Amren on my face?”

From near the fireplace, Cassian saluted her with his drink. Arwen laughed when Rhysand did, her cheeks straining and her muscles aching. They just stared at each other for a moment—a moment that neither of them probably ever thought would come to pass again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 75

Arwen stood in front of her long mirror, adjusting the loose sleeves of the emerald dress that had come to be her favourite. She could hear her family moving around downstairs. Lucien had come earlier, a pleasant surprise though he hadn’t stayed long. But Arwen managed to give him her gift, surprised to see that he had bought her one as well. It was a gold cuff that would fit to her bicep, decorated with a carving of flowers.

Not for Spring, he had assured her, but because she reminded him of violets.

Azriel had stiffened from the threshold he was passing through just off to her left. “What do you know?” Arwen had gone pale at his voice which sent a trill down her spine.

Lucien had stammered. “Her eyes,” he answered eventually. “They remind me of violets.”

Arwen’s eyes dropped to Azriel’s hand which danced around the hilt of Truth Teller at his thigh. She took his hand, alarmed at the sudden snap of his temper. But Lucien’s answer satisfied whatever he was looking for and he pulled away from her, leaving for another room.

That was an hour ago and Azriel had downed another drink since then. The presents that had lain neatly in a pile on her bed disappeared around that time, joining the pile that Rhysand had collected. Cassian had already tried snooping as he feigned interest in asking about the day prior but she had watched him in the mirror investigate the one with his name inked into the tag.

Arwen left her bedroom. Elain was in the hall, also heading downstairs. She had changed out of her flour-stained shirt from that morning into an amethyst-coloured dress that softened her already smooth curves.

Arwen hesitated. “Thank you… For cooking,” she said. “I’m sure it’ll all be gone by tomorrow.”

Elain frowned at the space between them. “It was distracting,” she replied before continuing down the hall. Arwen glared at the empty space, contemplating whisking away the present that had Elain’s name labelled on it. She had no doubt Feyre’s sister did not bother with a present for her.

But by the time Arwen reached downstairs, most of the thought was pushed into the dusty corner of her mind.

Arwen took her spot next to Cassian at the fireplace where they toasted. Amren stood with Varian, her chin high and haughty. She couldn’t help but watch as Azriel entered, decked in a rather handsome attire of a black jacket and pants. Two siphons remained on the back of each hand and his shadows trailed him like whisps of smoke. Not swirling wildly and reaching or hiding away. Just a part of him.

He went to Elain.

Arwen turned around, smiling to Cassian then looking to the fire instead. Her knees weakened, but not for the reason they had been for the past weeks. She stared at the flames, half-listening to the conversation between Mor and Amren behind her.

The fire faltered, shrinking down into itself like it was suddenly being starved. Shadows replaced it. Azriel appeared in the corner of her eye. “Are you prepared to be spoilt?”

“What?” Her voice barely formed the word.

He smiled at the room, his attention constantly shifting but there was no mistaking he was speaking to her. “Spoilt. You think we wouldn’t spoil you on your first celebration with us again?” Azriel turned around as Rhysand kissed Feyre’s cheek and left the room. Arwen stilled as he inched closer to her, both facing the fire. “I shouldn’t know this, but… Rhys bought you something every year.”

The heat in her cheeks could only partially be explained by the fire. And it wasn’t comfortable—not even in the way of a blush. It was hot like a fever. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Exactly that,” he murmured. “Every Winter Solstice when he bought our presents, he would always come back with an extra that we’d never see again. I realised they were for you.”

Conversation grew behind her as a new event passed over but Arwen went blank to the world. For all the years that she was forced at his side, she had never paid thought to notice. Someone noticed she hadn’t joined the party, tugging her into their ground once more. A great tiered cake rest on one of the tables, Feyre blowing the candles out. Arwen denied a slice of it, saving any appetite she had for something of proper nutrition.

“Arwen,” her brother called. From her spot, sat on the stone of the fire’s hearth, Arwen perked. “What time is it?”

Her lips rounded, eyes shooting towards one of the clocks before she caught on to his tone. Lopping her head back towards him, she smiled and lifted her shoulders to her ears. “Presents,” she sang.

A moment later, they appeared in the bay under the window—far more than she had seen in years. Arwen remained seat and let the celebration continue around her. Amren swiftly took the lead and tore into her package with such urgency that Arwen prayed nothing delicate was inside. Pearl earrings from Azriel.

Arwen snorted at Cassian’s present for Mor—red negligee which she thought was actually rather nice and considered whether to ask Cassian where he bought it from. More presents were passed around, two already placed at Arwen’s side. She had a hand laid on one with the intention to open, but her thoughts felt out of place and distant.

Azriel reappeared at her side, a hand curling around the back of her neck, the other taking her closest arm. “Come away from the fire.”

Her brows furrowed over the bridge of her nose. “But I’m cold.”

Hazel eyes searched her face. “You’re tired,” he told her—soft but firm. Not for her to argue with. “If you drop out, you’re going to fall right back into the flames.” Drop out. The term they’d come to label her periodic wavering of consciousness. It hadn’t felt like anything other than sleep to her. Sure she felt sluggish, but to Arwen, they were small naps.

Her gaze dropped to the scarred hand holding her arm. To the rippled skin that had once been soaked in oil and set alight. She couldn’t deny him. Azriel rose with her and she held the presents to her chest, letting him lead her to the armchair that Mor abandoned on her search for more presents. He was called away with the duty of handing out more gifts.

Arwen finally made a tear in her first when a single, cold and hard knock at the door silenced the entire town house.

~

Her presents began to pile at the foot of the chair, but Arwen hadn’t even made it to her second. The first was an awful pair of leather gloves from Mor—nothing less than expected. But in truth, Arwen had shut herself down, becoming the shadow in the darkness again. Nesta sat directly opposite her, looking exactly how Arwen felt, unmoving and unspeaking.

Everything seemed to happen like a blur around her, her existence stuck in a single moment whilst theirs sped on. She wanted to hurdle upstairs and crawl into her bath.

Rhysand and Feyre kept each other occupied, nearly atop of one another. Mor floundered around, half-drunk and with presents spilling from her arms. Cassian—Arwen didn’t dare head to his side with Nesta around. Not when a single scathing look might be her undoing. Not when she didn’t know if Cassian would want her there, for the message it might send.

Amren and Varian were below the dusty corner behind the bookshelf on the list of companions to keep.

It left Azriel and…

Mor handed him a small gift. He peered down at the box, unfolding the lid to whatever was within.

“Oh, that’s from me.” Elain. Of course. Azriel didn’t smile or make a single shift at her voice. “I had Madja make it for me.” Azriel’s dark brows moved together. “It’s a powder to mix with any drink. It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.”

In the silence, blood rushed through her ears, gushing like waves of the Sidra through a storm. The only sound louder was Azriel’s laughter. It was booming and warm, nothing like the soft chuckles that usually reveal his amusement. The ones he had given her today.

Arwen pushed from her seat, her hand making a subtle flick by her leg and a present from the remaining main pile disappeared. She meandered from the sitting room and into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of cold water but she could still hear them. Footsteps slowly followed as she held the glass to her lips, barely making a sip.

“I was wondering if you’ve seen my sister?”

Arwen lowered the glass back down, peeking over her shoulder. Rhysand came to her side, resting his hip against the bench.

“Looks like you, but by now she would have torn into every present and shoved hers into everybody’s laps.”

She couldn’t laugh. Not now. “I just don’t feel like it tonight.”

“Not even mine?” Arwen looked at him, letting her eyes speak her answer. He tightened his lips. “You don’t have to do anything with it. Don’t have to unwrap it or hold it. I just want you to see it.”

Crowing laughter from the sitting room interrupted her reply. She exhaled instead, letting her gaze fall to the window where only signs of life came from the golden spots of street lights that cut through the cloak of night.

“Come on.” Arwen shrunk away from his reaching hand, something invisible crawling up her spine at the thought of another’s hand on her. “Let’s go to my office. You won’t hear them in there.” 

Agreeing, they walked the dim hall to the far end of the town house and into the office. His magic set the room alight and the merry calls of their family died with the closing click of the door. She didn’t want to take him away from the celebrations but she also couldn’t help the greed inside of her that wanted him to herself for just a few minutes.

He took her hand. Just one at first but Arwen didn’t pull away so he took her other and led to her his desk, urging her to sit on the edge. “Technically,” he began, a crooked smile adorning his cheeks, “this isn’t a present you get to keep.”

Her gaze dropped to her hanging feet. “I don’t really feel like being given anything right now.”

“You don’t have to take this one, I just want you to know it’s there.” Rhysand shed off his tailored jacket, then his fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt collar, beginning to reveal the dip of his chest.

Arwen looked at him sceptically. “Rhys, I know you think you were made by the Mother herself, but I’m not exactly interested in seeing the details.”

He laughed, joyous and warm, still working on the buttons down his naval. “Considering its positioning, there’s not much choice.”

She didn’t know what to make of that, watching him shed his shirt as well. His skin was tanned and toned, inked with the markings of bargains and Illyrian tattoos in whorls over his shoulders that would stretch down to his back.

And a new one. Situated over his left pectoral was a splatter of small dots. Not dots, she realised, but stars. A constellation of them. Her mind racked with her knowledge of the skies. “Tariel?” she asked. 

He nodded and continued smiling. “This was the brightest constellation in the sky on the night you were born.” Her lips parted, going dry. Rhysand chuckled to himself. “It was my first time seeing a childbirth and I remember going outside in shock after.”

Her finger skimmed the inked skin. What it meant. Over his heart.

“No bargain,” he whispered. “It won’t ever disappear.”

Her voice cracked. “Why?” Why would he put that on himself? A reminder of her life when he had tried so hard to erase it before. What lengths would he go to, to strip it off if she died again?

“To honour and cherish you.” Still smiling, he tipped his head. “Do you not like it? It is a bit permanent.”

“I do,” she whispered. “I love it, but…” Unable to finish her words, she let them trail off. “Thank you.” Arwen wasn’t sure who initiated it, but soon her chin was hooked over his shoulder and she hugged her brother. 

Speaking with a new lightness, he said, “I’ve got more for you if you want to see it now.”

Pulling back, she wiped at her eyes. “You don’t mean more tattoos, do you?”

“No,” he laughed. “These things you get to keep for yourself. Come here.” He ushered her off the office and without warning, they winnowed away.

Arwen blinked, but quickly settled upon seeing the contents of her own room. Then stiffened again. Her room. Not the shell of it that it had been. First she noticed the trunk near the vanity where her shoes had once been stored, heels that she hadn’t seen in two centuries piled on top. On the vanity itself, jewellery boxes and a small silver stand, both stacked with jewels that she thought she would never see again. On her desk, every single journal and scrapbook she had ever drawn in, stacked next to her supplies. Her small trinkets, gifts she had forgotten about, all of it. Everything.

“I know this isn’t anything new,” said Rhysand. “And it… Took me a while to find it all but I didn’t want you to feel like you were starting over.”

Arwen threw herself at him, her toes barely touching the ground. She had missed her things, the comfort of her own belongings, more than she thought she ever had. They were material—she knew that. But it wasn’t their value in price. It was their memories, the knowing that they were hers. Pieces of her existence.

Feet finding the ground again, she grinned up at him and though he smiled too, it didn’t equal her exhilaration. “Don’t thank me for this,” he said. Arwen closed her lips which had indeed been about to say those words. But she understood why. Rhysand kissed her hairline and moved them to the foot of her bed, pulling her to sit at his side. “None of these have been new or yours to keep so I have one more thing. Although it won’t technically be yours for a while.”

“There’s a lot of technicalities tonight,” she remarked, the morose long-lost. 

“Apologies,” he crooned. He laid a heavy hand on her knee, taking a moment to speak. “I’m buying Feyre and I an estate by the Sidra. It was destroyed in the war so it’s going to take a few months to be built. This place is getting too crowded for all of us, especially when we decide to add to our family. It’s going to be our main residence, so I’m giving you the town house. It’ll be under your name.”

Blood rushed to her feet, leaving little in her head.

“It’s always been your home,” he continued, “but now it’ll be your land as well. Everything inside of it will belong to you. You can knock it down and rebuild it if that’s what you want. You lock us out, change the rooms. Anything.”

“Rhys,” she croaked. He made a gentle lift of his brows. “I bought you sweets for Solstice.” Sweets. And he was giving her a house. “And I almost ate them.”

He laughed, throwing his head back to her ceiling as she gave an empty chuckle of disbelief. He hooked an arm around her neck and brought her to his side. “That is all I want,” he promised.

Chapter Text

Chapter 76

When Arwen finally brought herself back downstairs, about an hour after Rhysand left her to explore the contents of her room, Cassian was gone. “He went after Nesta,” Feyre murmured to her with a worried look towards the door. Arwen matched it, but knowing that his belongings were in the shared room with Azriel for the few nights they were staying here, he would likely be back later.

Arwen sat before the tall window in her bedroom, the cream drapes hanging still on either side, drinking a glass of wine by herself. Her presents remained unopened on her bed but it wasn’t until now, when the celebrations had quietened, that she could bring herself to look at them.

From Cassian, new drawing supplies. She hadn’t picked up drawing since her return, but the idea nestled in her head. He also bought her a small bracelet, a thin golden chain with a purple amethyst no larger than her smallest nail hanging from it. She had eyed it that day the snowstorm trapped them at Lucien’s.

The rest of her collection soon grew to include a new silk pillowcase, beautiful bookmarks of thin metal that had designs cut into them, an ornate headband, books, an adjustable figurine which she realised was to help with anatomy, a few necklaces, and an ornamental mug.

Nothing from Azriel.

Arwen placed the last present aside, trying not to think on that fact. Perhaps he had removed hers when he realised that she hadn’t given him anything. Which wasn’t true. Her present for him sat there on her desk right now. But it was sitting highest on the pile after Elain’s gift to him and she couldn’t bring herself to sit and watch him open it after that… that laugh of delight. Her gift felt pathetic in comparison. It hadn’t even cost her a single coin. Arwen would give it to him later when there was no one to see his reaction and she could be long gone.

A shadow flew past her window.

Arwen placed her glass down, recognising the dark wings even against the night sky. She was downstairs by the time he was in the foyer. Cassian glared at nothing and everything, the muscles in his jaw swollen from being clenched and his fists curled and released at his side. Feyre and Mor stood inside the sitting room, noticing his arrival as Arwen already had.

Cassian passed her, not even a mutter of greeting. She spun around, quick to follow him towards the stairs she had just come down. Arwen took his hand, and though he didn’t tear away, he didn’t hold it back. Like she didn’t exist.

Pain cut through her stomach.

“Cassian?” He didn’t stop. “Cassian please.” They reached the upper hall. His shared bedroom was down the far end to the left, hers on the right.

“I’m not in the mood for talking.”

“Come have a drink with me.”

Cassian didn’t say anything, but he hesitated to turn left. Hazel eyes darted across her face, then he nodded bluntly. Arwen didn’t smile but sighed and led him to her room, guiding him to the table that hosted two seats and her half-finished bottle of wine. Summoning a second glass, she poured a generous amount as he settled into the seat. He downed half of it in one gulp, nearly shattering the glass when he placed it back down.

“Will you tell me what happened?” she asked softly.

He stared through the window. “I don’t know what I thought would,” he said after a moment, his voice hard and cold. “After the way she’s treating everybody—the way she treated you—I don’t even know why I bothered.”

“Because you care. And there’s nothing wrong with that.” Arwen refilled her own glass and tipped the remainder of the bottle back into his. “Quite the opposite in fact. You bought her a gift, didn’t you?” Cassian had mentioned it to her weeks ago.

Feyre and Rhysand had talked about inviting Nesta for Solstice, seeking Arwen’s thoughts on the matter. Though she didn’t want to ever be alone with the viper female, Arwen said she would be fine with them around. Solstice was a time for family, and Feyre didn’t deserve to be cut from hers on someone else’s account.

“That gift is currently heading down the Sidra,” Cassian mockingly sang.

Arwen paused as she placed the bottle away. “Do not tell me she threw it in there.” It didn’t matter who she was related to—if Nesta had done such a thing, there would be little more than scraps of her body left for the others to find. She’d wait till tomorrow though. Family night.

He shook his head. “I did. No point in keeping it.”

It hurt her to see how much it hurt him. And it hurt even more to know that even though he could see her, hear her, that she could hold him, none of that would help. Arwen felt just as useless as she had been for two centuries. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” she said, laying her hand over his that rested on the table. “You know that, right? Nesta hates the world and anything that might make her feel differently, she is going to cut off. That includes you.”

“It wasn’t like I was asking for her damn hand in marriage. It was a gift.”

Arwen tightened her grip on his hand, leaning over the arm of her chair. “And you should know how much gifts can mean to some people.” He looked at her hand. She smiled and rubbed her thumb along his knuckles. “They are my way of showing how much I care. Words are just words, but what you do says so much more. Perhaps asking for her hand in marriage would have meant nothing to Nesta, but this did.”

He shrugged. “I shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Nothing will ever change in the world, if nobody tries to change it. That is the curse of immortality. Stagnation.” She settled deep into her chair, looking back across the stars. “If you hadn’t been so persistent with me, I don’t know what would have happened. The fact that you’re trying, Cass, is more than enough.”

His eyes moved to the side of her head. “I noticed you gave Elain a present.”

“She deserves to feel welcome into the world she was tossed into.” Arwen rolled her head to the side. “Did you like mine?”

“Loved it.” He offered her a wink, however exhausted and unsettled the rest of him remained.

Her gift to the general was a pair of pants. Arwen had spent hours learning embroidery, since she didn’t dare order in a public shop, and stitched into the backside ‘Prythian’s Best Ass.’ Of course, she also bought him a new sheath for his favourite knife and a scented towel specifically meant for wicking sweat away and leaving him smelling decent after training.

“Stay here the night.”

Cassian raised a brow. “I am. I have been for the past two nights if you haven’t noticed.”

“In here,” Arwen corrected, jerking her chin to the rest of her room behind them. “Those beds in the other room are ridiculous. I don’t why Rhys hasn’t bothered changing them.” Although, the room probably wouldn’t fit two beds big enough to properly host both Illyrians. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

He observed the room as though he had never stepped foot inside of it. Perhaps it was new to him, seeing all her belongings as they once were. “Does that proposal have us sharing a bed, or will you go elsewhere?”

She smiled softly. “We have shared a bed more than once, Cassian.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what exactly you are offering.” He reached for his wine again, sipping contently at it and offering her a moment of thought. “I’m not against having your company for the night.”

The thought surprised her—it hadn’t been where her mind ventured. But… Arwen wasn’t either, she realised. She was tired of being sad. So tired of it. Tired of feeling empty and lost and like a piece of her was missing. Tired of not knowing when and where she was wanted. It was suffocating. And the idea of being with Cassian, even for a night, promised an escape from that. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had sex before. Many-a-times, in fact. But that was back in her youth when she rebelled against the idea of getting married to someone not of her choice. Since then, she had let it go.

Cassian had a mate that did not want him. She could see the weight of it every time that she looked at him. Arwen no longer felt the bond and had to watch her own give affections to another. And it wasn’t like she exactly found him unattractive. She had imagined him more than once on her nights alone before the mating bond snapped.

It would be intimate. Passionate. They cared enough about each other for that. But it would simply be that. An escape, if only for a night. After seeing more of Elain and Azriel in proximity, enough jealously lingered inside of her to take the offer out of spite, to cry Cassian’s name for them to hear as he pleasured her. But it wasn’t spite that ruled her heart.

“I’m not sure,” she eventually said. “I’ll tell you when we decide we’ve had enough to drink. But I can always take the bed in the other room. I’ll fit better on it.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your room, sweetheart. We share or not at all.”

“You’re not. I’m kicking you out of yours.”

Although it was a tease, neither of them laughed, simply examining the other. Cassian placed his glass back on the table, kicking his feet up onto the iron clawed feet underneath it. “C’mere.” He opened the arm closest to her, beckoning her to join him. Arwen slowly rose from her seat, taking the single step needed to reach his and let his hands guide her where he wanted her. He pulled her to his thigh, angled enough to the side that it was comfortable to rest her head against his shoulder if she wished to.

He wanted someone to hold and she wanted to be held.

They stayed there until the remaining noise in the house died out. His fingers made repetitive trails along the bare skin of her thigh, the slit that cut up to her hip pushed to either side of her leg. Sometimes they curved inwards, moving higher, even once traversing to the bare skin of her hip and using his thumb to circle the bone and soft tissues just inside of it. Her own fiddled with the fabric at his chest, trailing down to his stomach, her thumb sometimes moving to trace the muscle there, dipping down to the band of his pants, never quite going past. A test for them both to see how it felt.

He kissed the junction of her neck and shoulder, remainings there for a moment.

She dragged the backs of her fingers up from his stomach, along his chest to his neck and under his chin, lifting it so he looked at her. “Let’s dance,” she said. 

“Dance?”

Arwen nodded. “Dance. I want to dance.”

He smiled oddly at her. “There’s no music.”

“I can make some.” Pressing her lips together, she began to hum a soft but lively tune. Slipping from his lap, she pulled on his hands. “Dance with me, Cassian.”

He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “I don’t dance, princess.”

Arwen bent back down to him. “Do you dare deny a princess? My brother is a High Lord, if you have forgotten, I will have him command you to dance with me.” The look on his face—incredulous at how he got into this position. And disbelief that he was standing.

Having long kicked off her heels, Arwen’s bare feet skimmed across the floor as she pulled him to the centre of her room. Her humming started again as she led him into a loose ballroom stance. He was stiff and uncoordinated.

“Think of it like a battle,” she whispered as they moved around. “How you move your weapons like they’re an extension of yourself. One move after the next, never truly stopping even though you trained each one separately. How you glide into one position to the next.”

“This is nothing like fighting. I’d rather we had swords in our hands right now.”

Arwen only smiled, going back to her tune. She kept their movements at ease, nothing like a formal dance at the functions she was once forced to attend. This was dancing that you did under moonlight with nobody watching, exactly as they were now.  

Cassian chuckled as she twirled herself the skirt of her dress flying. But he stopped when she guided him to mimic the move, winding underneath her raised arm. Arwen laughed as he drew her to his front, forbidding any more spins from occurring.

“I think I’ve seen pigeons more graceful than you,” she taunted.

“Shut up.”

His knees bent, an arm dropping to the backs of her thighs and her feet left the ground. Arwen gave a small squeal as he spun, his laughter joining hers and they danced until the room grew too quiet, their feet stopping. Arwen closed her eyes, panting slightly. His forehead pressed against hers, his own pants not as hard, but there.

The backs of his fingers stroked down either of her cheeks. “Alright?” he asked at a whisper.

She opened her eyes, smiling. “Yeah, Cass. I’m alright. You alright?”

“I’m alright.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 77

Arwen held Azriel’s present close, slipping out of her room. The halls were dim, alight by only a single wall candle. She had hoped that he was still downstairs, but her fortune had gone thin for when she knocked on the door, he answered.

Azriel looked at her, still dressed in the night clothes he had been in all day. Then those striking eyes moved to her hands. “I… Rhysand forgot to add it to the pile,” she lied. “I didn’t realise it was still in my room.”

His brows twitched, but a gentle smile tugged on his lips as he opened the door wider. “Thank you,” he said, taking it once she held it out. He gestured for her to move inside. “I still have yours.”

Azriel glided across the small room, between the two beds and placed her present on what she assumed was his. On the nightstand next to it, a box sat, wrapped with beautiful precision. He took it, leaning across the bed that she stood on the other side of to hand it to her. “It needs an explanation which is why I kept it.” Arwen couldn’t feel anything specific from holding it other than whatever it was, was solid. Azriel tilted his head. “Are you alright, Arwen? You weren’t yourself tonight.”

“Overwhelmed,” she replied breathlessly. “Thank you. Should I open it now?”

He smiled. “Unless you have daemati abilities coming through, I’d rather not explain through the walls.” There was the quick-witted, dry humour that she so enjoyed from him.

She coughed a laugh and shook her head. “I have enough going on without a new power showing up.” Arwen sat on the edge of his bed and pulled gently at the wrappings, almost disappointed to ruin it. It revealed a solid grey box that was slim and about the length of her forearm. She heard Azriel move about behind her as she pried the lid open.

Inside was a quill. It was long and the tip was a stunning silver—certainly not the cheap kind that they used every day. The feather was long and white, reminding her of the soft clouds that marked the skies in the summer. She ran her fingers across it, barely feeling them even though the soft ripple proved she touched them.

Azriel sat down next to her, the mattress sinking under the combined weight. “It’s enchanted. Won’t ever run out of ink.”

Arwen glanced to him, then down to his lap where he held two books. Journals. The journals she had given them. “Are they—”

He nodded. “I want to use them. With all the new treaties being built and things with the mortal lands tense, I’ll be out of Velaris a lot and I want to be able to reach you directly.” He handed the one that had been hers over. “Even if I’m here but you just want to talk. I think I’m better at putting my thoughts to words anyway.”

She couldn’t help the smile. “So I’ll be able to have a proper conversation with you?”

His smile turned into a grin that he shot in another direction. “Ouch,” he muttered when he looked back. “May I open yours now?”

Arwen looked to the other side of his legs where her present rested. She had worked up the scenario in her mind of tossing it at him then running, but her feet felt like lead. “If I said no, how long would you wait?” she asked.

He chuckled and picked it up. Unlike his, her gift to him was soft, flopping slightly as he held it. He peeled away the wrapping which was nowhere near as perfect as his, revealing the leather binding underneath. Azriel held the portfolio, flipping it open to the sheet music inside. Hundreds of them.

His face remained still as he looked over the first, then the second, then the third, reading each note as though they told a hundred words.

Arwen took a long breath. “I was in a music shop. I told the owner that I knew someone who liked to play the pianoforte and was looking for sheet music. She showed me these—she wrote them but never published or played them outside of her home. So she gave them to me. Wanted them in the world even if just with another family.” Eyes turned to her lap, she added, “So maybe it’s her present to you rather.”

“Well tell them that I said thank you. Nobody has ever given me something so… So personal.”

“Not even the toothbrush Mor got you last year?” she inquired.

He shook his head with a laugh. “Everybody knows I brush my teeth.” The laugh ended. “I don’t play for other people. Only a few know that I enjoy it at all. Even fewer that would remember and go out of their way to find something like this for me.”

“So you like it?”

“Yes, Arwen. I love it.” She sighed and released her hands from the fiddling she kept trapped in, running them over her thighs instead. Azriel paused his continuing search through the sheets. “How did you know Mor gave me a toothbrush last year?”

Her throat tightened. “Rhys mentioned it,” she answered with a sharp breath. A lie. She had seen it. “I was worried about what to get you and he said as long as it was better than that I’d be fine.”

The amusement painted his features, softening them ever so slightly. “She gave me towels this year. I think she’s trying to say my washroom needs redecorating.” Arwen dropped her head with a small laugh. “Is that the common thought?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Az. I’ve never been in there. Are you in the habit of inviting people into your washroom? Is there something curious inside there that I do not know of?”

“Not in my washroom, no.” That left the suggestion that there was something interesting somewhere. He rose from the bed, placing his journal aside but keeping hold of the portfolio. “Come with me.”

Arwen raised her brow. “To your washroom?”

“To play with me.” He lifted the sheet music. “Up in the House.”

She looked to the door. She hadn’t decided where she would be sleeping that night—or how the night would be spent. But she was tired, exhausted from the dancing and the day despite the long nap she had at the cabin. The idea of being alone up in that House with him while her thoughts were hazy…

“I’m tired,” she told him.

“I’ll carry you back if you fall asleep.” Stepping forward, he took her hand in his. Arwen stared at the scarring, of how it fit with hers and felt so right. Yet so wrong. Still, she couldn’t tear away. “I want to play for you, as a thank you.”

“How could I deny that,” she whispered, letting his strength pull her to her feet, the boxed quill disappearing to her room.

They tiptoed through the town house, past Mor passed out on the lounge. They snickered at the choked snore. Arwen quickly came to regret not bringing a jacket as she stepped into winter’s realm. Just as she thought of summoning one, Azriel’s arm went around her back. Her own snapped around his neck in instinct, gripping the soft material of his shirt.

Suddenly, Arwen realised that she couldn’t remember the last time he had flown her anywhere.

His wings flared in preparation for flight, his eyes set on the sky above them as he bent to heave up the rest of her body, holding her to his chest. Gasping as he took flight with a single, hard flap of his wings, Arwen tucked her head to his neck, hiding her face against the frigid air. His skin warmed her nose.

“I’m sorry,” he said as they flew over the city. “I didn’t think of the cold.”

Shivering, she shook her head to dismiss his claim of fault. He flew faster, even if a part of her wanted to enjoy the solitude and closeness. He glided through a window rather than directly onto the balcony, landing inside and the beating of his wings echoed against the stone walls.

Arwen shifted in preparation to be let down but froze at the sight of what was below them. Carpet. Azriel was already walking before she could say anything, still carrying her as he strode out of the room. “It’s okay,” he murmured, thumb stroking her ribs. “I know. I’ve got you.”

She watched the shadow and pale moonlight shift over the side of his face. Once they reached the hall, marble making up the ground, he let her find her footing. They were only a short walk from the music room. Without her heels and his already near silent footwork, they barely made a sound until they entered. Arwen set the lights on, letting him settle at the pianoforte.

At her lack of presence, he looked back, gesturing with his eyes for her to join him on the small stool. Gathering her dress skirt, she perched next to him. Azriel opened the portfolio in his lap, flipping through the pages. “Do you have a favourite?”

“Not until I’ve heard them be played, but I do like the look of this one.” She pulled out the second one. “A Child’s Song.” From a glance at the bars, the tune seemed light and soft. He took it, placed the portfolio aside, set the sheets into the stand and opened the casing over the keys.

His fingers ghosted over the keys, eyes running over the parchment as he read ahead, learning before he played. Arwen couldn’t take her eyes off him—of the beauty of his face. She hadn’t admitted how good it felt, how her stomach felt heavier and warmth spread through her at Cassian’s sensual touch. But she was sure he felt it. Smelt it even. Arwen had picked up the change in his scent too. What would it have felt like if it had been Azriel’s touches rather than his? How much more powerful would it have been? She imagined she might melt into a puddle.

Arwen blinked herself back into reality. He had already started playing. Azriel’s fingers danced across the keys, as graceful as he was when he played with his blades. The tune was exactly as she imagined; something light, like a child’s voice singing how they saw the world. The perception unstained by the horrors of truth.

Arwen kept having to drag herself back into focus, the music pulling her into a bliss of another world. She wanted to hear every note, see how his fingers moved to each key, watch how his body made small shifts as he played. Despite her intentions of convincing him to play for them all, to have nights of song and music together, she began to spin the idea of never letting anybody else see this part of him. That it could be forever hers to know and love.

The music ended well before she grew tired of it.

He smoothed his fingers silently over the keys, dragging them finally down onto his thighs. “Did you like that one?” Arwen eagerly nodded. “Would you like me to play another?”

She nodded again. Her voice would ruin the delicate continuation of such exquisite sound. Azriel searched through the portfolio once more in his lap. She couldn’t help but lean against his side to watch, the heat of his body ridding any trace of the shivers from the flight over. He chose one to his own liking, doing the same as before and setting it on the stand, reading over before he started.

This one kept a faster pace, the melody was joyous but heavier. It reminded Arwen of the feasts and parties she attended—a delight, but no longer through the eyes of a child. He cut short.

“What is it?”

Azriel smiled at her. “I want to hear you play.”

Her eyes rounded and she was quick the shake her head. “I haven’t played since I was young, Az. I don’t even think I know how to play anymore.” But he was already shifting further along the seat, dragging her by the waist into the centre of the stool. “Azriel,” she warned in her own amusement. “I cannot play.”

“Amuse me,” he said. “Play for me.”

There was no battling the way his attention made her feel. So Arwen took a long and deep breath and set her fingers on the ivory keys. She began from the beginning, eyes darting between the sheet and her hands, trying to recall each note’s position in accordance with her movement. Her tune was slower and bit a clunkier but not as bad as she imagined.

Until Azriel’s soft snicker tickled her ear. “What?” she demanded, coming to a stop. She was playing for him—as he asked—and now he was laughing at her?  

 “That was nowhere near how that was supposed to sound. Look.” He pointed to the bar she had just played, humming the tune.

“That’s what I played,” Arwen said, assuring herself more so than him. Her fingers pressed down again, repeating the tune. His laughter came once more. “Stop laughing at me!”

“I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes and leant down, pressing his lips to her shoulder in a hard kiss. Azriel collected himself but the glee was as clear as the sky was that night. “It is just your concentration that amuses me, not your ability. Let me show you.” Arwen began to pull her hands away, but his own slid underneath her palms and guided their paired hands back to the keys. He replayed the tune once more, her fingers moving with his.

It did sound better.

“I hardly hear a difference,” she muttered as he finished.

Azriel removed his hands, letting her continue the tune. Arwen carried on, her focus zoning on the keys and the sheet. Until her ear twitched seconds later from a light touch. “I would think with your pointed ears that you might hear better than I.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

“Perhaps not.” His finger traced down the long curve of her ear, down to the line of her jaw before ending in the air. Making it to the end of the second page, her magic flipped it to the third. “I want to ask you something.” Arwen hummed in acknowledgement. Azriel didn’t speak for another moment; long enough that she wondered if she had conjured the remark in her mind. “What would have said that day?”

“What day?”

“The day that you died.”

Arwen skipped a note, but he didn’t move to correct her.

He continued. “Rhysand gave me that false memory because he knew that it was what I wished I could have said. He could read that in my mind. But you were nothing more than a conjuration manipulated to meet that desire. I want to know what you would have said, if that memory had been true.”

What she would have said if he told her he loved her. “I cannot play and hold a conversation at the same time,” Arwen murmured.

“Then stop.”

She didn’t. He took her wrist, leaving a harsh note to ring throughout the music room. She looked down at her hand, unable to meet his eye. “I’m not sure I remember how I felt enough to tell you what I would have done.”

She felt his eyes move away from her face. “So what you felt was not strong enough to remember.” A statement, not a question. “Are you glad the bond is gone for you? Do you wish it would have been Cassian instead?”

Arwen removed her remaining hand from the keys, letting him continue to hold her other. “The memory Rhysand gave you was not just made to fit your desires, Azriel. It fits my own as well.”

“I don’t understand.”

Her chest sunk with a lung-emptying sigh as she looked up at her once-mate. The attention he gave her now was as unwavering as the mountain they were upon. “That same morning, I told Rhys that I loved you. I told him that I was going to wait until Starfall to tell you. That is what he used to render my reaction in your false memory—my irritation at your lack of patience because I had already planned where I wished to say it.”

A shadow coiled tightly around his neck, almost like a rope intending to choke him. “You loved me?”

Still loved. Arwen didn’t bother voicing the correction. Instead, she turned back to the pianoforte and restarted the song. Azriel let her continue playing without interruption, without sound beyond his soft breathing, for the entire first page. Then slowly, he came into her narrowed field of focus, gently pressing against the far side of her chin to pull it towards him. His body pressed against her and the position was solidified by his second hand grasping the far side of her waist.

Azriel’s nose brushed her cheek first, then her nose, lips skimming lips. Arwen watched him through half-lidded eyes, her playing completely stopped. Just behind him, his wings flared in display, yet they were tense and high as if every part of him was on alert.

Her own heartbeat thrummed through to her stomach and lower, unconsciously lifting her arm to hang around the front of his chest, her hand making its way into the short, dark strands at the nape of his neck.

Arwen’s eyes snapped shut as he kissed her. Any thought beyond him fled her mind. She forgot where she was, what she had been doing or intended to do. It was soft and sensual yet passionate at the same time, each movement deliberate and greedy.

She pulled away.

Just enough to open her eyes again, still within proximity that angling of her jaw would rejoin them. Azriel took an extra second to reveal the dazzling hazels. He examined her—one, three, five seconds. Then kissed her again. Arwen felt too light for it to be real. She couldn’t quite put her thoughts into coherent words.

He sucked gently on her bottom lip, then ran his tongue over it. Not yet asking for it to open, giving her a thrill of what it would feel like when she did. Her fingers tightened around the short waves at the back of his head, earning her a sharp inhale from him.

Azriel’s hand at her face inched lower, nails skimming the column of her neck, down between the valley of her chest and onto her naval before traversing back north. The knuckles of his fingers dragged along the underside of her breast as their lips became more fervent. Arwen could almost arch into the sensation, willing him to grasp and play to his delight.

But she couldn’t. She could barely move.

Azriel inched away from her as though he came to the same realisation, and she watched through languid eyes as he licked his upper lip. Licked something glistening off it. His eyes dropped to her mouth, or rather the space just above it. Arwen could taste it on herself now. The blood. The skin at her nose felt wet.

“A…Az…”

With a single blink, all desire for her wiped from his face. He clutched her around the shoulders. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It didn’t feel like falling into a nap this time. It didn’t feel like she just hadn’t had enough sleep. This time, she felt weaker, like it was a wound or sickness that pulled her into unconsciousness. Arwen’s hand dropped from the back of his head as she lost her ability to distinguish the features of his face.

“I-I can… Can’t…”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

She lopped onto his chest and became lost to the world.

Chapter Text

Chapter 78

Arwen awoke slowly. Her tight throat gave a whimper at the ache in her muscles, despite the soft fabric that draped across her and the mattress underneath. She pushed against the bed off her stomach into a seated position, letting the blanket pool at her hips. It was her bed—her room. No sign or scent of Cassian. Or Azriel. It was dark, her curtains drawn closed and no candles were alight. Someone had changed her into a matching silk set of a singlet and pants; she didn’t remember doing it herself.

Arwen shuffled to the edge of her bed, taking the time to test her weight on her feet. It was her hips that complained the most, as though she had been on horseback for hours. Wiping away the drowsiness in her eyes, she hobbled across her room and to the door. It had to be early if the sun wasn’t even peaking through the gaps of her window drapes.

Yet when she ventured into the hall and looked down the stairs onto the ground floor, warm light flooded the town house. Arwen gripped the railing of the stairs as she climbed down, following the sound of soft murmurs towards the back and into the kitchen.

Azriel, Mor, Rhysand and Cassian were all huddled in there, talking over warm drinks. When they looked at her, the solemness and gravity did not lift. Arwen couldn’t meet Azriel’s eye. “Didn’t expect you all up this early,” she grumbled, heading for the milk and kettle that was left out, the latter still steaming and intended to put a tea together for herself.

But her movements were stopped by Cassian who took the kettle from her. “I’ve got it,” he murmured. “Honey?” Arwen nodded.

“It’s actually rather late, sweetheart,” Rhysand said. She frowned at him. He nodded towards the window where nothing but black sky and shaded silhouettes could be seen. “You slept a while.” Her lips rounded to a small ‘o’. He walked to her, eyes set on something just lower than her face. He thumbed her jaw, eliciting a wince. “That should have healed by now.” The bruise, she recalled—gained by the bone of a wrist being pummelled into her in her battle with Cassian and Azriel.

“Would you like any dinner?” Mor asked, her tone oddly light in comparison to everything else. “There’s leftover stew.”

“N…” Arwen’s voice failed her. “N-no thank you.” She wasn’t even sure she’d be able to keep tea down, but it was worth the try. Looking over to see if it was near ready, she found Cassian pouring something deep and red out of a vial into the mug. “What is that?”

But before she could even finish the question, the scent answered it. Blood. He was putting blood in her tea. “Feyre’s blood,” Cassian answered without looking back.

“Feyre’s blood has healing properties,” Rhysand added before even more questions could be raised. But Arwen understood their intentions. Cassian placed the steaming cup in front of her. Arwen took a slow sip, wrinkling her nose.

“We’re taking you to the Day Court in the morning.” Azriel’s voice cut through the growing tension like it was a knife to silk. Rhysand glared at him. Azriel ignored it. “The only reason you’re not there now is because we didn’t want to winnow you while you were unconscious.”

“Oh.” That had been the deal she made. Go see Helion Spellcleaver after Solstice. Rhysand thought he would know something—that it had to do with being a celestian. Considering she had no idea either, it seemed stupid and futile to refuse.

“How do you feel?” Cassian inquired.

Arwen dragged herself into the high seat. “Not amazing,” she admitted.

He braced his elbows against the table next to her, nudging one outwards to knock into hers. “Yeah, well you don’t exactly look amazing either.” Arwen glared at him but dropped it quickly in exhaustion. “Should have seen yourself last night when dear Az carried you back here. Looked like a corpse—”

“Cassian,” Mor hissed. “Foul choice of words.”

Azriel was already three shades paler than usual.

“Yeah, well, princess here needs to understand how fucking terrifying it was to see it.”

“She’s already agreed to accept help. There’s no point pushing what we already know.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Azriel turned. And left. Arwen’s heart thudded with each heavy thud of his boots against the floor, all the way to the upper storey.

Arwen sipped at her tea. “I know it’s not good, Cass,” she whispered. “I just didn’t want the holiday to be about me. It was Feyre’s first time celebrating with us and her birthday.”

Cassian looked at her—like really looked at her. “I’d rather spend this holiday worrying about you than spend the next without you again. It is selfish of you to put me through this feeling again—to put your brother, your family through it again because you just want to pretend like nothing is wrong for everybody else’s sake.” He spoke like a general commanding a soldier and gods did it make her listen. Arwen’s gaze floated to Rhysand, the deliberation of whether to agree or argue playing on his face. Cassian’s voice pulled her back. “Sometimes it is selfishness that will keep you alive. You understand me, Arwen?”

Arwen nodded.

“Arwen, tell me you understand.”

“I do.”

The authoritative, militant air around him dissipated.

“Bit harsh, Cass,” Mor muttered.

He snarled, in no mood for teases or snide remarks. “Oh, shut up, Mor.” But perhaps a part of him listened to her chide as he shifted closer to Arwen’s side and pressed a firm kiss to her temple, reminding her that every word spoken was done in love for her. “Go back to bed, sweetheart.”

The idea did seem most desirable. Taking her tea and bidding them goodnight, Arwen returned to her room.

Azriel sat on the edge of her bed, head in hand until her arrival prompted its rise. Arwen quietly made her way across and sat down next to him. She pouted, looking down at her drink. “This taste terrible.”

“Please drink it.” He stroked the back of her hair. “I stayed here last night with you. May I stay again?”

“Should be me that’s asking.” Being alone didn’t feel right. Even if it meant spending the night fighting the thoughts that haunted her when it came to him. Thoughts that she had dismissed last night in favour of the short-lived euphoria.

Azriel unlaced and kicked off his shoes. Throwing his arms over the back of his head, he tugged on his black shirt, shuffling his wings through the slats. He was wearing dark slacks for pants rather than leather or something of fine make. Comfortable enough to sleep in that she had to wonder if he had changed at all since the past night. Arwen examined the tattoos adorning his body, most inked into his skin by an artist rather than bargains. Azriel never liked to be held to them. And the few that were there, were with Rhys and Cassian.

“Won’t you be cold?” she asked.

“Your body isn’t regulating heat properly. It’s easier to keep you warm without a barrier.”

She looked down at her body. Gangly. Bruises littered her skin below the silk, lasting longer than they should just like the one on her jaw. No longer the body softened by curves and weight that she once had—once adored. Arwen wanted him to hold that.

But as he lay down on his side, she lay with him, placing the tea aside. He bundled her into his arms and she immediately sunk into him, closing her eyes as he kissed the space between her brows. He pulled the blanket over them, but before it encased their upper bodies, Azriel extended his uppermost wing. It stretched out towards the ceiling first, fanned to its entire, impressive length before laying over her body.

Arwen hummed. “That was a very Illyrian move of you.”

Feigning ignorance, he frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes and then closed them, digging deeper into the pillow. “You don’t need to display your wings to me, Az.” It was comparable to a mating show of animals—to show the length of their wings, and their ability to satisfy the female. Mor and Arwen had spent a good evening laughing about it many moons ago.

“I like the way you look at me when I do.”

~

Fortunately, Helion had listened to his request that their arrival was a subtle event. His guards met Rhysand, Azriel and Arwen at the gates to the Day Palace. An eased smile was set on his sister’s lip as she took in the sights of the foreign court. He had been worried that she would refute the idea once they were about to leave or as they arrived, but Rhysand had underestimated her. But Arwen’s tight grip on his hand was enough for him to not overestimate her comfort. It was fair, considering the last time she left Velaris she had been murdered. His own grip tightened back at the thought.

Helion had obliged Rhysand’s strict orders, despite the fact that the High Lord of Day was doing him the favour. No one would see her without Rhysand or Azriel present. Her food and water would be checked by a tester and his personal guards would be outside whatever chamber she inhabited.

Azriel strode along on her other side, seven siphons on display. He had barely spoken a word and spent every moment scanning over something new.

They pondered through the great halls all the way to the far north wing, and to Helion’s entertainment chamber. It was not the largest room but with a ceiling greater than three storeys high and a wide, windowless archway that led onto a balcony, and a floor of white and pink rose marble, the size barely mattered.

That’s what Rhysand like to tell himself, anyway. And his brothers.

The High Lord of Day lounged in a cream chaise, draped in a white cloth that was pinned over each shoulder with a gilded clasp. His dark hair spilled over skin that was only a few shades lighter. If Rhysand didn’t know better, he might believe that Helion had built the palace in its creams and white marble just so he singularly stood out against it. The two guards that escorted them left without any sign of dismissal.

Helion rose from the chaise, eyes set on Arwen. “Back from the dead, I see?”

Arwen shrugged a shoulder. “It’s a family trait.”

He laughed, placing the full wine glass that had a gold-plated lip down and walked towards them. “I couldn’t quite believe my eyes when I saw you appear. I’m hurt at how long it has taken you to come to see me, especially since the circumstances are dire and not of pleasure.”

“Readjusting after so long takes time,” Rhysand smoothly answered for her. “Considering you are the first person other than your guards to see her outside of our home, you should consider it an honour.”

“An honour?” Arwen huffed, earning a raise of his brow at her. “But I did dress for the occasion.” Gesturing down with her free hand to her attire, Helion’s eyes wandered across the white dress and the gold belt she had adorned it with that morning.

Helion winked. “I noticed. And appreciate the effort.”

Arwen curtseyed. Rhysand welcomed the High Lord’s efforts. The simple small talk and distracting flatteries. Not simply swept away and poked at.

Helion’s dark eyes turned to Azriel. “Only you this time?”

Azriel didn’t respond, staring back at the High Lord. Rhysand smiled and said, “I needed Cassian and Mor at home. Feyre is helping Amren with other things outside of the city.” Convincing Cassian to stay had been a challenge Rhysand prepared himself for, and with good reason.

“Pity,” he muttered, but the gleam never left his eyes. “Invitation is still open, as is the door to my bedchamber. And I wouldn’t dare not invite the female who your scent clings to, if you’re willing to share that is. You Illyrians are possessive creatures.”

Rhysand scooped that piece of conversation from his mind, tossing it out the backend. Azriel’s eyes flickered down to Arwen, something—a hint of it—shone in his eyes. Pride, perhaps, at the idea that a piece of him clung to her. And maybe a little bit of that possessiveness just aforementioned. Rhysand didn’t want to know. “Do I need remind you why we’re here, Helion?”

Helion gave a cunning smirk. “Just ensuring my guests are extended their full comforts.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 79

Rhysand watched from the wall as Helion’s personal healer examined Arwen. She was sitting on the side of the plush bed, distracting herself it seemed by looking around at the décor. Azriel, in the corner adjacent to him, was swathed by his shadows and rather out of place against the light that reached every other inch of the room.

‘It was remarkable that you returned from the dead, Rhysand,’ Helion said into his mind, continuing their unspoken conversation that had initiated the moment the healer began attending to his sister. ‘Even more so remarkable that you were able to bring that demon back with you.’

‘I’ll take it that you mean Amren and not Arwen,’ he crooned.

‘Yes.’ The humour twitched his lips. ‘Which makes this scene in front of me still quite unbelievable. Over two hundred and fifty years and she returned looking exactly the way she did the say she died. You are certain that it was no last trick of the Cauldron?’

Rhysand rolled his jaw. ‘Certain.’ He held back the growl in those words. ‘I would have sniffed out a trick the first moment I entered her mind. You said it yourself that it is her celestian power that allowed me to find and bring her back.’

‘I don’t mean to insult or deny her existence,’ Helion replied evenly. ‘Just searching the possibilities. From what I understand there is a plain between our realm and the realm of the dead. Arwen had far greater control over her spiritual form than any of us and it is possible that she chose to move through them. She still doesn’t remember?’

‘No.’ Rhysand hadn’t been able to see much in the snippet that he pulled from her mind. There had been panic. Her surroundings were a blur which was understandable for being in a dream. Nothing was ever quite real in those. It was as though she was trapped in a world that moved around her.

Helion approached the bed, a light tone in his voice as he spoke to the healer and Arwen as though their conversation carried nothing more than the importance of what sandwiches they would have for lunch. ‘Is her body still where it was buried?’

Rhysand blanched. ‘What?’

‘Her body, Rhysand. Yourself, Feyre and Amren all returned to your bodies. Since it has been over two centuries, I’m curious whether the process rebuilt her body or not.’

‘I haven’t checked.’ He didn’t want to check. Rhysand hadn’t been back to that site since the day he buried her. His breakfast curdled in his stomach. ‘Are you asking me to find out?’

‘Yes.’

Helion continued talking away as though he wasn’t requesting a solemn task of a brother to unbury his sister’s body. Although, he wouldn’t be the one to do it. Rhysand swallowed the lump in his throat, glancing at Azriel who had not removed his eyes from the one spot on the bed since they arrived.

Stretching the perimeter of his mind, Rhysand searched. ‘Cass.’

Cassian’s bellowing voice echoed through his head. ‘Missing me already, Rhysie?’

Rhysand smiled to himself. ‘Not in the slightest. And neither is Arwen.’ He shared the world through his eyes—the sight of Arwen laughing at another of Helion’s teases.

Rhysand could almost hear Cassian’s grumble. ‘Are you seriously reaching out just to taunt me that the lack of my presence is going unnoticed?’

He wished. ‘I have a job I need you to do. Sooner rather than later.’

‘I swear to the gods Rhys, if I have to speak to Amren about—”

‘I need you to dig up Arwen’s grave.’

The long pause was expected but Rhysand loathed every second of it. He knew exactly what he was asking—who he was asking. It would be hard enough for Rhysand to even go there and dismantle the tribute of her life, but Cassian was the one who visited it. Rhysand knew that he did. Cassian was the one that spent hours by it, talking or just sitting, he didn’t really know. And now he was asking his brother to tear it apart to see if he could find her remains.

‘I can’t do that.’

“Helion needs you to,’ Rhysand told him.

Another pause. ‘How the fuck is this supposed to help?’

The healer leant down, applying a salve to her bruise-littered legs. Arwen’s smile was lost by now, the signs of tire taking over. “He needs to know whether she’s retaken her body or not. I don’t know the specifics. Just… Please. I’ll contact you tonight.’

He cut the link off there, not wanting to deal with more guilt. Kicking off the wall, Rhysand strode over to the bed. She reached for him once he stood close enough, and he let her lean forward to rest her forehead against his sternum, cupping the back of her neck to support its weight from tipping. “Slept over a day yesterday, woke up for maybe an hour then slept again until this morning.”

“I have my theories,” Helion muttered. “But I’ll need confirmation on the—”

“Cassian will report soon.”

He nodded, then smiled down at Arwen despite the fact that her face was hidden away in Rhysand’s tunic. “Take away her pain for a moment,” Helion asked of him.

Rhysand didn’t like what it insinuated, but tapped into her mind and erased any sensation of pain. Helion took her forearm, holding it before him and running his thumb deep into the flesh. As Arwen tilted her head to peek out, Helion pressed and Rhysand heard the unmistakable snap of a bone.

He couldn’t begin to explain the terror that washed through him like a void that devoured reason. All he could hear was that snap—the breaking of Feyre’s neck now sounding from his sister.

Arwen winced but made no other signs of pain as Rhysand worked to keep it at bay, silently putting himself back together in the meantime. Helion extended her arm, letting his magic weave through to mend it once more.

“And you had to break her arm because?” Azriel’s low voice inquired from the shaded corner.

Helion glanced over his shoulder, then at Rhysand. “Because it was as brittle as the bone of a bird. I’m surprised she didn’t have any coming here.”

~

Cassian stood in front of the marked grave. Illyrian wings had been carved into the headstone—something he had hoped she would be returned to once upon a time. His knuckles whitened around the shovel’s handle. He didn’t know how long he stood there, just staring at the mountainside forest that overlooked the length of the Sidra, upstream from the city.

“I’m going to kill that bastard prick,” he hissed to himself. Cassian swung the shovel sharply through the air in a vent of the agitation running amok through him. He couldn’t believe he was going to do it.

With a grunt, the tip of the shovel pierced the snowed earth. The ground was frozen and hard, but his strength broke it apart as he dug. And dug. And dug. Cassian didn’t stop again to let himself think about what he was doing.

She is alive, he reasoned. You aren’t supposed to have graves for the living, anyway.

But he couldn’t help the pang of hurt that shot through him with each inch he unearthed as he destroyed the place he had come to mourn. That he had come to talk and remember.

Yet he kept digging. Because keeping her alive was far more important than a sentimental piece of stone and patch of earth. If that’s all there was. When he dug deep enough, Cassian tossed the shovel inside and dropped down into the shallow pit. He crouched, taking a few more hard breaths, before cupping his hands and slowly scooping the dirt away with a gentler hand.

It didn’t take long to find a worn piece of purple fabric. The piece he uncovered was barely a string of fibre now. It was part of the blanket they had wrapped her body in. He slowed even more, brushing his fingers across the dirt. His heart was in his stomach.

Death didn’t scare him. He had walked beside it his entire life. But it terrified him who Death could steal from him.

He prayed to whatever deity listened to him that he would find nothing more than more dirt. But he felt that damn pressure of something solid and smooth. Pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand, Cassian took another breath and blindly swept the area again.

And immediately leapt out of the pit. “Fuck.” Swinging his arms out to the side, he rolled and clenched his hands and released them again. Bile crept into his throat. Leaning over and away from the graves, he fought to keep his lunch inside where it belonged.

He had felt her skull.

~

Rhysand watched with a dutiful eye as Azriel and Arwen sat on one of the open balconies, sharing a small flagon of wine surrounded by pillows and a blanket. Winter did not strike the Day Court as hard as it did Night, it seemed.

“It seems that pair have finally come to acknowledge their bond,” Helion mused as he arrived with a platter of cheese and fruits. They sat within the chamber the balcony linked to.

“It’s actually the opposite,” Rhysand replied, plopping a grape between his lips. “They don’t have one anymore.”

Helion lounged along his chaise, frowning at the scene. “That’s… Intriguing.”

Rhysand gave a short laugh that was particularly mirthless. “Not the word I’d use. Quite the entanglement actually.” And rather irritating having to balance his duty as High Lord and a brother through what has arisen. Between Arwen and Azriel. Cassian and Arwen. Cassian and Nesta. Nesta and Arwen. Arwen and Elain. Azriel and Elain. Azriel and Cassian. “I’d rather not talk about it.” For his own damn sanity.

“Well I do like to be entangled,” Helion noted. “But there are more pressing matters. Have you gotten word from Cassian?”

Rhysand swirled his near-empty goblet. “Yes.” And he received a mouthful when he did. “Her body is still there.” He looked back to the balcony, leaning forward with his elbows to his knees in anticipation as Arwen bowed her head into her hands over her lap. Azriel already hovered next to her. “Don’t feed me that shit again about it possibly not being her.”

“Contrary,” Helion sang, “I think that is Arwen right there, in her most raw form. In her life before she was able to control entering a spiritual state but remain in this realm. If her body was left behind and she wasn’t able to reclaim it as you were when you pulled her back then she has done what her kind do best. She’s controlled her state of being. A spiritual being making themselves a living one. And she’s holding herself to this form.”

Rhysand stared at her. They knew little of what life after their deaths would be. What would happen to their consciousness and memories? “What does that mean? What does that mean for her?”

“It means—” Helion sipped at his wine—"I have more research to do.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 80

The knuckles of two of Azriel’s fingers pressed into the low of her back, keeping enough pressure to counter his pull on the laces of her dress just above. He tugged on the thin ribbons until they were taut and then hooked his fingers around the lacing above it, repeating the manoeuvre.

“I’m sorry,” Arwen said quietly, staring at his dark head of hair that was bowed to look at her back. “I wanted to wear this and didn’t think about not having Nuala or Cerridwen around.” It was understandable that there were no servants of Helion’s given to her. “Rhysand has no idea how to work these things unless he’s taking them off a female.”

The dress was a stunning rose pink with sleeves that hung off her shoulders in loose billows before being cinched at her wrists. The scars on her back peaked over but with her hair loose, they would be barely noticeable. With the inbuilt corset, it required to be laced from behind.

Arwen hadn’t wanted to call Azriel in here. In fact, she hadn’t wanted him to come with them to Dawn at all. No—that was a lie. She did want him here. If all he bought was the comfort of his presence and the warmth of his touch. But he didn’t; he brought memories as well. He brought uncertainty and despair.

Azriel’s head inched up, sending her a small smile over the back of her shoulder. “I know my way around ties.” Arwen didn’t think much of the remark until a blush hit her cheeks. He certainly had gentle but well trained hands for the job. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” was the automatic answer. She watched as the dress became tighter and fitting up her middle. Azriel’s eyes lifted once more as he reached just above the middle of her back. His gaze, much to the cause of the heat pooling in her, was set on her half-exposed chest as he pulled the laces tight as they needed to be, her breasts swelling at the pressure. At least she still had something there, she supposed. He tightened them just a little bit further, to the point of pleasurable pain that had her give an inaudible gasp.

Azriel went back to tying off the finishing knot. “Is that comfortable enough?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You can find me tonight when you wish to undress too.” Arwen turned around, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. “This dress is beautiful,” he muttered, ghosting his hands up her sides. “So is the one who wears it.”

The twitch of a smile was unconscious. “Thank you.”

Azriel looked her over again, but not with a gaze of admiration. “Are you sure you’re alright to go to breakfast?”

Arwen nodded and went to move around him, but he caught her wrist and veered back in front of her. His other hand rose to her cheek, thumb delicately brushing over it before slowly trailing down the arch of her neck, curving around so the palm of his hand ran ever so lightly over her before settling on her side. He leant in.

She pulled back. “We’re going to be late.”

“The guards will knock when it’s time,” he said. “Do you… You don’t want me to kiss you.” The hurt that slashed across his face was like lightning against storm clouds.

What could she say? Yes she did, but no she didn’t considering the circumstances. Considering she didn’t know if that is wanted to give herself to—to trust. Putting herself at his mercy might just be her ruin. That image with Elain, giving her Truth Teller… It was too much. “I lied,” she said. “I’m not feeling my best.”

Whether or not he believed her was something she would have to find out later as the guards knocked at that moment, alerting them that they were soon expected in Helion’s personal dining chamber.

After breakfast, Arwen did not see Azriel except in passing. She glued herself to Rhysand’s side anyway, escaping any conversation that might transpire if they were caught alone. They went to the healer once more, Arwen entertaining herself by making faces at her brother when the healer was otherwise occupied, planting a tight smile on her face whenever the healer looked back.

It wasn’t until dinner, seated before a small feast, that Azriel returned. The shadowsinger nodded at Helion—a silent apology for his tardiness and seated himself on the unoccupied side of the table. They ate in silence for most of the meal, Helion and Rhysand making most of the talk amongst themselves. Arwen managed to down a pastry of some sort with melted butter, though it didn’t sit well in her stomach. Nothing ever did.

Helion escorted them to a more secluded sitting room, this one with no balcony or arching windows except to twin ones that were thin and had their curtains drawn closed. Arwen found a small pillow and situated it against the backing of the lounge, resting on her side to face the High Lord of Day on the opposing end. Azriel took a nearby armchair and Rhysand the space behind her.

“I have my theory, if you wish to hear it.”

Rhysand lifted his drink. “Didn’t come all this way just to snuff out your wine collection, Helion.”

Arwen twisted her neck around, frowning. She hadn’t gotten a drink. “Give me,” she muttered, grabbing for the glass. He scoffed but forfeited the wine. Wine had a strange way of unsettling her stomach but making her oblivious to it at the same time. After a sip she did hand it back.

Helion smiled at the exchange, but it was clear that his next words did not warrant the same expression. “We’re able to confirm, Arwen, that the form you inhabit now is not the one you were born in.”

“I could have told you that,” she said. Helion parted his lips with a display of mild surprise, then rounded them with a sharp look at her brother. “Nobody asked me,” she defended. “I thought it was obvious since I’m not currently a rotted skeleton.”

“Forgive me for not knowing the intricacies of how the dead return to the living,” Helion crooned at her, crossing his leg over the other with a poised grace. “I didn’t wish to alarm you, if you were not informed of the fact.”

“Well, I am.”

“Terrific. Then we do not have to spend the next half hour processing that.” He placed his own drink aside, looking first at the silent Azriel, then at Arwen and Rhysand. Any lingering trace of amusement or merriment fled from Helion, leaving nothing more than the form of a stoic High Lord that Arwen had seen in Rhysand so many times. “This form you’ve taken isn’t meant to survive. A spirit existing as one of the living.”

Her cheeks felt tight. “What does that mean?”

Helion pursed his lips, adjusting his seat once more. “There was a balance you had before. A living being able to tap into the spiritual form of yourself. Now it’s the opposite. You are a spirit who has forced herself into the form of something living. Have you been able to move back into an intangible form?”

Arwen looked down at the ring on her finger. “I haven’t tried.”

“Try for me.”

She turned the ring on her finger. Go back to that form again? Be unable to touch anything? What if she couldn’t return again? What if she became trapped and they couldn’t see her? What if—

“I’m right here.” A masculine hand smoother over hers. Rhysand squeezed it. “Just try it.” When she didn’t move immediately, he slowly began to pry the ring off her finger.

“Don’t force her.” Azriel.

“If she can, then we might have a solution,” Helion answered evenly to Azriel’s bark of command.

Arwen watched Rhysand pull the ring off her finger, a heavy mark of red lining where it had sat for centuries. “If not?” she dared ask. Helion didn’t answer. Rhysand hooked a finger under her chin, lifting it to meet his mirror eyes. He said nothing either, but he didn’t need to. Giving an almost invisible nod, Arwen let herself feel that connection.

It was there—but muted. She was reminded of how Amren trained her, to relax and listen to her mind. Not what she thought, but what it told her. Rhysand continued holding her hand as a test. She would go right through the lounge anyway. Possibly straight through the ground. But she had trained enough before her death to remember how to bring herself back. She might land in somebody’s bath, but it wasn’t that thought that terrified her.

“I can’t,” she croaked, looking back to Helion. “I can’t reach it.” What did that mean?

“What now?” asked Rhysand.

“Now,” Helion breathed quietly, “we are down to the two options I think there are left.”

Azriel snarled. “No need to be so cryptic, Helion. We are already at our knees here for your help. Or would you like us between yours before you tell us?”

“I am cautious with my words, shadowsinger, because I know you will wish you hadn’t heard them.”

It was rare to see such graveness in the High Lord of Day and it did nothing to settle the growing sapling of something poisonous inside of her. Azriel turned deathly still—the foreboding of Helion’s warning catching all their ears. Arwen’s head echoed them.

Helion lifted his chiselled chin, the dark plains of his face smooth and even. “Your body is trying to return to its natural state. It cannot sustain holding the form it is currently in, but it can’t fluctuate back and forth to release the strain. It would be like holding a sword for hours on end—the muscle grows weak, breaks down. Eventually, your arm would collapse.”

“You’re saying,” Rhysand whispered near her ear, “that my sister is dying. Again.”

“Yes.”

Arwen’s throat closed, eyes falling to stare at a single spot on the lounge. She didn’t know what Azriel did, if anything. There was no sound from his direction. She was dying again. Slowly and painfully. Each day breaking down bit by bit.

“Fuck.” Rhysand lowered his head to his hands, fingers scraping across his scalp. “No. No. I… You said there are two possible solutions. Whatever the other one is, she’ll take it. I don’t care about the price.” Arwen rocked slightly at the jostling of the lounge’s cushioning, her hands sitting like lead in water in her lap.

“It’s not your price to decide to pay,” said Helion. “Arwen, I need to know you’re listening to me. That you’re going to understand everything I tell you.” Arwen could only lift her head. The grimness, the sadness for her… It was almost too much to handle. “You are tethered to another realm of existence.” Her scars itched. “I can cut that tether and there is a spell I’ve come across that I may be able to adapt that will… make your form permanent. Living, for lack of a better word.”

“You’re saying that it would heal her?” Rhysand asked, the desperation so evident that Arwen’s throat became sore. “That she’d be fine?”

“In the most simple answer, yes. Bu—”

“Do it.” He took her wrist, clutching it like a lifeline thrown from a ship.

Helion turned his dark gaze on her brother. “I said it is not your price to decide to pay. There is a cost. Arwen, your body that is meant for this realm is gone and I cannot bring that back. What I can possibly do, is manipulate the one you have now. But in doing so, my theory is that I will be destroying your soul. You will not be able to reach that form again.”

Rhysand slid his hand into hers. She was grateful that he was taking charge. Thinking and questioning when she could not. “So she won’t be a celestian anymore? Won’t have access to that part of her?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I’m referring to.” Helion angled himself more directly toward them. “What I mean is, what happens when she does die again? In a millennium from now? None of us know what happens to our souls after we die, whether we forever dine in a feast hosted by our forefathers, or if we are simply reunited with our loved ones. Maybe there’s nothing. Whatever it is, if I destroy that part of Arwen so she can continue to live, she won’t be able to reach it again. There will be nothing of her to get through to life after death. There will be no reunion on your own deaths. No eternal life in whatever awaits us. Or she can let the process continue and meet you there one day.”

Arwen wasn’t sure if it was the world swaying, or her. Death. Alive. Reunion. Eternal. Life. Nothing. Something. Everything.

Rhysand’s sharp exhale rippled through the loose hairs near her temple. “So we can keep her alive but in our next life she will not be there?”

Helion nodded. “That is the price.”

“There might be an eternity of something greater. Or there might not be anything”

“That is the risk.”                                                                                                                                       

Chapter Text

Chapter 81

Rhysand sat in front of the fire in the town house’s sitting room. Feyre gripped his arm. “Helion needs a week to…” He sighed and shook his head. “…Figure the spell out. If it’s even possible.”

“How is she taking it?” Mor quietly asked, peering up towards the ceiling in the direction of Arwen’s bedchamber where she had taken off to the moment they got home. Since there was no need to remain at the Day Court, Rhysand had winnowed them home the moment they packed their things. Azriel had returned to the House of Wind the minute after their return.  

“Hasn’t spoken a word.” Rhysand looked at Cassian. “I was hoping you might try and speak with her. Tomorrow. See where her thoughts are at.” Cassian nodded gravely. A coin of decision had been in Rhysand’s head since sitting in that room with Helion. It flipped back and forth, like a gambler playing with his winnings. One way and then the next. Yet it wasn’t his decision to make. It certainly felt like it rested on his shoulders.

Amren inspected her thumbnail. “How long do we have to make the decision?”

“Does she have to make,” Cassian snarled in correction.

The once-demon (still slightly demon) female arched a dark brow, the dull silver eyes still sharper than ever. “You think she’s in the position to make it?” Rhysand fell under the glare next. “She’s not well, Rhysand.”

Cassian stared ahead, speaking into the rim of his glass tankard as he muttered, “That’s a lot of bullshit for a small mouth. She is sick, not mindless. I want her to stay but I’m not going to chain her down.”

At the sight of Amren’s indeed small mouth snapping open, it was Feyre that cut through. “If you two are going to fight, you better leave this house.” Rhysand’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile at another time. He could listen to her telling them off any day. “It will be Arwen’s decision.”

Rhysand nodded in confirmation. “The answer is weeks. Maybe two months if her body isn’t pushed. I don’t want any of you pressing on her. This… This is a decision she needs to make. That’s an order.”

He knew better than any of them in her once unwavering comfort in the thought of having a life after this one. Telling him at Starfall that she would be one of them one day, shining over their world. It had kept hope in her through dark times. He had gotten through his own times of darkness believing that he would reunite with his family in death. To take that choice away from her would be cruel. And Rhysand has had enough of making the wrong decisions. Enough of placing her fate in his hands.

Yet, the idea of letting her go again was almost too unbearable to even imagine.

Cassian, Mor and Amren each took their leave. Rhysand buried his face into his hands, elbows driving divots into his thighs. Feyre’s hand ran down his back, a soothing act but it did little to help. “Azriel was right.”

Her soft brows moved together. “About what?”

He locked his fingers together, resting his jaw on weaved thumbs. “About it being my fault.” His heel bounced against the ground. 

“You know it’s not true. Fault implies intent. You and I both know, and Azriel knows, that you would never intend anything to happen to her.” Feyre leant forward, searching for his gaze back but he couldn’t offer it. “Nobody could have known this would happen.”

“I was supposed to meet them.” His voice croaked but he forced himself to continue. “I was supposed to meet Arwen and my mother halfway to the camp. I didn’t because I was busy and thought what I was doing was more important. It cost my mother her life and my sister her wings.”

“You were betrayed.”

“Arwen told me that she wasn’t feeling well. More than once.” Rhysand couldn’t make out the tongues of flame anymore, his sight tainted by tears that he fought against falling. “I ignored her and she died.”

“And you brought her back. Not only did you give her a second chance at life, but you also gave her back to this family. I can see how happy it makes you to have her around.”

He looked at Feyre, hoping he wouldn’t see the disappointment in him that he felt at himself. “I don’t think she ever wanted to come back. She doesn’t remember, but I do. After I guided Amren back, I saw her. I walked toward her and she stepped away from me. I offered my hand, but she wouldn’t take it. So I grabbed her. I forced her to follow me.”

The confession physically hurt him to say aloud. Until now, it had been a dark secret he stored at the back of his mind, ever since that day he pulled her out of death. He spent hours convincing himself that what he saw was not what he perceived. That she was just confused. Perhaps alarmed that he had died. That she didn’t want to admit that he was there with her.

“I forced her back here only for her to…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, tears trickling down his cheeks as he let out a hoarse sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. The constriction in his chest was painful. “Part of me thinks I should just let her go. That it’s the Mother or the Cauldron telling me that I can’t fight against it. But another part of me thinks it’s a test—that I have to fight for her this time. That I will do everything I can to keep her with us and not fail her. But what if keeping her here is failing her?”

Feyre kissed his cheek. “This is not a test, and it is not your decision to be burdened with. It is nobody’s burden. She will decide because it will be what she wants.”

~

Cassian squeezed Feyre’s shoulder as he passed her into the town house. It was quiet, but that wasn’t highly unusual for the late morning. He gave Rhysand a tight, forlorn smile as the High Lord exited one of the small study rooms and into the main hall. Rhysand returned one just as grim. “She up?”

“Sleeping,” Rhysand answered, nodding in the direction of the sitting room. “I can call for you when she wakes.”

“I’ve cleared my day anyway,” Cassian said, folding his arms to his chest. Looking around, he noted the lack of presence. “Azriel isn’t here?” He hadn’t seen his brother in the House of Wind, but he could just be hiding away in his room. Cassian hadn’t bothered looking.

Rhysand sighed with a bitter, empty laugh. “I’m not bothering to try and figure it out.”

Cassian sighed with him and ventured into the sitting room. Arwen was tucked into the main lounge, bundled in a thick, grey blanket. He knelt by the edge, reaching to curl a strand of hair away from her face. Only to hit solid air.

His nose flared. “A shield?” he demanded under his breath.

Rhysand, who trailed him into the room, said in a soft voice, “Only while she’s sleeping. It’s just… a precaution.”

Cassian glanced around the room as if to ask, against what? But his brother, whose throat bobbed at the look, didn’t seem to have an answer either. But he could understand it. Cassian had hardly gotten any sleep through the night, spending most of it talking with Mor. Hearing what Rhysand told them yesterday… It was a blow to a still raw wound. It felt like they had just gotten her back, that the last two hundred and fifty years were spent waiting for her, even if they didn’t know it at the time. And he had been trying so damn hard to nurse her back to the person he once knew, only to be told her fate was beyond his control.

Not completely out of control, he thought. He still had one hand in it.

Sitting in the nearby armchair, he occupied his time talking with Feyre about the developments along the Sidra. He remembered Rhysand showing him the land he had bought his mate. “The rubble too?” he had asked, earning a smack on the upside of his head. Feyre was ecstatic, and he guessed she would talk for days about her plans for the estate if he let her.

Arwen stirred. Feyre rose from her chair, brushing her hands on the light blue dress she wore and gave Cassian and Arwen the room. Taking a long draw of air, he too rose to his feet and crossed the small section of the room to crouch before her. Arwen woke herself, a frown carving into her forehead. Her eyes found him and spent the next moments just examining Cassian. He could read the signs on her—the weariness in the lines between her brows, the metaphorical heaviness. A nightmare.

She pushed herself up, using her knuckles to wipe at her eyes.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked her. She shook her head. He tilted his. “Want something to eat? Cerridwen is around I think. You know she makes a mean cob loaf.” He didn’t even get a physical answer this time. Arwen just stared at the ground to the side, stewing in what he could guess were bleak thoughts. He hoisted himself to height, extending a hand. “Let’s take a walk, princess. I think—”

Just as his hand brushed her arm, Arwen thwacked it away. “Don’t touch me.”

He dropped again. “Arwen, I’m not asking you to choose anything. Just talk. Talk with me. Tell me what you’re feeling.” Cassian offered his hand again.

Her hair danced around her pale face with the second shaking of her head which he was sure was hard enough to hurt her neck.  “I don’t wan… I don’t want to,” she panted out, cowering away from the hand that he inched forward again. She stared down at it like it was a blade about to pierce her. “Don’t. Don’t. Please don’t.”

It broke a piece of him to see her like this again. When just days ago they had been laughing. Laughing and dancing and holding each other. Now she was begging him not to touch her.

“I can’t,” she cried softly, pushing with her heels into the cushioning, back pressing into the spine of the lounge. Her lashes clumped at the wetness of her tears that glistened.

“Why not?” he asked her, straining to keep his voice steady for her sake. “Tell me why we can’t talk.”

“I can’t,” she repeated, but the words seemed more purposeful this time.

Rhysand’s head of dark hair peeked over the back of the lounge from where he had entered through the archway. Cassian made a subtle gesture for him to stay put.

‘Don’t push her,’ Rhysand sent him.

‘She might take better to you asking.’

Rhysand didn’t answer, retreating somewhere else in the town house. Cassian ignored the lingering whisper in his mind that told him to go after his brother. He spent the next few minutes calming Arwen down, rescinding his offer to talk and instead offering to bring the books down from the House of Wind that she had left up there.

Once she settled, curling back up in her blanket and turning her gaze to the nearest window where she could watch a light snowfall, Cassian hunted his brother down. Rhysand had returned to his office, working about at a stack of parchment.

“Distracting yourself?” he asked, flicking a piece of parchment from where it hung over the lip of the desk.

“Working,” Rhysand corrected.

Cassian slumped into the opposite seat with a short grunt. He decided the repeat what had already been said. “Why don’t you talk to her? I know she trusts me, but you’re her brother. You’ve always been above us all to her. Hell, she stood between you and her mate to protect you.”

“Ex-mate,” Rhysand muttered, forgetting his work. By the sight of his dishevelled hair, Cassian knew Rhys had run his hands through it one too many times. And since that pile of paperwork had been on his desk since last week, he could also guess that his brother had barely touched it. “I’m sorry—that I’m asking you to do it. I can’t…” Rhysand tightened his lips and recomposed his shoulders. “I’m afraid that if it try, she’ll push me away. I’m already losing her as it is.”

Cassian rubbed at his jaw and thought for a moment. “Her reaction…” He didn’t know how to begin—didn’t know what exactly he wanted to say. “She wasn’t just upset, or confused and scared. Arwen was terrified, Rhys.

Rhysand inspected a knot in the polished wood of his desk. “I don’t think we can blame her for that.”

“Course not. But it still leaves the question; what exactly is terrifying her? If she’s scared of death, then doesn’t have to choose it and she knows that.”

Rhysand didn’t have an answer.

Chapter Text

Chapter 82

Arwen’s hand moved loosely around the smooth parchment, listening intently to the soft scratching of her pencil against it. Honeyed light blanketed the small sunroom, stretching from the three windows that made the walls of the alcove to her small chaise that gave her a view of the garden below. Her eyes were set beyond it today though, the light lines on the page forming a rugged mountain horizon.

Arwen had come to the sunroom to forget. For the time that she belonged to nothing but the earth, she forgot the looming decision, forgot the turmoil that she forced herself to shed before entering.

But she was also trying to remember. Remember what it felt like to be alive—truly alive. The type of alive where simply feeling the kiss of sunlight and hearing the song of wind was a beautiful thing. Because as much as she did want to forget, Arwen needed a decision. She just hoped it would come to her. The alternatives were ravaging through her mind or speaking with Cassian.

With the scraps of her drawing done, Arwen returned to her room, tossing the new book on her bed. Sitting at her vanity, she brushed out the messy of her sleep hair since it was well near mid-sun already. A gentle knock at her door took her by surprise, having thought nobody was at home. “Come in.”

The shock weaned when it was Rhysand that appeared. He smiled at her, closing the door behind him. It had only taken three years’ worth of scolding for him to have the action finally ingrained into him. Arwen’s caution bubbled at the placid composure her brother maintained.

Wandering around her bed, he caught sight of the drawing pad and inspected it. Arwen watched him from the vanity. “You should let Feyre take you down to her studio,” he said, flipping to the page before which she had left blank. “I know you don’t usually paint, but who knows, maybe you’ll like it.”

“I don’t mind painting,” she said. “I just hate getting paint on me. Feels gross.” He snorted at that, though she didn’t catch the reason for it. “Are you here to look at my masterpieces or just check that I’m alive?”

It struck something in him as she received a quick, “Neither.” A pause, then, “Both. It’s good to see you drawing again.” It hadn’t been a conscious choice. Arwen had just picked up the book with the intention of giving her hand something to do and those lines became what they did on their own. “How do you feel about going to the theatre tonight? Feyre wanted to get Elain out of the house. I don’t think she’s convinced but I thought it would be nice to have a family night out anyway.”

“I don’t know if I could sit through a two hour performance,” she admitted. Theatres had never been of much interest to her. Arwen was sure the stories were fascinating and the actors terrific, but could never sit through one without nodding off or becoming so disassociated that she may as well have been sleeping.

A corner of Rhysand’s lip reached higher. “Well if you fall asleep, nobody can judge you. We'll go for dinner too. A proper night out.”

Twisting her lips, she traced the grain of her vanity’s wood. “Is there a specific reason we’re going?”

“As I said, Feyre wanted to get Elain out. But I thought it would be a good idea for us to spend some time together out of the house.”

He was ignoring well what she knew was plaguing both their minds. Whether for his own sake or for hers, it didn’t matter. Still, she couldn’t help but feel this was an attempt to lure her out of a shell. If their roles were switched, Arwen certainly wouldn’t be making conversation about family night whilst her brother was nearing his deathbed. “What time should I be ready by?”

He smiled. “Seven.”

~

It was seven and Mor and Cassian were late. Arwen waited with Feyre as Rhysand and Azriel talked in another room. Amren had something else to attend to. And by that, Arwen guessed it was something on someone named Varian. Mor and Cassian showed up just a little past seven.

“I couldn’t find my nice necklace,” Mor said to an annoyed Rhysand, fingering the large pearl pendant hanging from the gold chain around her neck. “Are we winnowing or walking?”

“Winnow,” Rhysand answered, with a scant glance in Arwen’s direction.

“Actually, can we walk?” she asked, motioning to the window. “It’s a nice night.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Walking it is.”

Since they left, Arwen presumed that her brother was right in his assumption that Elain would not be joining them. She doubted Nesta was even invited, or would accept if Feyre extended one. Arwen buried her hands in her thick, black coat, grateful for her choice of flats. She did, however, feel the cold on her feet as well as the soft dips and rises of the cobblestone road. The walk remained quiet for a while as they all fell into pace and choice of company. Arwen lingered behind by a few steps but was soon joined by Cassian. The general did not speak upon his arrival at her side and she sensed the hesitancy in him. They hadn’t left in a great spot. Reaching for his hand, she slipped her fingers through his. He squeezed hers almost immediately and whatever small rift between them existed, healed over with that gesture.

They went to a restaurant that Arwen hadn’t eaten in before but knew of. It was a well-to-do place, with low, golden lighting and servers in prim uniforms. Still, the other patrons were lively and soft music played from a three-person band. In the hurdle to get a seat, Arwen found herself planted between Mor and Azriel. Even the cutlery was unbelievably polished.

“Dinner is on me,” said Rhysand. “So small stomachs please.”

Cassian grinned up at their server. “I’ll take one of everything.”

“Food and drinks,” added Mor, saluting with her empty glass.

Soft laughter infected the table. They each took their turn to order. When it came to Arwen, she simply shook her head, hands clasped together between her knees. “The lamb dish,” said Rhysand. For her. He had already ordered. “Same drink as me.” Azriel ordered next.

The food was placed in front of them so quickly and Arwen wasn’t sure whether it was because the restaurant knew they were hosting their High Lord and Lady, or if their service was just that naturally good. She prodded at the cut of lamb, watching as the juices squeezed from it. A hunger sat in her stomach, enough to make her investigative of the meal, but a weariness kept her from anything further. What was meant to be a scant glance around turned into a stare as she eyed the bowl of lentil soup on her left.

Of course it was Azriel’s meal.

Arwen tried to tear her attention away from it, but he caught her. “Would you like to try some?” he asked, voice low and soft.

She nodded. He offered her the spoon. Leaning on her elbows, she carefully spooned a mouthful of the thick liquid and brought it to her lips. It was hot enough that she winced on instinct, but found that it was a perfect temperature to devour. She let the soup slide across her tongue then down her throat.

She went for a second spoonful.

Azriel was already reaching for her abandoned plate, placing it in front of himself and edging the bowl closer to her seat. Arwen perked. “Are you sure?”

“I think I’m actually in the mood for lamb anyway,” he said, already cutting into the lean meat.

By the time that Rhysand was organising their payment, she had finished half—enough to more than satisfy her. Azriel had finished her meal but declined when she offered him the rest of the soup. She had a feeling that he didn’t really want the lamb.

Arwen went back to Cassian’s side, between him and Mor as they wandered across the city to one of the nearby theatres. “What are we seeing?” she asked. Cassian opened his mouth to speak but fell short when it came to having an answer.

“Vagabonds of the Mountains,” Rhysand answered from behind her, hand in hand with Feyre.

Arwen’s eyes widened. “Really?” It was the one play she had loved—a comedy and a tragedy and a romance all in one. “I thought they stopped playing that years ago.” Rhysand only smiled and shrugged. A small sway came to her step and she was suddenly reminded of Cassian’s observation. She did dance a little when she was happy. “It’s a shame Elain couldn’t make it, she probably would have liked this one,” Arwen said back over her shoulder to Feyre.

Feyre arched her fair brows, lips rounding. Before her answer came, she glanced at her mate. “Oh.” Back at Arwen. “Perhaps she will come another time.”

Arwen nodded and looked back to the road once more. Upon reaching the theatre they were promptly escorted inside and guided to a private box with a wonderful view of the entire stage. There were two short rows of cushioned chairs. Cassian and Azriel were taking the second row, their wings obstructive to the view for anyone behind. Rhysand gestured to the seat next to him for her to take along the front.

But Arwen shook her head. Nothing like the actors looking up and seeing a notable guest nodded off. So she took the middle seat of the second row, comfortably situated between the Illyrians and Mor took the remaining front row seat instead.

Leaning back into her chair, they waited for the rest of the theatre to fill. She kicked the back of her brother’s chair. Her lips inched upwards as his head gave a slight cock. She kicked it again. He tilted his head enough so she could see his ear and the plain of his cheek. Arwen kicked his chair once more, giving a short squeal when his hand snatched her ankle. Still facing forward, Rhysand wrestled to pull her off her seat, yanking her ankle under his arm.

An echo of a childhood memory—when she was bored and restless sitting in the theatre for hours on end at her father’s behest. Now he wasn’t here to tell her off and slap her wrist.

Rhysand’s laugh came when she finally slipped off the edge of the seat she had been teetering on, letting her ankle go. Settling back into her seat, grinning at an amused Cassian, she was just in time as the crowd grew quiet and the show began.

Arwen’s full attention narrowed on the stage, and she was on the edge of her seat for another reason. But even that couldn’t stop it. The looming heaviness came first, weighing her down, followed by the sinking sensation in her stomach. She blinked the weariness away but that only turned into her eyelids fluttering. Cold hands gripped at her consciousness, tugging her down, down, down.

Cassian’s hand planted on her chest, stopping her from tipping forward off the chair. The world became a bit blurry around that time.

~

Azriel kept Arwen to his chest as her head lopped against his shoulder. He hated it—each time he had to watch her eyes roll back. He hated this night, the false acts of smiles under the pretence of a family night. He hated how he had to act, under Rhysand’s firm command, that nothing was wrong.

He hated how frail she felt in his arms, how he knew that if his hands tightened the way his mind urged him to, her bones could break under his fingers.

He carried her to the short, dark corridor that linked the viewing box to the outer hallway, sinking down to the floor against the wall. Azriel could still make out the silhouetted heads of his family, a few peeking back at him. Keeping Arwen in his lap, he readjusted her head against his shoulder and stroked her hair. Her breathing was turning hoarse.

At least he didn’t have to pretend to watch the play anymore.

He rested there for what might have been half an hour, only nodding when Rhysand came by to check and snarling when an attendant wandered too close. He felt her rousing before violets peeked through dark lashes.

Arwen remained quiet for some minutes after that, then a soft, “Az?” He hummed to acknowledge her call. She shifted. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Azriel was on his feet. He careened into the hall, making it to the washroom just in time for Arwen to throw her guts up into the toilet basin. He grappled the end of her hair, twisting it around his hand like it was a rope as she heaved. The off-scent of his soup wafted through the air, but mixed with something even more distinguishable. Azriel didn’t have to look, but he did. As Arwen wiped her mouth and leant her head onto her arm, he saw the blood smeared on the ceramic, mingled with the vomit.

Chapter Text

Chapter 83

Arwen sat in the bathtub until she couldn’t stand how cold the water became. Memories kept repeating in her head, tiring her yet she couldn’t shove them away. Draining the tub, she wrapped the thick robe around herself, glimpsing at the star-flecked sky beyond her window. It called to her.

Clipping her wet hair away from her face, she headed downstairs, following the sound of light chatter. Feyre and Rhys were leaning against opposite sides of the island bench in the kitchen over hot drinks. They greeted her with equal soft smiles.

Arwen swallowed away the dryness in her throat. “I want to watch the stars,” she said. Not out of seeking permission or informing them of her whereabouts. It was a request.

Rhysand straightened. “I’ll meet you in bed, darling,” he murmured to Feyre who appeared a bit lost but not all that fretful at the fact. Feyre moved first, picking up her drink and sharing a kiss on the cheek with Arwen. “Rooftop?”

“Yes,” she uttered. As he passed her, Arwen took her brother’s hand. They settled on the flattened edge of the rooftop terrace, letting their legs hang down the gentle slope. Tilting her head back, the breeze skimmed across her bare neck. Each star winked at her as if to remind her that they were watching.

“You’ve been thinking,” he said after minutes of silence. “I’ve seen it on your face all day.”

“I have been,” she admitted. All day, true to the observation. Awakening from a dream that had her guts wanting to fold themselves inside out, it was all she could do.

He rubbed the knuckle of her thumb of their still interlinked hands. “Want to let me in? Have you decided?”

Her head dropped back down. “That’s not what I’ve been thinking about.” Rhysand watched the side of her face. She frowned—or maybe it was a wince—and restrengthened her grip on his hand, confirming that she could feel it. “I can’t stop thinking about you being Under the Mountain. With Amarantha.”

Maybe it was a way for her to avoid thinking about what should matter at that second. Deciding her fate.

He continued staring at her and though there was nothing visible on his face, she sensed all thoughts in his head shifting. And there, in his eye, a haunting. “She’s dead. You don’t need to worry about her.”

“I’m not—” Arwen cut herself short. She wasn’t worried about Amarantha. She had watched Tamlin sink his claws into her and it was the only time that she ever felt a slither of gratitude for his presence. Her tongue ran over her cracking lips. “You were all alone, Rhys. For fifty years.”

He hummed. “I was protecting this place. This family.”

“Alone,” she repeated, snapping her neck to look at him. To let him see the tears beading on her lashes. “I hate it. I hate the idea of you not having anybody. I would have given anything—anything­­—to be there with you, just so you weren’t.”

Arwen was there. But she wasn’t there. She couldn’t offer him anything, not even a whisper in his ear. There were days that he was so shattered that he sat in his private chambers and just sobbed, his entire body shaking and she could do nothing but stand there. Even drafts from opening doors held more power than her.

“No.” Rhysand adamantly shook his head. “No, Arwen, that is not what I would have wanted at all.” Relenting the hold on her hand, he took her jaw instead and leant closer. “Yes, I was alone. But alone meant that the people I cared about were safe. If you were there, that meant I would have failed. I cannot even stand thinking up the idea. I would do it all again even if it was just to protect you.”

It was her turn to shake her head, so wildly that her hairclip almost came loose. “I would kill you myself for the stupidity,” she croaked. “My death would cause far less pain. We both know that.” Arwen brought one knee to her chest, prying her jaw out of his hand to rest upon that knee.

“I don’t think we do.” His tone tightened. The now hovering hand fell to her back, making small circles. “Arwen, do have any idea how much your death hurt me?” She shook her head. Rhysand stretched his arm along her shoulders, drawing her into his side. “Why have you been thinking about this? Amarantha is long behind us.”

She heaved out a sob, linking her hands atop of his knee and pushing her forehead against it. “I don’t know.” He rubbed her back.

~

Arwen’s mind had been burning through thoughts like wildfire in high winds. She had about paced the length of the House of Wind three times since awakening. The town house had felt too crowded to sleep in the night before so Rhysand flew her up. She had spent the day keeping herself company, pretending to read, watching Cassian and Azriel take a mid-day training session, and even watched the sunset that fell hours before.

Then she had laid on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

She could die, she thought. There was a very good chance she would, even though Rhysand had gotten word that Helion believed he could perform the spell that would reform her body. That was the thought that drove her to what she was doing now.

Which was making her way to Cassian’s chamber, wearing her golden silk nightdress.

Nothing but her silk nightdress.

It had been a long debate. She had even stood at the junction of the hallways, looking left, then looking right. She chose right. Her knuckles rapped on the wood of his door. A deep, chesty chuckle followed. “Azriel barely bothers knocking these days.” Arwen took that as the acceptance of her company and opened the door.

Cassian stood near a tall shelf, placing his folded leathers away, polishing gear still on the table nearby. It left him in nightwear of a loose black shirt and slackened pants, even his siphon gauntlets that he wore every single day lay elsewhere. His hair was pulled back in a low and small bun, a few strands hanging loose to frame his face which was adorned with an affectionate smile.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he greeted.

Arwen ignored the feeling of the carpet on the soles of her feet and strode across his large bedroom. Wringing her arms around his neck, she kissed him.

She kissed him hard but slow, rising so high on her toes that her entire weight rested on them. It hurt, but it was nothing.

At first, there was nothing from him, then slowly, began to return her gesture. His arm went around the back of her waist and helped take her weight as he kissed with the same vigour she gave him. It was warm, comforting, a bit exhilarating. They weren’t anywhere near being in sync, both fighting for their own pattern yet trying to predict what the other wanted. A small moan-turned-whimper escaped her lips in a moment of readjustment.

“Hey,” he uttered against her mouth, the hand not cinched at her waist dropping to her hip. He pulled away. Arwen breathed hard, her chest pressing against his as she stared up at him. Cassian searched her face intently. “What is this?”

Placing her hands on his torso, she pushed him back towards his bed. When the backs of his calves hit the frame, Cassian sunk onto the mattress. Arwen climbed onto his lap, letting her dress ride up her thighs and went back to kissing him. He fed her rampant desires, once again kissing her back as his hands settled again on her hips. She kissed along his jaw, his breath like a storm’s breeze past her ear.

She ran with the same thoughts she had on the night of Solstice. It would be passionate. Intimate. By the way he was holding her now was only testimony to that. But it would mean nothing beyond tonight.

She licked the column of his neck.

“Gods,” he murmured, to her utter delight. Arwen urged her hips into his. He seized up underneath her, hands pressing her down onto his lap. “Arwen,” he growled. She lifted her head, kissing him on the mouth again and rolling her hips to feel the friction, motivated even more by the sure arousal she felt pressing against her core.   

Cassian hissed as he pushed back against her, grovelling for that friction as she did. But he also had other ideas. Keeping his firm grip, he rose to his feet, pulling Arwen along with him and flipped them around. Her back fell against the soft blanket and he loomed over her. Before she could fight her way to him, his large hand pressed against her stomach, holding her there.

“Arwen,” he said again. “Talk to me.”

Her chest heaved up towards him in deep pants. “I want to feel something,” she whispered. “Something good.” Her throat tightened but she knew what she desired. She was sick of feeling empty. Sick of being tired. Sick of feeling unwanted. "I want to feel good.” 

It would mean something different to spend this night with Azriel instead.

Arwen registered something akin to pain on his face. Pain for her. His throat bobbed as he looked over her sprawled body.

“Please.”

Cassian leant down, pressing a light kiss to her lips, then to her temple. “I can’t do that, sweetheart.” His nose pushed into her cheek as he rested at the temple he just kissed. “I can’t put you through it.”

“I want it,” she assured him. “I won’t regret this.”

A weak version of his usual wolfish smirk showed. “I wouldn’t let you regret it,” he said. “And I know you want this. But your body doesn’t. I know it would feel good, but I can’t trust myself not to hurt you in the process of getting that.”

Arwen sat up. He dropped to sit next to her. “I can take it.”

His tone fell stern but kind. “I don’t think you’re in the mind to properly consent to that.”

Just like that, she deflated. His hand clasped around her far shoulder and he guided her to rest against his side.

Of course this was how it turned out. Nothing ever had the habit of going her way. Now she had to deal with everything she felt before, but with added dejection and a little bit of humiliation. Cassian urged her to the back of the bed to rest against the headboard, and stuck reeling in her head, she did nothing to fight the movement. He kept one hanging around her shoulders, the other crossing her front, palm laying over her far cheek.

“I’ve been in this position before,” he said after a time. “With Mor. Only, back then I was young and stupid and didn’t care to think about the consequences. All I knew was that I thought she was beautiful and she said she wanted me. The circumstance was clear—it was just a one night thing. And ever since, I’ve had to deal with the guilt knowing that what happened to her was because of me. That I didn’t stop it and just think for a damn moment about what I was doing. I’m not going to let myself hurt you.”

Arwen stared at a blank spot on his blanket on the other side of his legs, letting her head rest against his chest as he stroked her cheek. “I wanted to remember,” she whispered. “Wha… What it felt like to be that happy again. If I could.”

Was it worth fighting for her life? On the certainty that she would have nothing beyond it, would it even be worth trying to stay? Or should she stop fighting against the balance and let it take her? It could take her someplace wonderful. She could join the spirits on Starfall.

Or she might become trapped again. Might become chained.

“If you could…” He gave a harsh sigh. “This has to do with… Fuck, Ar.” He pressed her off his front. Arwen left her weight limp, leaving him to hold her up as he grasped her shoulders. “It is going to get better. It is going to get better with time, but you have to give it that.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“It will.” His burly hands squeezed her shoulders before he seemed to think better of it and loosened them again. “If it was something I could make a bargain with you on, I would. I want you alive, Arwen. I want you here. You don’t remember anything after your death—there might not be anything. But being alive is a certainty.”

This was the first time any of them dared to impose their opinion. She had a feeling Rhysand ordered them not to. Her lip trembled. “It’s hard.”

“Yeah, well, so am I,” he muttered and the absolute twist on the topic had Arwen’s jaw dropping. Cassian broke into a low chuckle as he leant forward, pressing his forehead to hers. “That was a good move, sweetheart. The neck.”

She couldn’t help but smile, shoulders shaking as laughter bubbled from her. “I can do it again if you ask.” Gone were the desperate desires. Now it was them again—the teasing and the laughter.

Cassian leant away from her, resting against the headboard, leaving her to sit facing him at his thighs. “I’d prefer to remain under control, but thank you. Besides, I’m not sure if Rhys or Azriel would be the first to separate my head from my neck.”

“You weren’t worried about them on Solstice,” she pointed out.

“I wasn’t in the mind to care.” They smiled at each other for a bit. “Why don’t you stay here the night? So I know you’re okay.”

“You trust me to keep my hands to myself?” she whispered flatly.

He winked and brought her back into his side. “They can do some exploring if they like. I don’t train my body just for battle.”

Arwen snorted weakly and turned around to face the end of the bed with him, drawing her knees to her chest. Eyes wandering, she found his missing siphons on the bedside table. Reaching, she took one and examined the soft glow of the red stone. She could sense the power inside of it—not a source, but a channel. Remnants of Cassian’s power.

“Not the exploring I had in mind,” Cassian remarked after a while. Arwen spared him a distracted smile, still turning the stone over in her hand. “Reason for the interest?”

“No,” she answered truthfully. I idea came to mind. Spinning onto her knees, Arwen sat on her haunches to face him. Hiding both hands behind her back she asked, “What hand?”

Cassian settled on his side, propped by the mound of pillows. Smirking, he tapped her left elbow. Her smile dropped as she revealed the stone. That game went on until she saw the weariness on his face and knowing he was battling the tire for her sake, Arwen ended the tournament. Cassian extinguished his candles, leaving only the milky night of the moon that entered through the slit in the curtains at his window. He lay on his stomach (as most Illyrians do), a pillow pulled underneath for his head and chest. She sat there.

Arwen stared at the curtains, able to see a sliver of the moon. There was a room of carpet between her and the window. Spending another moment to collect herself, she inched her legs off the side of the bed and lowered her feet. It wasn’t so terrible this time. The silk of her dress felt like nothing against her thighs as she wandered closer and drew the curtains open. Finding the latch, Arwen undid it and pushed the two separate panes open. Tepid air welcomed her. Clutching the stone wall and the frame, she climbed onto the sill and perched on it, legs hanging over the edge, nothing but rock and air below them.

She looked to the stars, bright and eternal. Something she could be. Or something she may never be. Immortality seemed so mild. How many immortal had the stars seen come and go? Was that something she could give up—eternity? Would leaving all this behind truly be so terrible? They would join her one day. If she could reach it.

Arwen gasped as an arm wrapped around her stomach, a sudden heat at her back. It held her tight, urging her to fall into the heat. “Away from the window,” Cassian muttered in her ear. “Please.”

Her heart started to ease. “I just wanted the air.” She looked back to the stars.

Cassian sighed quietly and placed his forehead on her shoulder. He let her stay there for some time more. Only when she was ready, did Arwen turn herself around. She wrung her arms around his neck, letting him lift her from the sill and back to her feet. He kept her to his front as he reached behind her, locking the window shut and pulling the drapes entirely closed. “Come on,” he whispered, the words barely audible, and led her back to the bed. It didn’t take long for her to settle in this time, curling up under the blanket. Cassian remained awake this time, watching her until her slow blinks turned to sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter 84

Arwen and Cassian sat at breakfast like nothing had ever happened. Which was exactly how she knew it would be. The thing she hadn’t expected to feel, was the upset gargling of her stomach when Azriel sat down next to her. Like she had done something wrong.

Rhysand flew up to meet them sometime after breakfast, lines of distress marking his forehead. He requested Cassian to go with him to the camps for the day. Of course, Cassian quickly obliged, kissing Arwen on the cheek before flying off with her brother. She stood on that balcony for some time, watching the sun continue to rise, the arms of light reaching across Velaris. It was hours before she even crossed paths with the shadowsinger again. Even then, they only passed in the hall with nothing more than a remark of greeting. But having seen his shadows crawling around all day, there was little chance they weren’t reporting to him her every move. They had been for days.

The next morning, Arwen was delighted to find Feyre in the sitting room. “How are you?” the High Lady asked.

“Fine,” Arwen answered, taking the seat next to her. She had come to, strangely, find some sort of solace in Feyre’s presence. A soothing like a balm to a burn. In a way, it reminded her of Lucien. Someone that was not her family, or that she grew up around. Someone who she had to nurture a relationship with, rather than having one by default. “How’s Rhys? He hasn’t reached out to me.” Arwen left her mind open enough for him to enter. It was her memories that she kept locked away.

Feyre waved her hand. “He’s fine, just busy. I think he doesn’t want to stress you.”

“He has a habit of doing that,” she muttered through a smile, pulling a cushion to her stomach. “Not telling people what’s wrong. He thinks it’s easier on us if we don’t know.”

“Don’t worry, I’m beating the habit out of him.” They shared a laugh. Feyre turned more onto the lounge to face Arwen. “I was hoping to speak with you.” She tilted her head, seeking Arwen’s gaze. “Perhaps offer you an ear that isn’t… That you might feel freer talking to.”

Arwen toyed with the frills of the cushion, mulling over the offer.

“I know it’s hard when just being alive feels difficult,” Feyre continued in the silence. “I’ve been through that. But maybe it’s worth fighting for.”

“You have to understand, Feyre,” Arwen murmured, her voice raw like she had been screaming for hours, “that it isn’t just a choice of giving up or living. If I chose to stay, I lose any possibility of moving on after death. I have watched Starfall every year, and every year I have hoped that when I die, I would become one of them. Travel across the universe, even if I’m not consciously aware of it. It’s the hope of knowing that I’m somewhere better. That is a belief that I have held since your great ancestors were alive.”

But if she chose wrong, she would be placing herself in a prison. 

“But you give up everything you have here,” Feyre added softly. Another silence lapsed between them before she spoke again. “Rhys feels guilty. He thinks that you never wanted to come back. That he forced you here.”

Arwen parted her dry lips but her mind ran a blank in how to respond. Because what could she even say? Yes, that was exactly what happened. Rhysand had grabbed her and pulled her back when she was finally free. When she finally felt the pull of death’s hands, the first thing she felt in two hundred and fifty years, he had snatched her away from it.

Arwen still blamed him for that. Still couldn’t help the resentment that she might have been in some form of peace if he had just not reached for her.

“Arwen?”

Arwen pushed Feyre’s reaching hand away, snapping back into concentration. Her breathing had turned laboured—loud but weak. She knew her breathing was getting worse by the day as if her lungs were becoming infected or… Or decomposing. “I’m sorry, Feyre. I think I need to lie down.”

The High Lady nodded. “Of course. Can I bring you anything?”

Arwen shook her head and leant back into the lounge.

Feyre smiled tightly and rose from the seating. She took one step away before hesitating, turning back to Arwen with a frown. “If you’ve already made a decision, I ask, as your High Lady, that you tell Rhysand when he returns. Give him time to process it. If you do decide to… leave, he needs to hear it from you. All of them do.”

She hadn’t. Arwen hadn’t made up her damn mind at all. So she nodded to her High Lady.

The fire across, raging in the hearth, dried her eyes as she stared at it for what might have been hours. When Feyre left, there was still sunlight visible in the window but when she looked again, it was the velvet darkness of night. Talking with Feyre hadn’t felt all that productive—it just felt like she had to explain herself all over again. Explain things that were hard, no matter how many times she did it, to put into words.

Arwen’s solitude came to an end. With the fire the only source of light, Azriel almost melted in with the shadows of the sitting room. His gait so quiet and smooth that he seemed to glide to the lounge, taking the seat against the opposite armrest. He stared at the fire, hands clasped between his knees. Arwen remained deathly still, unsure whether to move or pretend to be a statue.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Arwen.” Ice encapsulated her bones at the empty, harsh voice. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he said, and Arwen’s eyes glued to the side of his face. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

He hadn’t spoken more than five words to her in over a day. “I don’t understand,” Arwen said. “What’s wrong?”

“I know, Arwen.” Azriel placed a hand on his chest, clutching at his leathers. As the firelight danced across the tanned planes of his face, she could see the pain on them, like he had been physically wounded. “I know that I am not good at figuring out what people need. I know that I struggle to talk some days and I can be hard to talk to. I know this. But I don’t know how to keep fighting for you, when you do not want to be fought for.”

Arwen’s feet slipped to the floor. “I never asked you to fight for me,” she said, careful to keep her voice steady. “I don’t even know what you mean by that, Azriel.”

His eyes snapped from the fire to her. “You are my mate. I-I am fighting to help you. I’m fighting for you to let me into your life. Fighting for your life.”

The suddenness of it all—she didn’t know what to do. “We are not mates anymore. You told me so yourself that the bond is broken and I do not feel it. You have no obligation, bond or not, to fight for me.”

His body followed his gaze, turning to her. “Bond or not you are still my mate. You were the one chosen for me and I was chosen for you.”

“And maybe it was wrong,” she cried. “You certainly thought so for many years, if you forget. Not to mention that if I were not here then perhaps you would be down with Elain instead.”

They found themselves on their feet. Arwen didn’t know who moved first or who followed, but if she outstretched her arm, she was close enough to touch him. Azriel’s jaw fell. “Elain?” he echoed, drawing the female’s name out like it was foreign to his tongue. “This has nothing to do with her.”

“It has everything to do with her.” Arwen raked her fingers through her hair. It was getting harder to breathe. “You cannot deny your affections for her, and I do not want someone who is only at my side in a sense of duty that they did not choose. Neither of us chose the mating bond.”

“I would have chosen it.” Anger stretched across his face now. Pure, undiluted anger. “Elain is kind but I harbour no affections for her,” he snapped, as if she was in the wrong for accusing him of what she only saw. “The same cannot be said for you and Cassian. I smelt you that morning. I could smell you on him and him on you.”

She pointed her trembling finger at her chest. “I do not have feelings for Cassian and nor does he for me. I went to him in search of comfort because I trusted him and did not feel like I could go to you. That is all. There was nothing to betray between us.”

“Then how is that not the same with Elain? You were dead, Arwen! At least I didn’t do it in your face.” Azriel took a step closer. “She was simple and easy to be around in ways that you drove me crazy. I like Elain because she didn’t remind me of you. I didn’t think of you when I looked at her face.”

In hindsight, Arwen knew that was the comment that stung the most. That she was nothing alike Elain; the beautiful female who was so soft and sweet that people could not help to like. That she was not kind as Elain was. Not as neat and prim and sweet.

“Then why are you not with her now?” Her chest constricted so tight it was a wonder that she breathed at all. “If she is so easy to be around, then be around her.” 

Azriel stole another step forward. “Because she is not the one that I love.”

The word panged around inside of her painfully. Hard and rough-edged. Arwen shook her head, retrieving that space with a step back. “I don’t trust that, Azriel.” He eyed the movement. “You gave her Truth Teller.”

He blinked. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?” Arwen’s chest shook as she looked at the fire. “You gave it to her.”

His hand skimmed the short pommel that protruded from the sheathe kept tight to his outer thigh. “I gave her my knife to borrow. You fucked Cassian. Does that not mean more!”

A single burst of laughter poured from her lips. Empty and cold. “I didn’t fuck Cassian. And even if I did, it would have meant the exact same as you finding other females in pleasure houses I’m sure you’ve done over the past two hundred years. You gave Elain Archeron Truth Teller and that meant something. In over five hundred years you have never parted with it, so forgive me if I believe your actions over your words.”  

“I gave it to her because she was my High Lady’s sister and she was scared. If she died out of fear, Feyre would have been devastated. If Feyre was hurting then Rhys would have been distracted and we could have lost the entire war because of it.”

Arwen refused to look at him. Refused to acknowledge the tears streaming down her face.

Azriel pulled the knife from his thigh, snatching her hand from her side. He shoved the knife’s pommel into her hand, curling her fingers around. “Take the damn knife, Arwen. Keep it!”

Arwen tore her hand out of his, pulled her arm back, and speared the blade across the sitting room. “I don’t want the stupid knife!” A searing pain erupted through her shoulder. The blade clanged against the wall, dropping to the ground.

Azriel stared at the spot it fell like it was everything he had to offer—now thrown away.

Arwen clenched her eyes and jaw at the agony coursing through her. Like her muscles were placed on fire. She knew the pain well enough. Dislocated. This time she only had herself to blame. Azriel’s hand grazed hers. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!”

“Just let me help you,” he whispered, all trace of wrath gone. It was only then that she opened her eyes as he guided her to the floor, that she found the shining tears tracking his cheeks.

Unable to take her eyes off them, Arwen stared at his face, wincing as he moved her arm and prepared her shoulder to go back in place. He murmured a count but she didn’t hear it, yelping when it popped into place. Azriel let her go, falling off his haunches and turning his gaze to the fire. He rested his elbows on tented and spread knees, one hand hanging limp, the other fisting to his mouth. His shadows pooled around him, cloaking him. Protecting him.

Arwen rose, ignoring the lingering ache pulsating through her shoulder as well as the clawing exhaustion. She crossed the room and found his knife, picking it up. When she stood back up, back to the hearth, her ears twitched at the sound of a sob. She didn’t want to look.

But she did. Arwen turned with the knife in hand.

Azriel’s eyes were shut tight, hard wrinkles creasing out to his temples from either one. She dropped to her knees at his side, placing one hand on his shoulder and holding out the knife with the other. Peeling his eyes open, he glanced down at it, took it, then threw it to his other side. Truth Teller skidded along the floor, knocking into the stone lip of the hearth where it stopped.

“I don’t care about it,” he croaked, catching her stare at the discarded blade. “I don’t care about a fucking blade. I want you to stay, Arwen. I love you.”

Arwen reached out. She pulled away his closest arm from his knee, opening it, then slipping inside. Facing him, she leaned forward and rested her cheek on the front of his shoulder, sinking her weight onto him, listening to each breath he took. “And I love you, Azriel.”

His arm settled around her back. It wasn’t strong, or even comforting. But it was there. He made loose traces with his fingers on the dip of her waist. The only sound for the next hour was the occasional catch in his throat as he choked down any sound of a cry.   

Chapter Text

Chapter 85

Azriel knocked before he entered, but there was no response. Inside Arwen’s room in the town house, her curtains had been pulled mostly shut except for a slit about the width of his arm that Rhysand left to allow some light to penetrate. That was hours ago, for now there was only night. He took the steaming bowl of lentil soup and placed it at her bedside table, eyeing the small form that was curled up in a mound of pillows. Arwen was gaunt and pale, hard to look at knowing what she once was.

Azriel sat down on the edge of her bed, facing the headboard. With his scarred hand, he reached for the head just poking out of the blanket and hooked the raven strands over her ear. “Arwen?” he called softly. Her brows twitched. “Arwen?”

With a quiet groan, Arwen rolled her head and peeled her eyes open. The violets behind them were a dull shade that made his stomach queasy. They found him and he allowed her a minute to awaken properly. She looked to the curtains and sighed.

“I have soup,” he told her, picking up the bowl and frowning at it. “Lentil. Elain wanted to cook something for you, and I told her that you liked the one you had at the restaurant. She’s not sure how close it will be, but it looks similar.”

Pushing herself up against the headboard, she asked, “Elain made it for me?”

Azriel smiled softly. “A peace offering. I’ve made it clear how I feel about you to—well, everybody but I wanted you to know that she knows where my attention and affection lay. Elain doesn’t want to be in your ill graces.”

That had been a hard conversation. Not by Elain’s account, but because he had no idea what he was supposed to say. He had weaved it into his explanation of what had occurred between himself and Arwen at the House of Wind when he returned with her to the town house upon Rhysand and Cassian’s arrival. Elain had been listening. Rhysand had been a little confused at Azriel’s confession of loving his sister.

“I know you do,” he said, sharing a look with Cassian and Feyre. “If you’re going to do some great proclamation, wait till she’s awake to hear it.” But it wasn’t Arwen or Rhysand he needed to know. Because he had grown close with Elain, and he had been unwilling to cut anything between them for the fear that he would once again be alone if Arwen turned her back to him. Every time she turned to Cassian, he wanted someone to turn to as well.

And that fear that might have cost him the one thing he was fearful of.

“You mean Rhys’s ill graces,” Arwen croaked, humour shining through her broken smile.

Azriel dragged the spoon through the soup. “After the way he kicked Nesta out, I don’t think any of us can blame her for sweetening up her image.” She hummed in agreement. He hovered the spoon near her mouth.

“I can feed myself. I’m not a baby bird.”

He reluctantly placed the spoon back into the bowl but kept a hold of it after putting it in her lap. Arwen picked up the spoon, dipping it a few times to investigate the soup's consistency before bringing a spoonful to her lips.

“Not bad,” she admitted with some reluctance that had him smiling.

“Is it similar?”

“Try some.”

Arwen spooned more and like he did for her and hovered the spoon in offering.

His mate was offering him food. She was going to feed him. Accept him. Their proper mateship would snap and—

And it wouldn’t. Because there was no bond to accept. And by the tightening of her lips, she had those exact thoughts. So Azriel leant forward and put his mouth around the spoon. It wasn’t the soup he ordered at the restaurant, but it was close. Just missing a spice that he couldn’t identify. As he licked his lips, Arwen went back to feeding herself, leaving him to contemplate the nothingness of it all. How nothing changed after accepting food offered by what was supposed to be his mate. He carefully watched each mouthful, her attention moving to something on the other side of her room, seemingly in distant thought.

Then she paused, metal to her lips. The spoon dropped from her fingers and into the bowl with a loud clang, droplets of the soup flying out and landing on Azriel’s lap and the blanket. Reacting quick, he lifted the bowl as her body made a small lurch, vomiting everything she had eaten right back into it.

With a small sigh, he placed the contaminated bowl aside. “Should I inform Elain of your thoughts on her cooking?” he muttered, meaning to be humorous but now just wishing he kept his mouth shut.

Arwen leant back, closing her eyes and crossed her arms over her stomach, displeased with herself. She had to be starving. She hadn’t eaten anything more than that mouthful in two… Three days. And now it was an acidic slosh back in the bowl it came from.

“Is there anything you think you can eat?” he asked her, desperate enough that if she asked for a single piece of fruit on a hidden island, he would hunt it down for her.

Arwen shook her head, teary-eyed and avoiding his gaze.

Leaning forward, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead before standing and picking up the bowl. “I’ll bring you something else later,” he promised. She didn’t look at him. Azriel left her bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

A shadow curled around his ear, whispering. Lucien had arrived downstairs. Another curled around his other ear, settling into a more permanent position. That one too, whispered to him, but of Arwen.

Quiet. Tired. Resigned.

Azriel hissed at his shadow at that last one. Arwen wasn’t resigned. She was tired, exhausted and hungry, uncertain, but she wasn’t resigned. Resignation was to give up and he wouldn’t let that happen.

At Rhysand’s behest, he had convinced himself that he would not push his desires onto her. That he wouldn’t push her to make her choice. He knew that if she did so before she was ready, she might lead to regret it. That she would resent herself and them for putting that pressure on her. She had gotten through losing her mother on the adamant belief that they would be reunited one day.

But now he feared it was getting too late and her delaying to choose was doing nothing to delay the inevitable. And if she wouldn’t choose, he was selfish enough to choose for her, even if he had to drag her to Helion.

Azriel’s boots thumped down each step. He set eyes on Lucien Vanserra at the bottom who paused at the sight of him coming down. Azriel stopped five steps from the floor. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

Rhysand and Feyre both sent him looks from the hall behind Lucien. He could hear Cassian and Mor in another room as well.

Lucien made to glance over his shoulder but thought better and held the spymaster’s hard gaze. “I’m going to see Arwen.”

Azriel glared over his head, not believing that Rhysand would allow visitors in the town house, let alone near her. Her brother set a shield around her every time she left the house. “Let her rest.”

“Lucien is only here for a few hours,” Rhysand said. “Let him see her.”

He flared out his wings, blocking the width of the stairwell and bared his teeth in warning. “No.” Oh, he was going to get into shit later for this, but he didn’t care. Not when he knew how vulnerable his mate was. Bond or not, that is what she was. Rhysand should understand it, how it felt.

Perhaps the act of Arwen feeding him did elicit some reaction inside of him because Azriel couldn’t stand the idea of people being around her without him in this state. Certainly not another male. Not Lucien, not Cassian, even an almost shameful reservation against Rhysand. Though in truth, that instinct had long been in him. The animalistic side of him that he usually hated because it derived from his Illyrian heritage.

“Azriel.” Feyre’s soft but firm tone cut through him. His High Lady. “Lucien wants to see his friend and I’m sure Arwen would appreciate the visit. Let him pass and come downstairs.”

Where did the line become drawn between obeying his superiors and listening to the voice inside of him that told him to protect his mate at all costs? Rhysand never had to go through that. Rhysand’s own voice was law. He should understand, if not for knowing the feeling, then for the knowledge that it was his own sister that Azriel would do anything for.

But Rhysand had made foul choices when it came to her before.

He tucked in a single wing. “Keep the door open,” he growled to the emissary who passed him mutely. A shadow dropped to the floor, snaking behind Lucien, following him along the upper floor. Ignoring the looks of his brother and Feyre, Azriel stalked down the rest of the stairs with the soup bowl in hand and went to the kitchen.

Rhysand couldn’t drop it, of course, and followed him. Azriel let the bowl a with a deep clang against the bench as he listened to his shadow’s report in the moments before Rhysand made it to his side.

She was okay.

Rhysand leant against the bench to his left, arms folded. The loose posture, at least, gave Azriel the knowing that the male he would be speaking to was his brother, not a High Lord. “I trust Lucien.”

“I don’t,” Azriel countered. “I don’t know how you’re trusting anyone near her.”

Rhysand laid a hand on Azriel’s forearm. “You’re in overdrive. Trust me, I know how that feels. Like everything is suddenly a threat and you are scared because you don’t know how to take them all on at once. Do you remember how I drank myself to the gutters at Rita’s when I knew Feyre was back with Tamlin and not happy? After I had watched her die and then felt the bond snap in place?”

“I’ve had to watch Arwen die already feeling the bond. And lived with it for over two hundred years.” Azriel rounded off his shoulder and shrugged away Rhysand’s hand. “And now I’m watching her die again because we’ve chosen to give her the dignity of taking her time to decide her own damn fate, so I’m not interested in drinking myself into bliss or pretending not to care to deal with it.” A sting pulsated on Rhysand’s face, but it left as quick as it came. Azriel glanced down at the soup he had yet to discard. “You’ve realised what I have, haven’t you?”

Rhysand narrowed his eyes. “About what?”

Azriel stared out of the window, the balls of his palm pressed into the bench, knuckles whitening as he rolled his fingers into a fist. He nudged the bowl of soup towards his brother. Mixed in with the yellowish, thick liquid was blood. Not the bright, crimson blood that he had seen in the theatre toilet but black blood. The blood that had stained the very sink to his right, stained the walls and the floors, painting her struggle before they found her on the floor in the hall behind him. Rhysand looked into it, pain rippling through his eyes.

“The blood. Being unable to eat. Feeling ill and irritable. I can hear her struggling to breathe now. Arwen is dying the same way she did before. Just slower. Her body is breaking down but it’s also remembering.”

Rhysand whispered, “Yes. I’ve realised.”

“There are no more warning stages, Rhysand.” Azriel picked up the bowl, dumping the contents int the sink in an effort to occupy his hands. “Once you see blood from her ears, it’s too late. Her lungs will fill with blood and she’ll drown from the inside. You need to push her. If you’re so adamant in giving her the choice, then fucking convince her to make the right one.”

“And which one is that?” Azriel spun on Rhysand in complete disbelief that he just heard that question from him. Rhysand’s jaw ticked, his turn to look out of the window. “I want her to stay with us, Az. More than even you can imagine so don’t look at me like that. But how do we know that making her stay is the best choice for her.”

Azriel couldn’t believe his ears. “Is that what you would say if Feyre was in this position? Would you be alright if she decided to leave you?”

“You’re acting like you’re the main part of the equation, Azriel,” growled Rhys. “You’re not. I’m not.”

“You’re her brother!” Azriel slammed the side of his fist against the bench, pivoting on his heels and leaning the low of his back against the lip. He brought that fist to his mouth as Rhysand glowered. “You’re her brother and you’re keeping your mouth shut because you’re scared. She will only listen to you. You’re scared that she’ll resent you if you ask her to stay but at least if she’s dead, you don’t have to face that. Right? If you do nothing, you are going to be burying her again because she is not making the decision. It is going to kill her. And it will be your fault.” He needed Rhysand to act because he couldn’t risk it coming from him. His relationship with Arwen was tense, hanging by a thin thread that he didn’t dare disturb. Even if that meant blaming his brother—provoking him.

Cassian and Feyre appeared from the hall, carefully investigating the scene before them.

Rhysand winnowed.

Azriel turned away from Cassian’s piercing look.

~

Arwen unwound the towel from her hair, letting her damp hair fall across her shoulders. Despite sleeping all day, she was crawling back into her bed again. Her thoughts carried to the book on her nightstand, but also to the drawing pad tucked into the draw.

Lucien had been a nice visit. Though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, she liked that the others weren’t overly fond of him. It made him her friend, not theirs. Deciding that if she got the opportunity, Arwen would continue to write to him, maybe even visit him in the mortal lands one day.

Someone knocked at her door as she yawned, her warped voice behind her hand approving entry. Arwen straightened and smiled. “Rhys. Feyre said you left a few hours ago.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, quietly shutting the door behind him. Wandering to her bedside, he sunk down onto the mattress next to her, kicking off his boots before planting his feet atop of the blanket. “Just needed some fresh air.”

Arwen glanced to her near-closed window. “Spring is on its way. Most of the snow is gone.”

“My least favourite season,” he groused, earning a nudge in his side and a smile from her. “I know, I know. Starfall. I wonder if there’ll be more this year. After the war.” She shrugged, still looking out into the darkness at nothing in particular. “Do you mind if I stay here the night?”

“Feyre kicking you out of bed?” she crooned. “What did you do, Rhysie?”

He rolled his eyes. “She tells me I’m too clingy. Won’t let go of her when we sleep.” Arwen chuckled as his arm dug under her, tugging her into his side, enveloping her completely, his cheek squished against hers. “I don’t think this is clingy. Do you?”

“You’re forgetting that I’m worse,” she reminded him with another laugh. “I think it’s because you let me crawl into your bed too often when I was younger. I hated falling asleep alone.”

Her brother continued to smile, but it softened, no longer of amusement but of affection. He rested a kiss on her temple. “I liked knowing that you were safe. I know you had Mother and Father, but you always felt like my responsibility.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, smile unwavering. “I enjoyed it. I wanted to be responsible for you. I enjoy being a brother. Some days…” Rhys gave a shaken breath. “This might sound horrible but there are days I’m grateful our father died too. It meant that you weren’t under his control anymore. I wanted that mantle of being the head male in your life. I wanted you to feel free.”

“You were. And I did. Even before it all happened.”

He scoffed lightly. “And what a fabulous job I’ve done.”

“You’ve always done everything you could.” Arwen tucked her head under his chin. “Everything you thought was right.”

He didn’t speak after that, but she was halfway to sleep, anyway.

Chapter Text

Chapter 86

Arwen was surprised when Feyre and Mor asked if she wanted to go to the Rainbow for a girls’ day out. She had woken quite groggy and unwilling to even pull herself out of bed but the opportunity was one she didn’t want to pass. Mor even did her hair into an intricate braid for her.

The Rainbow was just as she remembered, with new music down every street, murals painting the walls and artists selling their works in carts and shopfronts. Arwen already had in mind a few artists that she would approach once the town house was hers. Feyre showed them her studio as well as some of the paintings she had been working on. Portraits, for the most part. Over lunch, as Feyre and More ate, Arwen continued to admire the clay earrings that she had bought. The clay had been dyed black before firing and had flakes of gold through them like glittering, gilded rain.

“You should have gotten the blue.”

Arwen's eyes snapped to Mor. “What?”

Mor smirked. “The blue ones. You should have gotten those.”

Arwen frowned down at her black and gold ones. “But I like the gold better.”

Feyre grinned, tipping her head towards Mor. “I don’t think they make gold siphons, do they?”

Mor shook her head. “They don’t. But if they do, Azriel will be the first to change over to them after he hears about this.” Arwen stammered and blushed as she caught in on what they were snickering about. “Tell us, Arwen. We’re dying to know and all he’ll give us is it's that ‘it’s complicated' bullshit.”

Arwen twisted her fingers in her lap. “That’s because it is. We’re… moving forward,” she decided. “But I ca-don’t want to reach for something that might not happen.”

“Don’t you want it to move forward?” her cousin asked. “Stay and be with him?” Arwen shrugged, putting her thumb between her lips. Mor and Feyre shared a look. “How about we head home before our feet start aching?”

Although Arwen was glad for the company and the trip, she readily agreed with the idea of being back in the comforts of the town house. Mor’s questioning of Azriel lingered in her thoughts. Two sides of her head fought. She could be happy with him—would be, if she decided to take Helion’s help. But it came at a cost.

Arwen had been prepared to live. It had been, and was still, an uphill battle, but giving up seemed pointless. She just had to make it through each day to reach the next. And death terrified her—of getting stuck in that prison world again, tethered for another eternity.

But what if she didn’t tether? What if she finally moved on? Arwen could almost feel that pull again, the soft hands that wanted to guide her away into a world of bliss. With her mother. She might even join the other spirits on Starfall, soaring across the sky in such a beautiful form. An eternity awaited her.

What was the point of staying in this life when she knew that she would make no mark on it? Once she died again in years to come, given no chance at an afterlife, she would be wiped from existence by the very people who claim to love her. What was the point of being here, knowing this was all she had, if she knew that it made no difference? What if she was never truly happy again and it was not worth trying to fight?

If she chose to die now, at least there was a good chance she could live on in another form. A spirit. A star. Something. The fact that she was here now was a testament that something more had to exist.

If she chose to live, then it would only be memory that carried on her existence in death. Arwen had already seen what they would do with her memory, the evidence of her life. But she could pretend. She wouldn’t have to watch them cut her marks away.

As they turned onto the quiet street, the awnings of the town house poking out just a hundred yards down, Mor took Arwen’s hand. Arwen peered at their hands, then at her cousin, expecting some sort of talk as the gesture implied seeking. But Mor only looked ahead, her expression calm.

They let Arwen enter first.

She yawned, pushing the front door open into the foyer, then through the next into the main hall, making a gentle swing with the small bag in her hand. She could just make out the edges of Illyrian wings in the sitting room. Frowning, Arwen veered closer. Cassian was the one she saw. He stood at the edge of the seating arrangement, arms folded over his leathers. Arwen’s gaze moved on to Rhysand standing by the fire, then Azriel perched on the arm of the furthest armchair. Even Amren stood near the bookcase, picking at her nail. They looked at her.

“I thought you were all supposed to be busy today,” she said. Arwen glanced back over her shoulder to Mor and Feyre, wondering if were surprised as her. But the two females only looked at Arwen, Feyre with a small smile and encouraging nod. Fear scraped at her heart. “Is something going on?”

“How was your day?” Cassian asked. Rhysand’s lips were rested even but she could see the subtle downturn on them.

Arwen gave a momentary glare at the avoidance of answering her question. “Fine,” she answered. “Until now. You’re scaring me.” She looked to Azriel, hoping he would be the one to step forward and deign to let her know what was happening; why they all seemed so morose. “Cassian?”

“We were hoping you might tell us what you’re thinking, sweetheart.” The general glanced at his brothers, then down at her feet before finally meeting her eyes again. “So we can get Helion up here before it’s too late.”

That’s what this was about. Arwen swallowed away the dryness in her throat, shifting her weight back and forth to each foot. “I-I haven’t decided. I have time.”

“We’re not risking it,” Rhysand said, his voice low and near empty, like a siphon that had grown dull after giving too much. “I’m not risking it.”

“It’s not your choice,” Arwen breathed. “It’s mine.”

“And if you don’t decide, Arwen?” Rhysand kicked off the lip of the hearth his boot had been on, taking three steps closer. Her chest began to tighten. She glanced back over her shoulder but Feyre and Mor still stood in the doorway. “I can’t sit around and watch you die. Not again.”

Her knuckles whitened from the viper grip she took on the small bag still at her side. Cassian had his head turned back down. Azriel remained seated; calm and collected. Amren watched the scene carefully. “What if that’s what I want? I am supposed to be dead, after all.”

“Is it?”

“I-I…” Her mouth opened and closed like a yapping dog without a bark. “I don’t know.”

“Arwen you haven’t let me in.” Rhys pointed to himself. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong, what I can do to make this a home for you again. Because I don’t understand what you’re thinking and I can’t help you when you lock me out. I feel that block in your mind.”

Cassian held out a placating hand to her brother but was looking at her as he said, “Sweetheart. Remember what I told you? That it will get better. You’ll get used to being back and things won’t seem so strange after a while. Ianthe is dead and you know we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe.”

Her throat stung and felt swollen like bees had swarmed inside of it, stinging the fleshy walls. “I know that,” she whispered meekly.  

“It’s okay, girl.” Arwen’s eyes drew to Amren. The dull greys were as warm as they ever had been. “If you chose not to stay. I’m here to make sure you know that.” Tossing a glare at a seething Rhysand, she added, “And that they do too.”

“Your decision will be respected,” Rhysand stated calmly. “Whatever it is. But I want you to stay. We all want you to stay. I am pleading for it.”

Arwen shook her head, stepping away from them all and towards the wall facing the street, the furthest place away from them without winnowing. “I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“We have to.” The soft voice belonged to Mor. Had they planned this? Had she and Feyre taken Arwen out to lower her defences? Betrayal cut through her. “If you want this to be your decision, you’re going to have to make it.”

“Or I will make it for you.” Azriel. His voice, however soft and low it was, grated against her ears. He met her gaze even from the opposite end of the sitting room. “I’d rather you not hate me for the rest of your life, because I will make sure it is long.”

Her breaths came unsteady now. Her knees felt weak and her skin clammy. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice sharpened into a plea. Arwen needed more time. They were all around her, encasing her like a cage she didn't want to be in. “Please, I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“You’re scared.” Rhysand stepped forward again, a stream of sunlight catching the desperation in the mirror violets of her own. “You’re scared of something, so tell me what that is, Arwen. Let me in.” Her head continued to shake, her vision now becoming blurred by tears. He stood before her. “Tell me what I can do to convince you to stay. Please.”

“No.”

“Arwen.”

“You forgot me.” Arwen’s mind gave her no warning that those words would be pouring from her lips. Like a dam broken, they burst through. “You forgot about me.”

Before her, Rhysand stilled, overcome with an odd expression of uncertainty and sorrow. Azriel had risen from the armchair, standing in front of it with a cocked head. Amren became all the more intrigued, as did Feyre and Mor. It was Cassian to ask, “What do you mean?”

She gave a hard sob, hot tears along her cheeks, clutching at the chest of her shirt. “Y-You forgot about me. I saw it. Everything. You-you took down my portraits an-and—” Arwen bent forward with another sob— “got rid of everything. My belongings.” Pain—physical, real pain—coursed through her just at the memory of it. “You wouldn’t even say my name. I was nothing.” She was a complete, blubbering mess, barely able to put a thought together. “What is the point? What is the point of living if you just want to forget me? I-I can’t—”

That was all she could manage to get out before the shaking of her body overtook her. Arwen wailed, covering her face with her hands, the small bag with her earrings forgotten somewhere along the way.

“How do… Arwen, what did you see?”

She couldn’t answer. No denial at least.

Arwen wasn’t sure how long it was before two arms engulfed her. She recognised the touch even blind. Azriel’s hand pulled her close to his body, one cupping the back of her head, keeping it to his shoulder. Her hands seized his leathers where she could, letting him take her weight, her body without strength. The leather was soon soaked with her tears.

Someone touched her wrist. Touched her scarring.

She felt herself being flung back into it. She felt the tug of the tether and the utter emptiness inside of her. 

Arwen screamed, lurching away but Azriel wouldn’t let her. His muscles flexed to battle her pull and she only gave in because the touch at her wrists, which was not his, disappeared. “I don’t want to go back!” she cried into her mate’s shoulder, throat rough and protesting. Not that prison, anything but that prison. “I’ll stay, I’ll stay.”

Arwen held him tighter, wondering if managed to hold him tight enough for long enough that she might melt into him, away from the world. But she focused on his hold, the quietness of the world around her, and her tremoring body began to pacify. It was in her growing calmness, that she felt Azriel’s head move, chin grazing her hairs. A nod.

She thought nothing of it, narrowing her focus onto the way his body felt, the way he breathed against her. Arwen felt how much he loved her, how much she loved him. She listened to the gentle whistle his breathing made that she could only hear because they passed directly above her ear. She smelt—

These weren’t her thoughts.

Arwen lifted her head, nose brushing against Azriel’s leathers as she angled to look beyond the shoulder she had been resting against. Rhysand stood just two steps away, his shoulders low. All of him unmoving except for the twitch in his jaw.

He knocked on her mind’s barrier.

Arwen jerked in surprise, Azriel’s grip tightening again, his hand dropping from her head to the backs of her shoulders. Rhysand had to have been in her head longer than she had realised if she was feeling him there now.

“Arwen,” her brother whispered. “Tell me what those scars are from.” She stared at him, pressing her mouth back to the leather padding at Azriel’s shoulder. Tears still strolled down her cheeks. “You remember, don’t you? What don’t you want to go back to?”

Arwen said and did nothing, her heart making painful, uneven thumps, the echo of each in her throat and stomach. Blood trickled from her nose.

She winced at a pinch of pain in her head. Azriel’s hands tightened around her. Arwen whimpered and winced again as the pain in her head grew. Her barrier, the blockade against those memories was so strong that she could feel him at it. Rhysand was breaking down her shield. He was prying it apart.

Her lips rounded into a silent cry of pain.

“Rhys?” Cassian called, sharp and firm. “She’s given an answer.”

Her eyes clenched shut as a memory was forced out. The mist world. Shadowed figures. Death claiming her. Azriel’s shoulder muffled her moan. Another memory seared into the backs of her eyelids, her wrists burning as she watched again how the tether formed, fear burning through her.

“Rhys!”

Arwen didn’t realise that the screams she was hearing were her own. Azriel had a hold on her so tight it was as if he planned to never let go. Rhysand’s claws were deep in her mind, burrowed in the hidden depths that was so agonising to feel being torn through that she let the barrier go. She let those memories flood out willingly and Arwen lived through them again. All two hundred and fifty years of torture.

Blood filled her mouth. She couldn’t tell if it had poured in from her nose or filled up from her throat. Her chest heaved up and down erratically, unable to breathe even though she felt her lungs expand. Everything moved too fast, yet she felt stuck and stiff.

Trapped.

Chapter Text

Chapter 87

“ENOUGH!” Azriel’s snarl smothered the sound of Arwen’s empty pants. Cassian heard each one like the air was grating against her airway, her chest moving faster than his own heart was. “Get out of her head!”

“I am,” Rhysand said, staring at his sister. Everything about him was rigid, his fingers hanging by his legs. Not a hint of visible panic that Cassian felt. Just stared and stared, his face pale. Not panic. Horror. “She…”

None of them found out what he wanted to say, the High Lord's voice drifting off. Cassian didn’t have time to wait or prompt him to continue. Blood made a dark crimson line out of the corner of Arwen’s mouth, mingling with a thick stream from her nose. Cassian marched forward, ignoring Mor’s voice that called for Rhysand to hear her.

Azriel seethed at the sight of him nearing. His wings wrapped forward around himself and his mate, shielding her as he backed away. Her feet scraped against the ground as he pulled them both to the wall, stumbling and barely keeping upright. Azriel gave no wince or even a blink as his back rammed into the stone wall. The hazels which were only a few shades different from Cassian’s were brimming with a terror that the general had never seen before. He didn’t want to think what his brother might do if the mating bond still existed between them.

But Azriel’s panic was a danger. To them, himself, and to Arwen who hung near limp in his arms. The sounds of her life, the hoarse hyperventilating, were weak but not subsiding out of calmness. “Azriel,” Cassian began carefully. “Let me help her.”

He could see his words working their way through Azriel’s mind. The shadowsinger’s eyes dropped to the form in his arms and he sunk down the wall all the way to the floor. Cassian moved forward, Mor finding her way to his side. A quick glance revealed Feyre at Rhysand’s. This wasn’t what he had anticipated when Azriel and Rhysand approached them about intervening with Arwen’s decision. He imagined a calm, gentle conversation. And maybe that is what they intended—no, it was what they intended. But emotions grew too quickly, like a wildfire out of control.   

Azriel only unwrapped one wing to reveal Arwen from above her shoulders, the rest of her still hidden under the leathery membrane of his other. Blood spilled from her mouth and nose, its evidence glistening on the chest of his leathers. Her hazy eyes were set on nothing as she continued to pant like there was no air. The paleness was striking, as was the hollowness in her cheeks Cassian had only just paid attention to, hot tears streaming down them.

“Mor.” Rhysand’s cold voice halted Morrigan’s reach for her. “Helion.”

Mor faltered, but in a single blink, disappeared, winnowing her way to Day Court. Rhysand replaced her spot at Cassian’s side, Feyre just behind him.  Cassian waited for him to do something, to take charge of the situation as he always would when it came to his sister. But Rhysand looked to Cassian, lost.

Cassian took Arwen’s limp hand, pressing it to his chest, putting his own to hers, nudging Azriel’s wing further away. He doubted she’d be able to feel his heartbeat through the armour, but it was the familiarity of the movement he intended for. Azriel stared wildly between Cassian and Arwen. “Breathe with me,” he told her. “In and out. Count the seconds.”

He was certain she couldn’t even hear him, so he stretched his chest with each calm breath he took, letting her feel the steady pattern instead. Azriel planted his lips to her hair, eyes wrinkling shut as silent tear streams flooded his cheeks.

Arwen didn’t respond to Cassian’s attempt. “… Three, four,” he counted. He needed her calm, he needed her safe from herself. Their efforts to save her might just be the reason she died again. That wasn’t a guilt he could bare, and it certainly wasn’t one Rhysand or Azriel could. “Look at me, sweetheart. I need you to do that for me.”

Her eyes began to phase back into focus, finding his through a mess of tears. The way she looked at him—it was a silent beg for help. Blood stained the cracks of her dry lips where it was not soaked with the slow but constant flow. The hand that he didn’t hold to his chest, haphazardly bent up from the elbow until her fingers grazed Azriel’s neck. Azriel responded to the gentle touch, bending his head down further, nose burying into her cheek, his hand holding the other side of her head.

“Nobody forgot about you,” Cassian said. “Never. I don’t know what you saw or heard but you have there was not a day you weren’t on my mind.” Arwen continued to gasp with each breath, but he could see the attention she gave him. Listening. “I would go down to your grave. I’d talk to you, tell you about my life, get away from these pricks. I keep every damn gift you’ve ever given me.”

Azriel had been murmuring into her ear as well, soft declarations of his love. Arwen’s pants slowed to short, laboured breaths, yet Cassian found himself wishing she was teeming with panic again for each one came as a struggle. Weak and weakening. Her hand was still limp under his and the weight of her head was held up by Azriel’s shoulder.

He was lost on what to do, what to say.

Arwen looked away from him, looking down at the empty floor away from them, letting her eyelids flutter. A moan sent more blood trickling from her mouth. Cassian’s own breathing faltered as he choked down his panic. He couldn’t live with this again.

But he was saved from it all when Mor reappeared, the High Lord of Day at her side, clothed in white and gold like he was sent from the Mother herself.

~

Cassian began to trail after them as they hustled upstairs to a private room but paused upon seeing Feyre still knelt next to Rhysand on the floor. Nothing she said was being heard. Cassian knelt on his other side, a hand on his brother’s shoulder. The High Lord had a palm to his mouth, his stare set on the now empty spot on the wall.

Cassian nodded to Feyre, who left after a moment’s hesitation, chasing after the rest of her family. He sat down next to Rhysand’s tented knees, facing the room. “Helion’s got her.”

Rhysand nodded mutely.

“She’s okay,” he added, despite not knowing such for a fact. Arwen was near unconscious as Azriel carried her towards the stairs. “Don’t you want to go up there?”

Rhysand’s shoulders slumped as he dropped his hand from his mouth. “She was chained to me,” he whispered, the sound strained. Cassian frowned. Rhysand rose his shaking hand back up, pressing his lips to the backs of his fingers. “All that time, she was chained to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Chained,” he repeated, voice hardening as if that word alone could answer. Rhysand gestured to his wrists where there was nothing but the end of his jacket’s cuffs and skin. “Something kept her here. Kept her linked to me. She never left. We couldn’t see her. We couldn’t hear her.”

Just like her nightmares. The sickening realisation punched Cassian deep into his guts. Not like her nightmares. They were her nightmares.

“She begged every day for years.” Rhysand shook his head, tears tracing glistening lines down his tanned cheeks. “Watched me get rid of everything that reminded me of her. She… She was Under the Mountain with me.”

Cassian felt dread pool in his stomach, his feet becoming strangely cold even in their thick boots. He couldn’t begin to imagine what that was like—to empathise. Instead, he felt his own guilt.

Rhysand had kept the details of those fifty years scarce, but the scars, however invisible, were there to be read. He knew of the atrocities that must have occurred; the dangerous, dark things Rhysand had to do to survive—for this court to survive. The thought of Rhysand down there alone had been a guilt Cassian struggled with through those years, and even now. The added idea of Arwen being there too…

“We see her now,” Cassian said, storing his reaction for later seclusion. “We hear her now.”

Rhysand stared at the wall. “And I nearly killed her. Again.”

“You did what you thought was right.” Cassian watched Rhysand ignore him. He squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Rhys, she’s up there now and if something does go wrong, where do you want to be? More importantly, if it goes right, don’t you want to be there for her?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 88

Arwen was greeted with a honeyed stream of morning light. She stared at the hazy, golden sheen against her transparent curtains for some time, not quite comprehending that she was awake. When she did, she realised just how hungry she was.

On the growing, fervent desire, Arwen slipped her legs out of the soft blanket of her bed, pressing them to the cool wood of her floor. With a chest-stretching inhale, she pushed her weight onto them.

And promptly collapsed to the floor.

Her knees jarred against the wood with a loud banging, the stinging pain travelling up her thighs into her hip. Every part of her felt weak. Broken. Just how she had felt before the abyss took her. The stinging migrated to her eyes. They hadn’t done it. Helion couldn’t do it—she was still dying.

By the time Arwen had gathered her senses and reigned in her tremors, her bedchamber door creaked open with the approaching footsteps she had heard in the hall entering. It was Feyre that swept in front of her, offering her hands of assistance. Arwen slumped her hands into Feyre’s but didn’t react to the strength that would support her efforts to stand.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asked, dropping to her knee instead.

Arwen shook her head in answer. She felt awful.

Dark feet clad in brown sandals appeared in the corner of her eye. “That’s to be expected.” Helion knelt on her right, his hands clasped over his white-robed knee. “I work magic, not miracles.”

Feyre smiled fondly at the High Lord of Dawn. “It was close enough,” she said to him before looking back over Arwen. “How about we get you back into bed? It’s only been a day and a half, your body still has plenty of recovery to do.”

The word struck her. “Recovery?” Arwen murmured, having no strength to speak anything louder. Her eyes widened as violets darted between the two. “You mean—”

“I think if I failed, I might have become your spymaster’s next playtoy,” Helion said, with a pointed look beyond Arwen.

She followed the point of the gaze, peering over her shoulder. She could just see Azriel on the bed, sleeping on his side. He wasn’t wearing his leathers, just plain black pants and a loose-fitting cotton shirt. His uppermost wing was half-draped over him, and his hand was eased in an extension, fingers splayed over where she had just been lying.

Azriel was dead still. Something Helion picked up as well. “We heard your fall from the other side of this delightful little house.”

“Little?” Arwen echoed in insult, tearing her eyes back. The town house was humble for certain, but it was… a grand humble. Perhaps it stung a little since she would be taking ownership. But that was beside the point. She was alive. She was living. But that meant there was nothing more for her after. This life was it. She shoved that worry into a dark corner of her mind for later. “I’m really hungry,” she breathed.

Feyre grinned. “That can easily be cured.”

~

Arwen scoffed down a broth despite Feyre’s urging to slow. Even if she vomited it up again, Arwen was just glad that it tasted delightful. Soon, her silver spoon was scraping the bottom of the bowl. They had left Azriel to sleep, Arwen teasing that he seemed to need it more than she did. She wasn’t oblivious to the quietness of the town house.

“Thank you,” she said to Helion. “For everything.”

He winked at her. “You can owe me a favour.”

Grinning, she crooned, “I’m sceptical about what that will be. But I suppose it is owed, whatever it is.”

“Time will decide.” He patted the arms of the chair he sat in, inside the sitting room. “I wanted to make sure that you would wake. Now that I see that you’re looking lively as ever—” Arwen scoffed, having caught glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror— “I think it’s time that I return to my court before it catches fire without me. I must say I find this city of yours quite charming.”

“You’re welcome any time,” Feyre said, taking the words straight from Arwen’s mouth. “And thank you… Again. From both Rhysand and I.”

Helion sighed with a smile. “He’s certainly dousing me in that gratitude,” he remarked with a roll of his eyes, but Arwen could read the light-heartedness.

They exchange embraces before Helion left onto the street, outside of the wards and winnowed away. Arwen stared out of the window at the space he disappeared from, arms folded. “If I would wake? How unconfident was he that the spell would work?”

Feyre offered her a meek smile. “Are you glad that it did?”

It took her a moment, but she nodded, looking down at her scars. “We don’t know what’s beyond death. Even I don’t.”

“Rhys told me,” Feyre whispered.

Arwen attempted a smile to show that she was okay—but she wasn’t. Not entirely. Rhysand had pulled those memories into her most conscious thoughts and they lingered there. They reminded her of what it felt like to be so alone, even amongst the ones she loved. Now they knew. “I hope you understand now, why I resented you.” Dropping her hands to the windowsill, she looked to Feyre. “I had to watch you do everything I wished I could, but couldn’t. A stranger. Human. I am nearly five hundred years old and the greatest achievement I have made in my lifetime is that I have died and come back. That I’m some anomaly. Suppose I’m not even that anymore.”  

Feyre laid a hand on hers. “I could never have done what you did. At least, I wouldn’t be standing here like you. Strong.”

Tears beaded on her lashes. “I fell out of bed, Feyre. I hardly think that is strong,” she coughed out with a broken chuckle.

“I wouldn’t have even attempted to get out of bed,” she sang softly. “You’re trying and that makes you strong. I see the resemblance of that in you with Rhys. That you just keep going. You don’t let yourself fall apart, rebuilding yourself each day.”

Arwen angled herself towards the window, leaning her temple against the pane. “When I was younger, he’s the one that taught me how to dust myself off. I would fall and scrape my knees and he would smile at me and tell me that I was fine. When he did that, I wouldn’t cry. I’d do as he said because I believed him.”

Feyre stared onto the street. “I wish my sisters and I had that devotion to each other. Nesta has it for Elain but I was never granted that love from either of them.” At Arwen’s pitying look, she shook her head. “I have this family now and it is more than enough for me.”

Arwen gazed across the street. Spring was coming. There was no snow left, even in the shaded lanes between the houses. The cobblestone was dry and sprouts of green were beginning to populate the trees. “Where are they?”

“At the House of Wind.” Feyre sighed almost inaudibly and Arwen could hear the light clicking of her tongue against a wet mouth. “I told them I would call for them the moment you woke, but I thought it would be best to make sure you were okay first. Rhys… He’s struggling with himself at the moment. Cassin and Mor are trying to help him. I wasn’t here through that time so I thought I would be more useful down here. It’s not your fault at all, but he’s just…”

“I know,” Arwen whispered. She understood her brother—precisely what would be going through his mind. “Tell them tomorrow. I think I could use a quiet night without questions.”

“I thought I told you to wake me, Feyre.”

Arwen spun at the voice that felt like silk against her ears. There in the middle of the sitting room stood Azriel, still dressed in the unremarkably plain clothes. One side of his face was paler and odd-looking. The one he had been sleeping on. Her heart leapt wildly, meeting those hazel eyes.

“Must have slipped my mind.”

Azriel walked forward and Arwen welcomed his company, reaching her hands up, lacing her fingers together behind his neck. It gave her a strength that she knew wouldn’t come from resting. His hands slipped to her waist, then around her back, drawing her near. Azriel kissed her temple, then her cheek, lips dusting her nose as he repeated on the other side. Arwen giggled as the touch tickled her. “You—” his breath breezed over her lips as he kissed her cheek again— “scared me.”

“I was scared,” Arwen confessed. Her lashes fluttered as her hands moved to palm his cheeks, gaze dipping to Feyre. Azriel had never been a displayer of affection. She wondered if the tire was getting to him. “And I’m feeling fine,” she said before he could ask. “A little lousy, admittedly, but fine.”

‘He doesn’t know yet. About your time in death.’

Arwen barely restrained her display of shock as her High Lady’s voice spoke in her mind. She had forgotten about Feyre’s daemati abilities. Smiling up at Azriel, she hoped that he never would, however foolish it was to waste her hope on such a thing. There was so much Arwen wanted to say to him—her close brush with death once more had her realising how much was left unsaid between them. But the only words to come from her mouth were, “I’m hungry.”

Despite having just finished a broth, her stomach still complained.

To the side, Feyre gave a soft chuckle. Azriel concurred with the High Lady’s reaction, the corners of his lips uplifting. Another kiss to her hairline. “I can get you something from in town if you’d like.”

She shook her head. “There’s still more broth.” Smiling wider, she cocked her head and traced her thumb over an indent in his cheek, made from sleeping on rolled fabric. It was adorable.

Feyre snorted and Azriel’s cheeks tinted red. Arwen’s lips parted—no, they were already parted from speaking that thought aloud. She could only chuckle.

“That never leaves this room,” Azriel grumbled to Feyre. “I won’t hear the end of it.”

“Of course,” came the dutiful reply. “You have a reputation to upkeep, spymaster. Feared Illyrian warrior. Adorable thing.”

He sent a glare to the empty window space, but it was quickly replaced by the near-invisible smile again. Azriel led Arwen back to the kitchen and handed her a fresh bowl of the meaty broth, but also, a muffin. She snatched it out of his hand before he could even place it on the island bench.

Moaning without regret, the spurts of raspberry and vanilla were divine in her mouth. “I’ve fucking missed food,” she gargled out with another groan of pure delight. Azriel chuckled to himself and sucked off the remains of raspberry on his thumb. “I’m sorry, would like a bite?” Extending the offer of the remaining muffin, Arwen watched a shift cross his face.

“Thank you,” he said quietly after a generous pause. “But you eat it.”

Shrugging, she returned to her ministrations. She eyed him as he cleaned up the empty bowl Arwen had eaten from before that they had collected from the sitting room, facing away from her. Something called her to him at that moment, and it was moving beyond the comprehension of being alive. It was like her whole world was narrowing and he was the focus. The reason for her every move from there onwards.

Azriel turned back around, wiping his scarred hands with a towel. He caught her gaze and held it for some time. Then smiled—

Smiled at the exact same time that she realised—

“I felt it come back the moment Helion finished the spell.”

Arwen slipped mutely from her chair, eyes never once leaving his face.

The mating bond was back. She could feel it, just as it was before. It didn’t snap into place; not in a sudden or striking way. It was like it had healed. The fractures mended back together and she didn’t notice it straight away because it felt so right.  

His arms captured her as she sunk into him. Her head burrowed into his neck as she pressed the rest of the world away and focused on that single feeling.

Chapter Text

Chapter 89

Arwen had made a promise to herself to never let go of him again. She took it quite literally, as even by the next morning she had not once left Azriel’s side, constantly brushing up against him, fiddling with the fabric of his shirt, following him around all night and morning. None were grand gestures—not wild declarations or extravagant displays. But to Arwen, just being able to hold him when she wanted was everything. It was her grounding.

It was hard to tell what he thought of her sudden attachment. She knew that he wasn’t one to revel in those types of displays, but whenever she examined his face to check that she hadn’t pressed a boundary, he only smiled at her and kissed her head.

They migrated to the garden, letting Feyre and Elain have the house to themselves for an hour or so since the older Archeron sister had become reclusive in the presence of so many in recent days. Arwen let her bare feet graze against the stone path as they sat on a bench in the midst of the blossoming spring life. With a twisted spine, she hooked her arm over the wooden back of the bench to gaze upon the bluebells behind them, content in the silence of birdsong and with the warmth of the sun on her exposed back.

Azriel’s finger hooked around the low and wide v-cut back of the white chiffon dress she had chosen. He traced its outline, down to the low of her spine and back up the other side. Reaching out, Arwen gently touched a hanging bluebell, lifting the petals to absorb all its fine details.

His fingers traced over the ridges of her scars that marred her back. Stiffening, she let the bluebell drop and silently looked at her mate, a plea in her eyes for his touch to move on.

He carefully observed her back, then, after a moment, gave her his hand. “I’m just the same, remember.” The skin on his hand was rippled and discoloured, just as hers was. “I think no differently of you for yours.”

“It just… Reminds me of what is not there,” she whispered. “That other people can see it and know it happened.”

He curled a strand of her raven hair around her ear. “Do you care what they think?”

Arwen went back to the bluebell, snapping the flower from its stem. A greedy theft, but a sacrifice she was sure the plant wouldn’t mind if she took no more. Returning to a proper seat, she tucked the bluebell over his ear, between the loose black waves of his hair. She almost wished he had his seven siphons rather than just the two on his hands as the colour would complement beautifully. “If I was nobody, then perhaps not,” she answered. “But I’m somebody. I’m Rhysand’s sister, the sister of a High Lord. The one who died and came back over two hundred years later. I’m a representative of this court. I’m your mate. When people see me, that is also what they see.”

Azriel pinched her chin. “You are also Arwen, who survived through all her trials. They will not see weakness when they look at you.”

She let the conversation trickle from there, unwilling to venture deeper into those thoughts when her mind was still in shambles. Sleep hadn’t come easy the night before, despite having his company with her. “Rhys is giving me the town house.”

“I heard. Are you going to redecorate?”

Arwen shook her head. “A few changes in art maybe, but it’s always been like this. I like it how it is.”

He hummed in agreement. “Rhys actually mentioned the idea of buying you an estate somewhere nearby instead but he thought you would like the familiarity of this place more.”

“I wouldn’t have to start a garden from scratch either,” she added, smiling at the blossoms. “I’m going to let Elain stay here, if that’s what she wants.” Azriel looked at her in surprise. Arwen swatted his thigh. “I do not hate the girl. I think she’ll want to go somewhere else anyway when Feyre permanently moves out. Perhaps up at the House of Wind or with Nesta.” 

Smiling, he lightly flicked her cheek. “You know you’re going to have to set hard boundaries with Cass. Tell him he doesn’t have to knock once, he’ll take that as an invitation for the rest of his life.”

Shrugging, she said, “I wouldn’t mind. I like having company.”

“Yes but—” Azriel shifted himself deeper into the bench, speaking lower and closer into her ear— “I have been given plenty of time to imagine what I would do with you once we are alone and your body can handle me. I’m not keen on the idea of him interrupting that. Unless that is what you want. Then I’m open to suggestions.”

She couldn’t immediately respond—for many reasons. The idea of those thoughts swirling around Azriel’s head of her, had her legs weak. And the suggestion that their activities wouldn’t be constrained to the bedroom…

Arwen could barely breath at the proposition of adding Cassian to that mix. “You wouldn’t be jealous?” she had to ask, her curiosity boiling. Considering she knew now how much her closeness to the general had affected him. It wasn’t something she could regret on account of knowing how safe he made her feel, enough to be in the place she was today, but she could regret not being able to offer the same channel with Azriel.

He kissed her ear where his still hovered, then lightly scraped his teeth from the tip down to her lobe. “I want you to myself for a while first. But no, I wouldn’t be. Not if I’m there watching. Not if fucking you at the same time.”

She had to turn her head away to hide the raging blush in the fear that her breakfast might come back up with how hard her stomach suddenly dropped.

Azriel laughed and guided her face back. “I enjoy making you blush. Just as I will enjoy…” Arwen’s eyes rounded as he whispered his next words into her ear and instead of a single flame burning in her cheeks, they became a whole forest fire. She crossed her legs.

Their private conversation was interrupted by Feyre at the back entrance of the town house. Wiping her palms across her cheeks and then wiping the sweat from them on her legs, Arwen hurried her way inside. She was still stumbling slightly as his words echoed in her head—images of what might be to come in their future when she saw who had come down.

“C-Cassian,” she squeaked. Arwen had to drag her eyes away from him. “Mor.”

Like Azriel and Feyer, they too were wearing simple clothes, no leather or expensive fabrics in sight. Arwen couldn’t take her eyes off the general, the blush still ever present as images of her imagination stained her mind’s eye.

Cassian grinned, arms beginning to open as he moved forward but Mor flung herself around him. She enveloped Arwen, and Arwen was thankful for it. Not because it took her mind off other things but because she was remembering what she might have lost. That if she had chosen differently, there might have never been another embrace to have.

It was worth it, even if it wasn’t for eternity.

“I’m so happy that you’re okay.” Mor pulled back, placing her hands on Arwen’s cheeks. “You have so much colour again.”

Arwen gave a strained hum as Azriel’s hand gently rested on her back.

Cassian elbowed Mor out of the way. “Yeah, yeah. I saw her first.” His grin cut from Mor to Arwen, sweeping her into his arms. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

She laughed into his chest, letting him rock them both from side to side. Sniffing, she once again realised what she could have lost in a chance for something else.

Cassian knew. Arwen could tell from the way he held her, the security of it even through the gentleness. She wiped at her cheeks again after they pulled away. “Should you be out of bed already?” he inquired with an accusing frown.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I wanted to sit in the garden for a while.”

The frown lingered and he tilted his head. “You’re looking at me funny.”

Arwen’s brows jumped. “Am I? You just… Nevermind.” Cassian continued to frown at her, then over her head to where she knew Azriel stood. “Can we sit down?” As Helion said, it was magic, not a miracle. She was still malnourished and weak. Even standing for long was taxing. 

They migrated to the sitting room, Arwen quickly curling against the arm of the lounge where the throw rug was waiting for her. Azriel left before joining them, passing her a muffin on his return. She picked eagerly at it.

“Where’s Rhys?” Azriel inquired as he sat by her feet. Arwen silently listened.

Mor and Cassian shared a brief look. “This all just hit him hard, is all. Doesn’t want to crowd the house either,” Mor said and sent an assuring smile to Arwen. “He’ll come down later with Amren.”

Arwen nodded.

“I was wondering if we could talk about what you said.” Azriel leant his elbows onto his knees, a wrinkle forming over the top of his nose bridge.

The energy in the town house subsided. Arwen could have almost forgotten that he heard her. Azriel wouldn’t understand yet and she didn’t know to what extent the others did either. “I would rather wait till Rhys come by,” she told them.

“You heard me though, right?” Cassian asked, folding his arms loosely across his chest, sitting in the armchair adjacent to her. “We never forgot you.” Arwen wasn’t going to argue anything so she nodded again. He sighed lightly. “Feel like you made the right choice?”

“I do,” she confessed softly. “I was dead longer than I was alive. I’d like to make up those years.”   

Cassian smiled gently back. Their conversation kept light and safe, Mor bringing up the nearing celebration of Starfall. Arwen proclaimed her intention to continue her tradition and hunt down a new dress for the occasion. “Care to come along?” she asked the general. Groaning, Cassian threw his head back against the chair. But the grin was as plain as day. Arwen tilted her head to Azriel. “I would have let him say no.”

“A general can’t say no to the princess,” Azriel quipped back, earning a snort from her. Gods, she still hated that nickname.   

Arwen left to the kitchen for a glass of cooled water, not unawares of the footsteps trailing behind her. Cassian braced his forearms against the bench next to her as she set her eyes on the garden beyond the window that lit the kitchen.

“I wish you told me.”

Arwen sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this more than I have to.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She sighed again and looked over her shoulder. The kitchen doorway was shut and she couldn’t hear any movement. As her head fell back, Cassian laid his hand over her wrist, thumbing the thick scarring. Arwen glared at the gesture. “I… Wanted to forget. Didn’t want you to know. I was angry and wanted to continue being angry.”

“If you had told me…”

“You would have what?” She shrugged. “Turned back time?”

“I would have known,” Cassian interjected firmly. “I could have helped you better. Could have talked to you about it. You were there with us the whole time—” Arwen hissed with another glance to the door but he kept speaking— “and how am I supposed to feel about that? That I went about my life for so long while you were forced to watch as nothing but a shadow. Not even a shadow we could see. That you were Under the Mountain.”

Her eyes stung like she had just wiped them with chilli on her hands.

“That is not something you keep to yourself, Arwen,” he pressed at her lack of reactivity. “That is not something I want to go about my day oblivious to.”

In a moment of self-pity, for the corner he had her in, she said, “It’s all about you, is it?” Her little paradise with Azriel had gone. And soon so would his own obliviousness to it all.

Cassian’s grip tightened on her wrist and tugged on it, angling her body open to him, away from the counter. “Hey,” he growled. “I’m trying to have you understand how much I care. That what happens to you, affects me too. Affects us all. We want to care and we want to help. You didn’t tell me and that makes me feel like I didn’t do enough. That I was an idiot for not putting it together.”

She wanted to tell him he did plenty. Enough. More than enough. But she feared opening her mouth to say that would just open every thought that currently crammed its way into her head. Instead, she peeled her hand away from him, holding it to her stomach. Giving him one last glimpse, Arwen headed out of the kitchen and back into the sitting room, sinking into the spot next to Azriel.

He sensed her distress, even in her muteness and brought her under his arm. Cassian remained in the kitchen for some time, returning with a glass of amber liquid.

Chapter Text

Chapter 90

Rhys never came down that day. Arwen couldn’t distinguish whether she was glad for the fact or not. Feyre returned with Cassian to the House of Wind, Mor choosing to reside in the town house once more. Taking the opportunity the next day of Azriel being busy bathing and Mor visiting the city, Arwen joined Elain in tending to the garden.

Well… She looked at the flowers. Arwen wasn’t exactly sure she could tell dirt from fertiliser.

Elain’s face had betrayed her shock when Arwen approached her, quickly asking if there was anything she needed. “I would just like to talk,” Arwen assured her, her own stomach unsettled at the situation. Elain continued to grip her small shovel, dirt crusted under her nails. “I’m sure you’ve heard that Rhys and Feyre are building an estate. It will be their private residence.”

“Yes.” She looked away. “It’s all a very exciting prospect, isn’t it.” It didn’t sound as though Elain agreed with that observation.

Arwen jumped right to her point. “You’re more than welcome to remain here once they move out.”

Elain’s plump lips parted. Her cheeks had tints of red from being under the sun for so long. “Oh,” she breathed. “I’m… Not sure what I will be doing. But thank you.”

“Of course.” Arwen smiled. “It isn’t house arrest, just an offer of an open door. If you see Nesta, tell her that the door is also open for her as well.” She doubted the eldest Archeron would ever return to the town house willingly again, but it felt right to at least offer it. “I promise my brother won’t hunt her down.”

Elain fiddled with her garden tool. “I don’t think she’ll take accept. She doesn’t really listen to any of us these days.”

“Just let her know then.” Arwen paused but knew she had to continue. “You should know that Azriel will likely be here more often with me. I’m happy for you to be around each other, but I thought you should consider that before you decide to stay or not. If you’re alright being around him. And me.” Elain said nothing, frowning at the space between them. Arwen pulled at the light sleeves of her dress. “Fae senses are strong,” she spat out. “You’ll… smell things. Know things that you might wish you didn’t.”

Elain nodded. “I can sense the bond between you.”

Arwen quickly nodded. “Yes, the bond.” Damn Azriel putting her mind in filthy places. “I won’t assume what you can and cannot handle. The decision is yours. There are plenty of rooms in the House of Wind as well, but you’ll need an escort any time you intend to leave unless you want to go up and down those stairs. And trust me,” she chuckled, “you don’t want to.”

Elain gave a small laugh. “No.”

Arwen smiled and gave a small nod of farewell, wandering back into the town house. Nuala and Cerridwen were both in the kitchen, cooking up a marvellously smelling lunch. Arwen grinned, hovering over them, thrilled to know that she would be eating more than her fair share and keeping it down.

Azriel entered, laughing as she stood between the wraiths. “Let them work in peace, Arwen.” He pulled her out of the kitchen. “How was your talk with Elain?”

“Productive,” she decided on. “Sort of. She didn’t seem eager at the idea, especially when I brought you up.” Arwen twisted her hands by her stomach. “I extended the offer to Nesta too. I don’t think she will accept and neither does Elain but…”

His arm settled around her waist as they stood in the windowed alcove that overlooked the quiet street. “You’re Arwen,” he finished off, though it wasn’t exactly the phrase she was thinking and gave him an odd look for it. Azriel smiled down at her. “You forgive.”

Arwen pursed her lips. “Perhaps I will learn how to hold grudges longer if you all think I’m a pushover.”

He laughed, the sound beautifully light. “Pushover isn’t the word I’d use.”

“What is?”

“Someone that doesn’t like conflict.”

“That’s more than a word,” she huffed. “And if you think I don’t like conflict, then you’ll be interested to know that I was the one who lost Cassian’s knife all those years ago and blamed it on Rhys. He was bitter about it for a decade.”

“You mean you felt so ashamed that you couldn’t stand the idea of Cassian being upset at you so you put the blame on someone else?”

To her annoyance, he wasn’t surprised at the fact she was the one who stole Cassian’s knife—which meant that he must have known. “I mean, that I am cunning. Devious. And have the ability to hold grudges.”

“If I continue arguing, how long do you think it will be before you forgive me?”

Arwen frowned. “I think that might be a trick question.” Azriel squeezed her waist and grinned. She laughed and leant into his side. The comfort that swept through her was enough to lull her eyes closed.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

“Tired,” was her answer. She felt awful. Her body still ached and everything about her was weak and close to breaking. Pushing herself out of her bathwater had been a battle. But she was healing now. She could eat and breathe again. So tired seemed the most fitting.

Azriel turned her in his arms, her back to his front. He sat on the cushioned alcove seat with her in his lap. Adjusting them, Arwen lay along his front, their legs entangled as they stretched underneath the window. “You are going to hurt your wings,” she murmured against his neck.

“I’m comfortable enough,” he whispered back. “Go to sleep, Arwen. I’ll wake you for lunch,”

She was already halfway there. “Why do you always use my name? You’ve never used anything else like the others do.”

“Your name is perfect enough.” His fingers made lazy circles on her stomach. “Would you prefer I call you something else?”

She shook her head. Her name sounded perfect from his mouth. Arwen peered through the dark mess of her near-interlocked lashes through the window. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That I thought about leaving. I wasn’t thinking about anybody else but myself.”

“As you should,” he whispered back, holding her tighter. “If it was truly what you wanted, I would have learned to let you go. But I wouldn’t have if you weren’t certain.”

Her lips pressed together. “Cassian thinks I should have thought about you all.” That wasn’t the exact situation they had been talking under, but the message crossed over. “That I hurt people.”

“Cassian,” Azriel began with a low cough, “has a need to feel like everybody’s saviour. Want’s to be a hero. When he can’t be, it frustrates him. He left his station when we still lived in the camps quite a few times to visit you and Rhys. Always got a beating for it when he returned.”

Arwen’s eyes had closed, her fingers loosely playing with the fabric of his pants. “Why would he do that?”

“Because you always made him feel like that hero. He would give up his life to hold that crown.”

~

Rhysand sat on the edge of the rooftop, his feet hanging over the edge. In his hand was the half-empty wine bottle he had been appeasing himself with for the better half of the day. He could see the town house from his spot. The scent of her blood wouldn’t leave his nose, no matter how many times he wiped at it, washed and changed his clothes, or sprayed Feyre’s perfume around the bedchamber. His poor mate had gone into a coughing fit when she walked in not a minute later while he desperately breathed it in.

He kept seeing it whenever he closed his eyes—that pale lifelessness. The blood. Kept hearing weak but erratic thumping of her heart. Rhysand wanted to blame Azriel for it. It was his brother’s suggestion after all, but he knew that he was the one to push. He had been too caught in the imagination of his fear that she would leave again to not see what was happening before his very eyes.

But she never really left, did she? No, she had been chained to his side all these years. Had watched him no doubt tear down her room, threaten the bringing of blood if her name was spoken aloud. Watched him bury her body and then refuse to ever visit that site again. Rhys couldn’t blame her for believing that she had been forgotten about. It was his aim, after all.

He failed miserably though. But she couldn’t read his thoughts. Hadn’t seen into the nightmares he refused to tell anybody else about. Didn’t know that he spent a moment of every day in mourning, or that when he looked up to the skies, he searched for the constellation now tattooed on his chest. Every Starfall he would look up, wondering if one was her, hoping for some sort of sign. He had even come to believe the one that landed on him not a year ago, the one that had brought a smile on Feyre’s lips, had been from her. A blessing of sorts.

Rhysand’s mind reeled back to the day he saw her again, in his own death. He had already admitted to Feyre how Arwen’s reluctance to take his hand had become a guilt he burdened. But at least… At least he didn’t know why. He could pretend even if just for a day that it had been in confusion.

Now he knew the truth.

Arwen hadn’t wanted to come back. She had been living in her own prison for longer than she had been alive, remembering each and every day. She had wanted to go, feeling the freedom at her wrists when the tether finally disappeared. Then he created a new one. Bound her back to life. Arwen would never act to take her own life, but she would let death take her. As it almost had again.

Rhysand took another swig of his drink. It wasn’t anything fancy or expensive. He didn’t deserve to taste those. But it was doing its job, numbing his mind piece by piece. By the time he finished the bottle, he might just believe he could fly without his wings.

Arwen was Under the Mountain with him. He had seen the memory of her standing at his side. Watched through her own eyes as she fought to protect him in any way she could think of, only to fail each and every single time. And each time, something new broke inside of her.

She never said a word of it.

Rhysand’s private moping came to an end at the sound of heavy but slow footsteps approaching. Cassian sat down on his left, mirroring his position. His brother snatched the near-empty bottle from his hand.

“That was mine.”

“I’m pissed and don’t care.”

Rhysand sighed and could empathise with that. Another bottle would come the moment he willed it anyway. He didn’t bother asking what Cassian was pissed about. It either didn’t matter or would only make Rhys pissed as well as mopey. So they just sat there and watched the sun set over their city.

Chapter Text

Chapter 91

Arwen had her head laid on Azriel’s bare stomach, looking past his smooth skin to the window that brought in the morning light. She mutely traced the tattoo that curved from his back over the bone of his hip. It was a dream.

Or at least, that is what it felt like. The world beyond her window and door did not exist. If she could lay there forever, it was a temptation Arwen didn’t think she could resist. Azriel had long hooked a leg around hers, as if making their joining permanent. He made lazed trails at the low of her back where his hand naturally fell. His wings were comfortably situated and supported between a mess of pillows and the quilted headboard.

But it wasn’t a dream.

“Must you go?” she asked. “Will I sound like a child if I cry for you not to?”

His breath brushed through the tops of her hairs. “I must,” he said softly. “I will be back in two weeks. It was meant to be three, but I’m a skilled negotiator.”

She huffed but it did make her feel better that he had fought for that quicker return. Rolling onto her back, Arwen lodged her head in the space between his bicep and ribs and looked up at him through her lashes, pouting.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said. “But Rhys needs me to make sure Beron isn’t forming plans to breach the human lands. My plants haven’t been able to receive any solid information.”

“That is a pity.” She looked towards the window again. It felt like they were now taking back stolen time. So many years that they could have had together, taken away by their own stupidity and fate. “Bring me a souvenir, will you?”

Azriel chuckled. “What is it that you want?”

“Beron’s head.”

The laughter grew and Arwen smiled at the sound. “How about some fire lilies instead?”

“Beron will have your head if he finds you snooping around his gardens.” Fire lilies, a treasure of the Autumn Court, only grew within the High Lord’s privately tended garden, overlooked by the pavilion leading to his personal wing. “I would rather have that than flowers.”

“You trust me to sneak around his court undetected, as I have done so many times over the centuries, but do not trust me to pick you some flowers?” he inquired, toying with a thick strand of her hair. “It is confusing.”

“What you do for this court’s greater good and favours for me is very different,” Arwen answered truthfully.

Azriel hummed quietly, his thumb tracking down the outer side of her face until he reached her chin, pushing it so she looked back towards him. “I will bring you fire lilies.” Not arguing, she settled into his hold for the hour that they had left together. In the end, she fell into a light nap and when she awoke at high sun, he was gone.

Arwen lamented for some time, burying her nose into the sheets where he had laid through the night. After not having him for so long, letting him go again felt so wrong. Smiling, she felt for the strength of the mating bond, feeling his soft caress through it, acknowledging her as she acknowledged him. It might have been a phantom sensation with how light and distant it felt, but she was certain it was him. Her diary sat on the bedside table, the quill atop it. Arwen would write to him, her words travelling to his connected diary, later that night.  

Finally leaving her bed, she pulled on loose pants and a matching top that reminded her of the common grey attire Amren wore. Expecting Feyre down sometime soon, she may as well spend her late morning preparing an assortment of bite-sized food to graze on. Arwen danced on her toes with a lightness that she had not experienced in many years.

The front door opened not long after she set down the plate. She had been nibbling on cheese, contemplating the new blooms in the garden and which would be most interesting to draw. Elain had gone to spend the day in town.

“Feyre,” Arwen greeted with a kind smile as she moved into the hall. The High Lady smiled back, her lips soft and delicate. But Arwen’s faded when not only Amren appeared behind her, but Rhysand and Cassian. She hadn’t seen her brother since he pried into her mind. Dug himself behind her stone walls of defence.

In the passing days, she couldn’t decide how to feel about it. Whether he did so in the motivation for her own good, or because he couldn’t handle not knowing something. That need for control propelled him as a High Lord, but it was also one of his most tainted traits.

And he hadn’t come alone. Arwen felt her chest tighten in an echo of their last conversation—if it could be called that. How entrapped she had felt with them all surrounding her.

“We’re sorry.” The broken, hoarse voice of her brother. He had been in her mind, reading her internal reaction. Pain shone in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I never meant for that day to become what it did.”

They stood for another few moments in silence, the air so thick she could feel it clinging to her neck. Until, “Why don’t we sit down,” Feyre prompted. Arwen gave a small nod and made her way back to the kitchen to grab the silver platter tray and brought it into the sitting room.

Placing it on the lowered table between the arranged seats, Arwen took the unoccupied armchair. Rhysand sat closest on the end of the long lounge, rubbing his hands between his knees, Feyre to his side. Cassian took the armchair opposing Arwen’s, unnaturally silent, his gaze ever watchful. Amren took to leaning against the mantle of the unlit fireplace, arms neatly folded.

“You should have told us,” Amren said. “It’s important we understand.”

“For what?” Arwen shot back in a small whisper. “What would having you understand done?”

“We would have understood why you were so withdrawn,” Cassian quickly supplied. “I had to spend every day guessing, not knowing if I said something wrong if it would send you back into a hole. Not knowing what I could say that would help.”

Her hands fisted in her lap. “I wanted to forget. I didn’t want to spend my days like this—answering questions and seeing it in your faces. I wanted it behind me.”

He nearly rose from his seat, staring at her from across the lowered table, incredulous. “You say that like it was a few weeks. It was two hundred and fifty years of your life.”

“I wasn’t exactly alive—”

“No, you were dead! Dead but stuck watching us all and—”

Amren’s voice cut over the top of his. “Cassian.” Arwen realised that was why she had been brought; to keep this from escalating from what it had before. Cassian scowled but silenced.

“We never forgot you.” She almost couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but Arwen she did. “I tried to. I couldn’t stand seeing your portrait. Your things. Knowing it was my fault.”

Tears beaded on her lashes, the familiar sting already at her throat. “You broke into my mind.”

Rhysand ducked his hands into his palms, threading his fingers through his cropped hair before lifting it once more in a state of dishevel. “I thought it was going to be my fault again if I did nothing. If I didn’t find out what you were trying to hide. I thought I was going to lose you again, Arwen.”

Her head shook from side to side, her lip trembling. “I was never gone. I have been with you every single day.” Rhysand hid his mouth behind interlaced fingers as he closed his eyes at her words. “It felt wrong,” she confessed, “to be in this world when you are supposed to be dead. I-It still does. Like I’ve somehow cheated death.”

“The scars,” Cassian said. Arwen looked at him. “They’re from the tether? The thing that kept you tied to Rhys.”

She rubbed at them. “From when I tested it, yes,” she admitted, hating how weak her own voice was. Before they could ask, as their expression brimmed with questions, she told them. “I never felt anything. No pain. Hunger. I never slept. But it was hell.” A harsh but indisputable truth. Arwen couldn’t identify which scar was which behind the mess of it all. “I thought if I could stretch it far enough it would snap. It never did. Not until Rhys died too.”

Cassian muttered a curse indistinguishable to her ears and rubbed the back of his neck. Arwen glanced to Amren, in search of her stoic temperament that would soothe her. Act as an anchor. Fortunately, it was there.

“You went Under the Mountain with him.”

Amren glared at Cassian once more.

Arwen pushed from her chair, turning her back to her family and faced the dark hearth. But the tears were already running down her cheeks. She turned back around. “I tried, Rhys,” she croaked. “I-I tried to help.” Swift to his feet, Rhysand stood before her within a heartbeat. She buried herself into his embrace as the tears fell quicker. “I tried,” she repeated louder as the words mingled with her growing cries. “I tried but you drank that gods-damned wine.” The anger began to burn with the pain. Pulling back from him, she smacked her fist against his chest, lip curling. He didn’t let her go.

“I had to watch her hurt you.” Her entire body trembled. Rhysand carefully lowered them both to the floor, holding her arms lest she fell over in her own hysteria. “I wanted to hurt her—make her stop but I couldn’t. She-she tortured you and I did nothing.” Her grip on him tightened in an echo of that pain she had wanted to inflict, her mind now desperately trying to reassure itself that it was possible to feel flesh and bone. “Then a damn mortal came along.” Her head bowed low between them, tears dripping from her cheeks to the floor. “You were shot down by those arrows and tortured again then the war and I couldn’t…” Arwen shook her head, unable to even think of that day. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”                 

Rhysand pulled her back into his front. She released the already weak constraint she had on her cries, spilling them over his shoulder. He said nothing, only holding her as she gave more ramblings of everything that she saw as her life Under the Mountain swallowed her thoughts.

When Arwen opened her eyes, they were surrounded by a plain of rolling green. In the distance, the cabin and the small creek that passed by it. She could still smell the town house so she knew that this world was in her mind and he hadn’t winnowed them. Still, she kept her eyes open and watched the soft sway of the trees and the flight of a flock of crows from within them.   

Chapter Text

Chapter 92

Rhysand and Arwen ate their evening meal together in the sunroom, watching as the burnt rays of sunset danced across the garden. He picked mindlessly at the plate that rested to the left on the chaise. Under his other arm, Arwen was securely tucked, holding her own plate close to her stomach. He filled her mind with the scents of the garden, despite the window being closed. He sent her images of birds that weren’t truly there, observing every now and then how her eyes would flicker to watch them. It calmed her—and calmed him to know she was at ease.

His dinner didn’t sit well in his stomach, but that wasn’t new.

“I think I did it to myself.” His chin cocked down at her quiet voice. It was steady. Even. But her throat had long since become hoarse. Arwen shifted her head against the front of his shoulder. “Tethering. It wasn’t there at first, but I panicked. I didn’t want to leave you.”

He knew it wasn’t the blame she was trying to deal with. Rhysand didn’t want to talk about it all in detail, but if she did, he wouldn’t make to stop her. “Did you… Did you wake immediately?”

She nodded. “We were still in the town house. It was all blurry at first. Misty.” Rhysand’s stomach sunk as he put that description to the memory he had seen that night they pulled her from the bath. “I was being pulled away and I didn’t want to go. I made the tether and then the mist went away. Seeing my own body was… Strange.”

Rhysand clutched her closer, hating the limpness, hating the coldness. It felt like another part of him was being torn out. A wound that would never heal. His shield around them both strengthened as Mor tried to press against it again. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was sure his cries were heard by the entire city. Let them hear.

Rhysand revelled in feeling the small expansion of her ribs against his. “Feyre felt the same,” he offered. “How does it feel now? Having this body?”

She glanced down at herself, flexing her bare toes upwards. “It doesn’t feel like anything has changed. It was seeing myself from a distance that was odd. This body has always belonged to me. It’s just not dying anymore.”

“I forbid it.” He smiled tightly and gulped away the pit in his throat, looking down as she frowned up at him. “I forbid you doing anything like that again. My heart is one scare away from giving out.”

Arwen gave a tired laugh and put her plate aside. “You say that like I plan on any of this.”

“Well I am powerful, but not powerful enough to forbid fate,” he said, leaning down to her with his own gently chuckle, “so I will settle with commanding it of you. For all our sakes.”

Humming lowly, she rolled her neck and turned a dull stare back to the garden. “Cassian is… pissed at me.” She huffed. “Will you talk sense into him? I don’t understand what he expects of me.”

Rhysand rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to deal with him either. And he’s not angry at you, he’s frustrated.” Arwen continued glaring at nothing. He rubbed her arm. “It’s not what he expects of you, it’s what he expects of himself. Cassian never said it aloud, but he prided himself on the fact that you opened to him first. Now he’s realising that you kept things from him and it’s a blow to that pride.” Rhysand was frustrated too—at himself, much as he imagined Cassian was. But he knew to keep it internal. To vent to Feyre and Mor rather than show that to Arwen.

He was glad now, to have taken the week before coming down. If he hadn’t waited long enough to cool his thoughts, his temper would not have kept. Just as it hadn’t that day they came home from Dawn.

“Can you tell me about these?” Rhysand took her resting wrist from her thigh. “When they happened.”

She looked at herself with disdain. “Why?”

“Because I need to know what I was doing.” He needed them put to a time and place. He needed to understand where his sister was and what she was doing while he was unaware of her lingering existence. He needed to spread his grief across to those times. The guilt as well. He couldn’t let himself remain oblivious.

“I don’t remember all of them.”

Rhysand hoped that it was because of the time that had passed, but by the number there were, he knew that it was not that. “Just what you do then.”

“…There were times when you were winnowing across large distances. Usually, I just let the tether pull me but sometimes I resisted.” His thumbpad ran over them repeatedly. She couldn’t point to any in particular to match her stories. “You went to Spring Court and I tried using one of the mountains to hold me in place like a blockade. Didn’t work. I…”

Her lips shut again. He waited patiently.

“After Amarantha dismissed you one morning. You-you had spent the night with her on Starfall. I was so mad that I spent the entire night trying to kill her. I didn’t feel physical exertion, so I went on for hours.” She sniffled and pulled her legs onto the chaise. It could have been any of those fifty years, but Rhysand felt like he knew the exact night she spoke of. They tended to blur, anyway. “After you left in the morning, I couldn’t get your face out of my head. Amarantha just sat at her vanity, smiling to herself. I wasn’t even thinking about the tether and I just kept trying to kill her.”

“How long was the tether? Were you… forced to watch?” He had been sick to his stomach in the past week, trying not to think of how many times he had serviced the Queen of Prythian, now realising that she might have been there. Mor’s shoes had become the victim of his returning lunch. The sunroom’s floor might be next if she said yes.

But Arwen shook her head. “No. Not usually. It actually lengthened some days—long enough that I could be hundreds of yards away. Other days I couldn’t leave your side. I think you controlled it somehow. Unconsciously. I liked to think you shortened it at times that you didn’t want to be alone either. You always kept it short on Starfall.”

“I can take those memories away, if you would like.”

Arwen contemplated the offer for a while. He watched her face twitch into different expressions. He edged into her mind, prepared to do so with a single hint of a nod from her. “They aren’t pleasant memories,” she whispered eventually, “but I’ve lived with them. Taking them away would just mean that the effort I put into moving forward wasn’t worth anything. It would erase a part of me.”

It was a stance he could respect. He obliged her with a slow nod of acceptance.  

~

Cassian tipped his head back against the crimson painted wall, languidly glancing around the prim dress shop. This was the fifth. He didn’t miss it, he decided, the hours of shopping. Nevertheless, he was here and he would be until Arwen was nothing less than content with her choice.

The velvet curtain was pushed open. Cassian snorted at her sour expression and again as he looked down the length of the blue dress. The sleeves, which he imagined were supposed to hang decoratively loose, were near her knees, her arms completely hidden away.

“I look like a child playing dress-up.”

Leaning onto his knees, he rubbed at his chin, wondering if outright agreeing was the right thing to say or not. “It’s not the one,” he told her. Arwen rolled her eyes and went back into the dressing room. “Would you like me to pick something out?”

“I don’t trust your taste,” she called from the other side of the heavy material.

Cassian sighed and leant back against the wall. Minutes passed and she remerged. This one was on the opposite end, tight to every curve of her body. It was a deep emerald and stunning, modest in all covering except the sharp but thin cut that went from her collarbones to her naval. Thoughts of appreciation quickly filled his mind but he held them at her twisted expression. “Thoughts?” he asked instead.

Arwen turned to look inside the dressing room’s internal mirror. He took the chance to admire the rear side of it all. “It’s so tight,” she muttered.

“Is that supposed to be a complaint?”

She turned back around, pinching the material at her hips and tugging it down. “I was hoping to put on weight before Starfall. I won’t fit this by the time it comes around.” Arwen quipped a smirk. “But your wandering eyes are noted and appreciated.”

Cassian made a motion for her to walk closer and inspected the dress for himself. “You could also have it tailored. Have it split up here on both sides.” He trailed his finger up her thigh to her hip. “It’ll loosen everything around your legs. Even with your regained eating habits, I’ll doubt you’ll put on enough in that time to stretch out the top half.” Finishing his examination, eyes making their way to her face, he was met with her perplexed amusement. “What?”

“Perhaps you should learn to tailor,” she sang. “Since you have such an eye for it.”

He dismissed with a grunt. “You have a problem and I’m fixing it. It’s a nice dress, sweetheart.”

Arwen’s face dropped. Slowly, she turned and sat next to him on the plush settee. Lifting his brow in question, he waited for the words that she clearly wanted to say. She looked at his lap first, then his face. “You don’t have to fix everything, you know.”

Cassian managed to hold the scoff, trapping the air behind tight lips. He rubbed his hands between his knees, taking a moment to admire the glint of red from his siphons. “And you need to stop hiding things for what you think is our sake. Let’s not argue this now.” He gestured to her. “This the dress or not?”

Biting her lip, she shook her head. Arwen changed out of it, emerging once more but this time in her own clothes. Shop done. “I think I’m done for the day,” she murmured.

Cassian tried to reach for her hand as she passed, but a skilful swerve left her just out of reach. Pursing his lips, he pushed back to his feet and trailed after her into the main part of the store. Arwen spoke with the owner who took back the dresses. He knew he was right. She should have told him sooner. And she could sulk about it all she wanted.    

Returning to his side, she mentioned something about home and they began to make their gradual exit when he noticed her eye caught on a dress hanging from a bodice mannequin. It was completely silver—he couldn’t even see the material the dress itself was made from as the entire thing had been bejewelled. Like all the stars from the skies had been collected. While it wasn’t stunning in the way the emerald one had his body reacting to, it was ethereal.

Cassian smiled. “Why don’t you try it on?”

She jumped, as if forgetting he was there. “It’s backless, I’ve already checked.”

Before he could attempt to urge her into it, remind her that they could tailor it, the bell above the door was already ringing with her departure. Arwen paused on the street, looking down each way of the lane. Sighing again, Cassian glanced back at the shopkeeper. “Thank you. She’ll probably be back.”

The shopkeeper smiled.

When he made it onto the street, Arwen was gone. He looked left and right, back through the shop windows, but she was just gone. Cassian clapped his hands against the sides of his thighs, nose flaring in a sting or irritation before shooting to the sky to head home.

Arwen didn’t return to the town house until the strike of midnight.

Chapter Text

Chapter 93

Arwen smiled to herself, reading over Lucien’s letter. He was glad to hear of her recovery or at least the road towards it. Of course, he not-so-subtly asked about Elain between his rants of his newfound friends and Azriel’s sudden appearance two days ago. Azriel was either unwilling to share such information or Lucien didn’t bother asking. Both thoughts made her smile wider. Her diary that linked with Azriel’s was currently at her side, the white feathered quill resting on top whilst she waited for his reply. It might come in an hour, or it might not come until a new dawn.

Using magic to send her letter to her room, Arwen stretched herself out along the smoothed stone bench wall, leaning against a column. The Sidra lapped just paces ahead of her against the rocky ledge, filling her nose with sea salt. Taking hold of the diary, she opened it against her thighs to a blank page.

Her sketch turned into Azriel’s face.

Once the rough image was complete, Arwen closed the diary, not sure whether she was embarrassed that he would see it. But she had shown him her drawings before. There were only very few that she kept private.

That thought made her smile even wider.

She spent the entire rest of her afternoon within Velaris, entering every shop that took her fancy and eating alone at Sven’s for dinner. There were many that approached her through those hours and Arwen happily took to the company. Then she went to the city library and huddled down in a lantern-lit corner with a new soppy romance. The librarian had to kick her out come nightfall.

Dotted hues of gold outlined Velaris, the cobblestone path lit by moonlight. Still in early spring, the night was chill and fresh. Arwen watched inside of the shop windows that remained alive. One beheld a dance class, bodies behind the glass moving synchronously, the low hum of the ballroom tune spilling into the street. She could almost dance with it.

She did. Arwen quietly opened the door so as to not disturb them and waited for the song to end. The instructor noticed her arrival and was more than happy to include her in the lesson. Paired with a handsome grey-skinned and black hair fae, she danced into the late hours of the night, laughing and avoiding toe-stepping.

Her feet dragged against the ground as she hobbled her way back into the town house. Wincing at the bright light, Arwen groused at the chattering from inside, wanting nothing more than the comfort of her bed. Before she could make it to the stairs, her brother emerged from the sitting room.

“Where have you been all day?” he asked flatly.

She frowned at him. “Out,” she answered, too tired to give more of an answer and continued forward. But he wasn’t alone. Cassian and Feyre came out on either side of him. “Hi,” she grumbled.

“You missed dinner,” accused Cassian. It wasn’t a family night, so she hadn’t missed anything at all. They wouldn’t have one until Azriel returned from his assignment and Mor wouldn’t be home until tomorrow either, visiting Hewn City.

“I ate.”

“Enough?”

Her shoulders dropped as she turned to look at them. “Yes, Cassian, I ate plenty.”

His hazel eyes thinned on her. “You shouldn’t have been out all day.”

Arwen threw out her hand. “Was there something here I missed? I wanted to spend the day in the city.”

Cassian folded his arms, taking a loose step forward. “Yes, you missed out on the rest you are supposed to be getting. Do you even realise how weak your body had become? How weak it still is?”

Her bones had become as brittle as that of a bird, Helion had said.

“Yes,” she breathed, closing her eyes. “Now I’m tired so please let me go to bed to get the rest you so adamantly suggest I get.” Before they had to carry her upstairs. It had been a good day until this moment. Now the frustration of rest being so near that the disturbance of their questioning was not just an annoyance, but infuriating.

“What Cassian is not so wisely putting to words,” Rhysand drawled with a quick glance to his general, “is that we’re worried. Physically you’re not out of the woods yet. You need to be gentle on yourself.”

Arwen turned back to the stairs. “I don’t need to hear this.” Ignoring the mute reactions of her family, she gripped the banister and began her ascent. Her muscles ached with just the first step and were near shaking by the second. By the fourth, she had to pause. Sinking to the wood, she silently pled with herself that they weren’t still behind her as she rested herself against the thin wooden poles of the banister. Her head pounded. “I’m fine,” she croaked.

Yet the creak of footsteps came. Arwen knew by the touch and smell it was her brother. His hand smoothed down her back. The half-hearted grunt of protest was futile as he scooped her up. Her head tipped from the banister to his shoulder and gave in, her body bopping with each step he took.

Rhysand laid her on her bed. Pushing herself up, she swung her feet back over the edge and toed off her shoes as he shut her window drapes, the rungs giving a metallic screech. He eyed her bruised feet.

“My dancing partner was new to the art,” she mumbled.

“Dancing?” he asked, somewhere between amused and irritated by the information. With a sigh, he sat beside her, the mattress sinking under their combined weight. “What are you doing, Arwen?”

“Trying to get to sleep.” Wrinkling her nose, she battled with the clasp of the bracelet on her wrist—the amethyst one Cassian had gifted her.

Rhysand took her wrist and worked the lock. “I mean today. And yesterday. You stayed out all day as well. Left Cassian high and dry.” The chain fell free from her arm and he put it on her nightstand. Not where it belonged, but it would do at the moment.

“Are you going to lock me in my room?”

A hard look. “You know I would never do that. But don’t give me the temptation of the thought.” He sat at her side. “You’re going to wear your body out before it’s even had a chance to recover.” She couldn’t keep her eyes on his face, turning to look away. “Arwen?” She didn’t move. “Arwen? Do you regret it?”

“The dancing? A little.”

“Not the dancing,” he said softly.

Slowly, her eyes found their way back to him, settling on his legs rather than his face. “No,” she answered quietly. “If you’re asking what I think you are, then no. I don’t regret it.”

“Then why—” he hooked a raven strand behind her ear before pinching her chin and forcing it to lift— “are you putting yourself in a position where you can’t even get up the stairs?”

She gave a tired laugh. “I just wanted to spend the day in the city. Why is that so hard to believe? I overdid myself. It’s not like I was dancing for hours on end. I was sitting down for most of the day. I went to the library and sat by the Sidra. I had dinner. I don’t get what the problem you have is.”

Rhysand dropped his head an inch. “Are you not hearing me? Your body is still—”

“I’m fine!” Arwen pushed his hand away from her face, sagging her shoulders. “I’m alive. Not dying. I’m perfectly fine so stop worrying.” The sudden quietness after the rising of her voice left a ringing throughout the room. A harsh sigh passed through her flared nostrils as her brother remained still. “Please, I just want to sleep now.”

“Of course,” he whispered, as if they hadn’t just been arguing. Standing from the mattress, he waited until she had pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Straightening the ends of the thick material, he said, “I’ll have Nuala and Cerridwen bring you breakfast in the morning, but I’ll make sure no one else bothers you. Sleep as long as you need.”  

~

Arwen did sleep for as long as she needed, and then some more. Her claves burned when she tried to stand, quickly sitting back on the bed. It wasn’t a broken ache though. It was the ache that would come with training too hard. An ache that came with the process of a rebuilding body rather than the ache of one disintegrating. As promised, Nuala brought her a plate of strawberries and a bowl of heated oat. She ate it all.

When Arwen gathered enough strength, she headed downstairs and into her brother’s office. He wasn’t home, and she didn’t know where he had gone, but as usual, the room was a mess so she spent the better half of the morning organising it in the way she always had. Once that had been completed, she pulled out the most recent letters and skimmed through them, drafting up a response on spare parchment that she could later return to once he had read and confirmed. There was an off-chance that he would be annoyed she had gone through his letters, but that would only tell her there was something he was expecting that he didn’t want her to read. And that only made her far more curious.

After everything that she could do was done, Arwen summoned her linked diary and flipped through to the most recent pages. She smiled at the scrawl of their opposing handwriting on each page, some messages longer than others, some of them simple quick notes. There was no indication that he had seen the sketch of his face since his last message in reply to hers was on the page before, but Arwen knew that he did.

Stealing a quill, she added another message to a new page no longer than a line. Knowing she would keep staring and waiting for his reply if she had it, she sent the diary back to her bedside table.

Remaining in the office, content in the leather chair and her feet on the lip of the old oak desk, Arwen rested there for some time, her eyelids fluttering closed. There was no sense of time passing when they opened again, slowly, calmly.

The sound of footsteps was light, as if purposefully trying not to make noise. Her interest piqued when they neared the office and the door creaked open. Rather than Feyre or Rhys, it was Cassian.

He looked just as surprised to see her as she did him.

“Why are you sleuthing around?” Arwen inquired.

He nodded at her. “Could ask you the same thing.”

Giving a small smile, she gestured to the desk. “Just cleaning up for him. Do you need something?” He told her he needed the papers Rhysand had been drafting in concern with Hewn City. She shuffled through his things, remembering she had read something of the likes. As she hunted, Cassian pulled up a chair to the other side of the desk and braced his forearms along the wood. “I think this is it,” she said, sliding over a small stack of parchment.

He thumbed the corner and checked. “That’s it.” Cassian hesitated to leave. He stared at the desk, then dragged his eyes back to her. “Are you angry at me?”

She blinked. “No,” she answered after a moment.

Shifting in his seat, he leaned back against its spine. “I’m worried that you’re hurting yourself because you want to… Get back at me or something.” With an empty laugh, he rubbed his mouth with his palm. “It makes me feel like a prick, but I won’t take it back. You should have told us.”

Arwen chewed on her inner lip, now looking down at the table. “I know you mean well. Truly I’m not upset at you for it. If there was something bothering you I would hope you would share it with me as well.”

Reaching across the table, he took her hand. “Are we alright then, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, Cass.” She smiled broadly. “We’re always alright.”

His lips spread to match hers. Rising from the chair he swerved around the desk and widened his arms. Arwen laughed and moved to her feet, wringing her arms around his neck. His hold on her was gentle and she squeezed him in desire for something tighter. He obliged, her heels lifting from the floor. The scent of him mixed with his leathers calmed her; reminded her of a long-since passed childhood.  

“Promise me that you’ll rest,” he said into her ear then leaned back. His hands went to the back of her head, prying her hair into two splits and pulling them over each of her shoulders, adjusting how they lay until he saw fit.

Arwen sighed. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 94

Azriel was home. Arwen’s gleeful squeal had ricocheted off the walls of the town house when she spied his winged form through the frosted glass door at the foyer. She was greeted with a smile, the capture of his arms and a small bouquet of fire lilies. He held her to his side as Rhysand and Feyre approached, ignoring that she peppered his cheek with a long kiss as he handed the High Lord and Lady his report. But he squeezed her waist—a sign that while he couldn’t give her that affection back so freely in this space, he accepted hers. His shadows tangled between her legs, wrapping around her and Azriel like a rope.

When her brother and his mate retreated, offering Azriel a plate of lunch that had been recently served, Azriel bowed his head to press a kiss to her hairline. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that type of welcome home.”

“I have missed you is all,” she said, hearing the accusatory tease in his tone at her perhaps overly delighted nature. “I don’t like not hearing your voice around.” More specifically, she didn’t like when she could not speak to him at a moment’s desire. It reminded her too much of a time when she could not speak to him at all. “Will you stay for lunch?”

The tease on his face brightened. “I’m not sure I have the option to say no.” She hummed in agreement and dragged him into the dining room.

Feyre and Rhysand had retaken their seats, talking and picking at the remains of their food. Arwen took two new plates, having only come down from her room moments before she heard Azriel’s arrival.

“Rhys was telling me you have a tradition of only buying one new dress a year,” Feyre said after other mindless ramblings across the table. “For Starfall.”

Arwen nodded and cut into her chicken. “Yes.” She frowned. “I’ve been out twice this week with no luck. I think I may just choose something I already own this year. No point buying a dress I may not fit by summer.”

To her surprise, Rhysand agreed. “I think that’s a good idea.” As far as she was aware, he, Mor and Amren used to have a betting scheme running on the colour and style of her new dress each year. Rhys smirked and pointed with his fork. “A new accessory hanging from your arm will be fine enough.”

Azriel gave a small huff at the label. “Rhys,” she chided. “Do not demean him to simple the likes of a purse.” Arwen grinned at her mate. “He is more like a pair of diamond earrings.” The table, bar Azriel, laughed. She leant to him. “That is a compliment, shadowsinger.”

He gave her a small smile. “I know.”

Eyeing him for a moment longer, Rhysand drew her attention back with talks of the River House. Azriel’s hand found her thigh under the table, but a scant glimpse in his direction revealed that the bulk of his attention was on the conversation at hand and not in search of hers. 

Somehow, they made plans to go to Rita’s for the night. A celebration of something—she wasn’t really sure what but assumed it was because they were in desperate need of some thoughtless drinking. Having spent the day flying, Azriel murmured his need for a nap if he was to spend the night out and Arwen offered her room.

“Any talks about accepting the mating bond?”

Arwen swatted Rhysand’s face away from her ear. “Prying prick,” she muttered and settled into the sunroom chaise with her drawing pad. “That is not any of your concern.”

“It is,” he contended, lounging down on the other end, stretching his leg out as the sun bathed him. “You must have seen how I was after Feyre and I sealed it. And I have good self control. Azriel…” Rhysand glanced over his shoulder towards the door. “Not so much.”

She squinted at him. “He won’t hurt me.”

“Oh, I know,” he laughed back, rapping his fingers on the arm of the chaise. “It’s everything around you that I’m worried about. Notably…”

Arwen stared at him for a minute, knowing well what he was implying but hesitant to admit so aloud. “Cassian.” Rhysand nodded. “It’s a far way off and that is something I’ll discuss with Azriel. You don’t need to worry. They are brothers.”

“I was prepared to rip off Cassian’s head when he taunted my incompetence.”

“But you also knew it was for your sake—that he was helping you and I assume one of you will do the same for him. It is not like Cassian has affection for me.”

“I would not make such a quick assumption, Arwen.” Her cheeks tightened at his solemn words, however easily they were spoken. At her paled expression, her brother was quick to add, “Perhaps not romantically inclined ones, but affections nonetheless.”            

“Well, I appreciate the concern and I’m sure Azriel does as well but it’s not something we need to think about for a while.”

~

Arwen’s dress danced at her ankles as she had an early drink, engaging with Mor who was more than eager for the night at Rita’s after her time in Hewn City. They were waiting on Feyre and Rhysand who had to make a quick visit to her studio. Arwen’s hand was in Azriel’s whose back stood against hers, facing Cassian. When her conversation drifted, she turned around and held herself to his side.

“You are annoyed that I spend the day walking alone but invite me to Rita’s where we barely expect to make it home from,” she sang. “I’m not sure I understand your logic, general.”

He gestured to her with his own drink. “You’ve already noted the difference. You won’t be alone tonight. I feel better knowing you’ve got eyes on you. And you are going to keep me company when this lot can’t keep themselves from dancing like idiots.”

Azriel titled his head. “I’m not sure why I’m included in that.”

“And I’m not sure I like the assumption you’ve made that I will keep you company,” Arwen added. “So we shall pretend it was my idea.” Cassian scoffed and rolled his eyes but made no voice of argument.

Feyre and Rhysand appeared soon thereafter. They decided to walk through the spring night to the club. It was the first time Arwen had been there since her rise from death. Rita had clearly heard of her return as there was no shock on the dark face of the High Fae female when she entered with her family. After finding a comfortable table towards the back where they would actually be able to hear each other talk, Rhys headed towards the tap bar and Arwen trailed after him.

He laughed when she pressed up against the high table next to him. “I think this night is long overdue,” he said after the server took their order. Sometimes they simply had them brought to the table, but tonight was a night to move. To be alive. “But take it easy, won’t you.”

Arwen smiled but couldn’t meet his eye. “I will have fun. I think I deserve that.”

“That is certainly true. Just promise you’ll listen to me if I say you need to have a rest.” She didn’t answer, thanking the server who placed their order of drinks on the bench of the serving bar. He gripped her arm before she could turn to leave. “Arwen. Stop.”

“No, you stop.” Arwen forced her fingers to ease their grip on the delicate glass she held. Rhysand winced at her tone. “Stop treating me like I will break for having a damn life. I am the only one that knows my body so no, I will not listen to your assumptions of what I can and cannot take.” He let her slip from his hand and she returned to the table long before him. She took a seat between Mor and Feyre rather than between the Illyrians that dominated the other side.

Arwen drank. And drank some more. Laughing and spilling her drink, there was little in the world that could turn her mood sour. Yet that something sat across from her in the form of a mighty Illyrian warrior. Azriel had been pulled away by Mor and Feyre (and with the assistance of Arwen’s taunting) to dance. Rhysand had made his way back to the bar once Amren decided to join them, teaching her the ways of alcohol.

Arwen had her knees tented up, feet against the seat and her back against the brick wall, watching over the dance floor. Azriel was stiff yet oddly elegant as Mor and Feyre moved around him. He wasn’t fond of the close crowd of strangers around him, but he would bare it for his family. She smiled at the sight, giving a semi-lucid laugh when Mor made him twirl.

“How much have you had?”

Arwen turned wide-eyed to Cassian, having forgotten he was there. Her lips parted as she counted on her fingers and held up four of them.

He frowned. “Including the one you had before we left?” She grinned wider and nodded, ignoring how the brick grated against the crown of her head. “That’s what I thought. Maybe you could ease off them. You’re drunk enough that you’ll probably wake up tomorrow in the same state.”

Four wasn’t a lot. Was it? She couldn’t remember how much she used to down before getting to this state. Arwen reached forward and stole Azriel’s half-abandoned drink. “I will drink what I want, thank you.”

He pursed his lips and watched her take a long sip of the ombre peach liquid. It was tangy and made her squint. “Are you going to tell him?”

Frowning at the drink and swirling it to watch the colours mix, she asked, “Going to tell who what?”

“Azriel. About everything.”

She launched her body over the table, slapping her hand against his mouth. “Shh!” Cassian fell deep into his seat, wide eyes staring worriedly at her. “He will hear you.”

He gently pried her hand off his face and eased her back down into her seat. “You can’t keep this a secret from him. He needs to know.”

Her head shook fervently. “Azriel and me—” she pointed at her chest— “are good. Good. For the first time ever.” Her ribs pressed against the table. “I’m not ruining that.”

“He will find out and he’ll be upset that you weren’t the one to tell him. That would ruin it.”

Her nose flared. Arwen hated, him she decided. Right then and there! “I forbid you to say anything to him,” she grumbled, turning her finger on him.

He arched a lazy brow at her thin digit. “You don’t order me, princess.”

The slap of her palms against the table made him blink out a wince. “You will listen to me!”

“And you’re not actually a princess.” She flinched and he tempered himself.

“Make a bargain with me,” she demanded, holding out her hand. “That you will not say anything.”

He sighed and looked away. “I’m not making that bargain with you,” he said. Quietly. “Especially not while you’re drunk. Let’s talk about this later.” He was the one that brought it up. How dare he act like it-like it was her fault!

Arwen hadn’t realised that tears were falling from her eyes until she found him looking at them and she wiped her cheeks. Why couldn’t he understand that everything was okay? Why couldn’t any of them for one moment realise that they don’t need to pamper her? “You are a bastard.” She pushed the heavy word out. “Bastard.”

There was no time to see or hear his reaction as the ombre orange drink that had once belonged to Azriel now soaked him. Cassian stiffened as the sticky liquid streamed down his face and onto his black collared shirt. She was out of her seat before he could wipe his eyes. Her name was a song from behind, called over and over again. Arwen twisted her shoulders, surprised at her own ease in slipping through the crowd in her state. Yet he caught up with her.

His scent overwhelmed her, even through the warring smells of every other body, perfume, and alcohol in the loud building. Arwen pulled against him, digging her heels into the ground, needing to get away. Needed to get away from the way he, like her brother, looked at her. Like everything was wrong. The way Azriel didn’t.

Then she was free. It didn’t take long to figure out why. Not looking back, Arwen managed to take a step forward before finding herself against the chest of another familiar scent. “Get me out,” she commanded. Azriel didn’t hesitate in obliging.

Chapter Text

Chapter 95

Arwen watched the tanned, scarred fingers trace up and down the inside of her arm that was extended beyond her, the movement almost lulling her back to sleep. Her head pounded, but certainly not as terrible as one might have expected. Her back pressed up against his bare front as they lay on her bed as they had been since he brought her home last night.

Cassian had been demanding, but she had also been foul.

Bastard. That was a crude thing to call him.

Arwen inched her head over her shoulder to look at her mate, the rest of her body soon following. Azriel smiled down at her. “How’s your head?” he whispered, pressing his lips to her warm forehead. She could feel the heat on her own skin.

“S’alright.” She loved looking into his eyes. Loved finding the lightness behind them. Whether it was for her, his family, or just a good day in particular, she didn’t care. “Does Cassian hate me?”

“So you remember.” Arwen spared him a glare before burying her face into the hidden between his neck and the mattress. Azriel chuckled warmly and moved his hand to the back of her head. “A little splash isn’t going to damage his pride. I think he’s more worried about why you felt the need to waste my drink on him. Which I wasn’t finished with, by the way.”

The presence of his teasing mood gave enough indication that her little drunken scene hadn’t been taken too terribly. Or at least, her mate found it humorous. “You left it under my trust,” she mumbled. “It is no one’s fault but your own that you lost it.”

His thumb made light trails on the low of her back under… Well, she wasn’t sure what she was wearing but it was thick and warm. “I didn’t realise how intoxicated four drinks was going to get you. I wouldn’t have let them pull me away if I had realised.”

“I liked watching you have fun.” Her voice muffled against his warm skin. “Cassian was just… Annoying me. I talk when I’m drunk. Talk and blabber and overreact.”

“I won’t make a judgement on that.” Arwen untucked her head for another glare through her dark lashes. Azriel smiled. “I wasn’t there to hear, is all.”

Rolling her eyes—wincing at the pain it flared—she turned onto her back. The dress she had worn last night was tossed over the back of her vanity chair, which drew her eyes back down to her body. Her legs were bare, the blanket shifting against her skin but her upper body was clad in a dark shirt. “Is this yours?”

Azriel’s nose dug behind her pointed ear. “You wouldn’t let me dress you in anything else. Peeled it right off me.” She gave a single, sharp laugh of mortification. “I’m afraid that I must ask for it back before we leave this room. I do not fancy flying home without one. The mornings are still chilly.”

“Well, that is a problem.” Arwen bit her lip, curling her hand up to rest against his outer cheek. “Because I like this shirt very much.” It smelt of him. Reminded her of him, even though he was right there. A claim to him while the bond was still unaccepted.

A large shadow passed over her. Azriel braced his forearms along either side of her head. He let his wing droop on either side of them, resting against the bed. He leant low, lips skimming hers. “I like seeing you in it.”

Arwen entangled her hands into his hair, pulling him down that extra inch until he brought her into a proper kiss. It was tender and light, nothing close to a desperate passion. The type of kiss that comes when both know there are plenty more. Pulling her head back, she spent a moment admiring him. Admiring how the sunlight that peeked through her curtain shied away from him. She stroked the high point of his cheek with her thumb before curling one of his dark waves behind his ear. “You do know I tease, don’t you?” she asked. “Yesterday with the whole accessory thing. I would hardly think so little of you to be nothing more than a piece of jewellery to wear.” She tapped his nose. “Diamond or not.”

“I know,” he murmured, wrinkling his nose at her touch. “I did not take it as an insult.”

Arwen let her finger drift down over the soft pout of his lips. “Yet I don’t think you took it as a compliment either.”

His reluctance toward the topic was painted across his face but that only made her all the more intent on understanding. “It has nothing to do with compliment or insult.” He sunk down next to her, his wings retreating to his back and Arwen silently lamented the loss. “But I will be on your arm. When people look at you, they will also see me.”

She could read the unspoken words left. She could hear the resentment of himself which made her bitter at the rest of the world for putting him in that position. “Good. I want you nowhere else.” He smiled, but it wasn’t bright. “You were a reason to stay, Azriel. When you held me, there was no other place I wanted to be. Not even in a great eternity.”

He looked to the window beyond her. Arwen saw it. The heaviness. The weight of the memory. She regretted saying anything. “You may have sacrificed another life.”

“Yes,” she agreed smoothly, comfortably resetting herself back into his front. “But I would have lost the one I have now. If I were asked again, I would not give up my family, the love I have, for uncertainty.”

He tightened his hold on her, as though he planned to stay within the confinements of her bed for all hours of the day. An idea she could be content with if she hadn’t the need to explain her actions and possibly apologise for them. So when she gathered the motivation to pry herself free, Arwen pulled his shirt off and handed it back, dressing in leggings and a loose cardigan instead.

Venturing downstairs, she was surprised to find that everyone was already down there other than Azriel who trailed behind her. Rhysand and Feyre sat together on the lounge, both with drinks in hand. Amren and Mor talked near the unlit hearth which Cassian braced an arm on, and Elain sat in the small, windowed alcove.

Cassian was the first to catch her eye. His face remained unreadable, and Arwen had to worry whether Azriel’s dismissal of his insulted pride was anything near truth. There was a platter served for the informal breakfast—a silver tray of crackers and cheeses and fruits. A large jug next to it, the tangy citrus alerting her that it was orange juice.

“I remember why I don’t like getting drunk now,” she said, breaking the tension that perhaps only she felt. Soft chuckles filled the room as she moved deeper inside. Azriel passed her in favour of pouring himself a glass of juice. She denied wanting one. He sent her a silent look and made a glance towards Elain. Arwen nodded and gave a smile that was weak for another reason. If Azriel found friendship in Elain, she would not interrupt that. It would be hypocritical whilst she had her intentions of talking with Cassian.

But she didn’t. Not until well after she had eaten. Elain had retreated to her room. Mor and Amren decided to head into the city and Azriel took Feyre for another flying lesson. Which left Arwen between her brother and the general.

She nibbled on a cracker, the cheese long since finished off.

“You ruined my favourite shirt.”

She scoffed. A lie. It would have been cleaned away with a simple flick of Rhysand or Mor’s magic. But it was the prompt of conversation. “I’m sorry,” she said, sitting on the lounge as he loomed over her. “I was angry. Didn’t realise how much so little alcohol would get to me. It was…” Arwen trailed off, wiping her eyes with the balls of her palm. When the blur dispersed, she found Cassian had sat himself on the arm of the closest armchair. “I shouldn’t have called you a bastard.”

“I don’t need you to apologise.” She looked up in surprise. “You were angry. I understand. But now I need you to understand me.” Cassian held her gaze, his brows inching together. “You died because we didn’t listen to you. Not just with the poison but Ianthe too. You were so alert at her being there, but we dismissed it because we thought we could take care of anything that came up. I should have listened to your instincts.”    

Arwen’s dry lip parted, glancing between him and Rhysand. Her brother only sat there, listening. “I don’t understand.”

Cassian slipped from the armchair and fell to a knee in front of her. “I will listen. I want to hear about every moment of your day, sweetheart. But if you don’t tell us, I’m scared that we’ll miss something. Something that could hurt you. And this had been hurting you.”

She sunk deeper into the lounge, pulling her legs up. “It was in the past. He doesn’t need to know.”

“Do you think we don’t care?” asked Rhysand. “That your mate doesn’t?”

“I know you care,” she whispered. “That’s why I didn’t want you to know. Why I don’t want Azriel to know. I can see it in your eyes I hate it. I hate when I feel happy and then I look at you and all I see is dread like I’m still on a deathbed. I hate that I make you feel that way.” That it burdened them. “I can’t stand to look into Azriel’s eyes and see the same.”

It was why she stayed out of the house all day. To both avoid them and to prove she was fine. That she could dance away the night if she wanted. Rhysand and Cassian glanced at each other, and it was clear neither of them had a response beyond what was already said.

Finally, Rhysand looked back at her. “Before I knew, that weight was in your eyes. Every day I saw it hiding. Now it’s for us to share. That’s how this whole family thing works.”

“Then you must share too,” said Arwen, pointing at her brother. “I know there is so much you have not spoken about. Things that hurt you. I already know of them so at least speak with me. Let me take your pain as you take mine.” Rhysand ran his tongue over his lip and gave a small nod at their deal. Arwen turned back to Cassian. “I will speak with Azriel. But by my own choice when I feel comfortable.”

“That’s fair,” Cassian agreed. “As long as that doesn’t mean years from now.”  

Chapter Text

Chapter 96

Starfall was here. And she still didn’t have a dress to wear. Arwen tried not to think of it which ultimately wasn’t that difficult. It had been many years since that tradition had taken place and grappling for its return was a weak attempt at resetting her life where it did not need to be reset.

Still, it stung a little.

Arwen grinned and laughed with Mor as they ate breakfast in the well-lit dining room. Nesta was the only one not there. “I may not have my muscle back yet, but my bones are certainly as strong as they should be,” she sang, stabbing a cut of orange and plopping it on her tongue as she recounted her early morning training session with Cassian. It was their second—both taken slow and focused on regaining full mobility and testing her returning strength. Arwen had given a sharp jab between his legs with her knee to prove a point. He hadn’t been expecting it.

“No wonder he’s been pouting all morning,” Mor said, sipping her goblet. Both females glanced across the table to the spoken-of warrior. He was talking blithefully with Elain but on the weight of their gazes, sought them out. Hazels narrowed into glares before he turned back to his significantly smaller companion. They snickered. Mor laid her hand on Arwen’s. “I have missed you. Missed this. I’m glad that you decided to remain.”

Arwen smiled and sipped at her juice. Underneath the table, to her other side, she rested her hand on Azriel’s leg. A reason to stay, she reminded herself. Looking across the table, she spied on Feyre and Rhysand. How simple the moment was; two mates talking over breakfast with their family. She could see it in both their faces how happy they were.

Rhysand and Arwen had spent the night on the rooftop of the House of Wind. They talked. Talked about things Under the Mountain that they wouldn’t share with anybody else—not even Feyre or Azriel. Arwen spoke of the day that he had been whipped. The Attor’s lashes had been so horrific that his entire back had turned to a canvas of dark blood. She couldn’t even make out one wound from another. After his suffering, Amarantha had healed him. Not a scar left to be seen. Scars left stories. Stories that perhaps Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, was not so contently warming her bed as it seemed. Arwen had stood in front of him, but each time the whip just went through her. Still, she felt his pain as if it were her own.

Rhysand spoke of the day that he had to kill one of Azriel’s plants. A High Fae that lived in Hewn City but had become trapped Under the Mountain. The male was loyal to them, had even helped prevent an uprising decades ago against Rhys. But he was a risk to Rhysand when Amarantha’s attention drew to him. Rhysand wished he had just wiped the male’s mind, but in a moment of panic, crushed it instead.

After breakfast, she returned to her room. Upon her bed was a white box, the length and width of her arm. Frowning in caution, Arwen inched towards it and knocked the lid off.

The dress. The dress that looked like a thousand stars had been woven into it, silver and glittering. Hooking her fingers around the thin straps, she lifted it from the box to let the material fall to the floor. The back had a mesh fabric sewn it that would make it melt with her skin. It was hers. It was her Starfall dress. She bit her lip in an attempt to hold her grin but it was impossible. Carefully laying the fabric out along her bed in preparation to change into it come nightfall, Arwen left her room.

In and out of halls and chambers she weaved in search of him. It wasn’t until reaching the grand entrance with the open pavilion, did she see Cassian talking with Rhysand. Not caring that she would be interrupting their conversation, Arwen darted toward him, flinging her arms around his neck.

He laughed and caught her, knowing exactly what the gesture was for. “I thought you might want it,” he said once her feet were steady on the ground again. “I don’t know how you’re going to wear it all night. That thing is bloody heavy.”

It had tested her muscles, but she would live. “Thank you. I’ll manage.”

“Cassian was just telling me how strong you’re getting,” said Rhysand. Arwen smiled and nodded, standing between them. “I wanted to know if I could do something.”

“Do what?”

Rhysand grinned and before she could question it, she was enveloped by his arms from behind. Arwen squealed as they tightened like two snakes, squeezing the air out of her lungs, arms trapped under his. She laughed as he bent forward, then side to side, shaking and tossing her like a toy.

She whimpered.

Rhysand immediately stopped and loosened his arms. He searched her face for the pain he had just heard.

Arwen grinned. “You are so gullible.” She turned herself around and hooked her arm around his neck, dragging his head down to her height. They wrestled, battling for control, a mess of tangled limbs. By the time they were done, they were both panting and laughing wildly. His tunic was wrinkled and his hair a mess. She was certain she was in the same state. “You’ve grown weak, brother!”

He rolled his eyes. “I was going easy on you.”

“I don’t believe it,” she sang, pounding the side of her fist against his chest. He winced with a mocking look of hurt and rubbed the area. Arwen gathered her breath. “I was wondering if you could take me to the vault?”

His brows raised. “The vault? You know you can pass through the wards without my permission. What’s in there is yours too.”

She smirked. “I was actually asking for your company, not your permission.” Cassian snorted. “I have a beautiful dress for tonight and the jewels that I have out don’t do it justice.”

Rhysand rolled his eyes but smiled. “I think I can spare a part of my day for the venture. I’ll bring Feyre along too. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I’d love the extra company.”

~

Arwen bit her lip and gazed upon her family’s wealth. Feyre stood agape. There was so much that it was hard to know where to look, mounds of gold and silver, lapis and emeralds, rubies and diamonds. Rhysand stepped to her side. “I kept your private belongings towards the back,” he murmured. “They have their own ward around them.”

Arwen trekked forward, passing tables and shelves and chests. Sure enough, there was a gathering of her collection. A mix of gifts, some of her Mother’s jewels, and her private tiaras and crowns. It didn’t take long to find the one she had in mind. The silver circlet that looked like intertwined vines with a teardrop amethyst the same shade as her eyes. Azriel’s gift on her last birthday.

It was all she took. Arwen returned to her brother’s side as he walked Feyre through an account of what the vault held. She was more than happy to share this wealth with her High Lady, but couldn’t help feeling relieved that her things had their own protection that even Feyre would not be able to pass. They were things that Arwen could not bring herself to share.

~

Arwen found Azriel in the hallway on her way back to her room. “Where have you been?” he inquired. As she passed him, she twirled and walked backwards, placing the circlet on her head. Recognition shone. “I thought that was long gone.”

“It was just being kept safe.” Pausing, she waited for him to catch up and took his hands. “Rhys would have been made to hunt it down if he discarded of it. What will you wear tonight?”

Azriel blew out his cheeks. “Leathers?” he said, more of a question that sought her approval. At her pursed lips, he tried again. “Something more formal? What are you wearing?” Taking him to her room, she showed him the dress Cassian had bought her. He swallowed. “Ah.”

“You may wear your leathers if you wish,” she said, placing her hands on either cheek. “But seeing you out of them is a treat.”

He smiled and kissed her nose, hands resting on her hips. “I will wear everything and nothing for you. Particularly—” he dropped his mouth to her cheek, kissing there and speaking into her ear— “the nothing part.”

They had kept their hands to themselves. For the most part. And endeavour but he hadn’t wanted to risk hurting her before she was ready. By the whispers he had spoken into her ear of the things he would do with her, Arwen knew she didn’t want only half of it.

They stayed in her room, talking. When the night began to creep upon the lands and bodies began filling the mountain’s balconies, he left to change. Arwen slipped into the admittedly heavy dress, surprised at how well it fit considering she never tried it on. Cassian must have taken one of her others when he had it tailored. She met Azriel back in the hall, glad to see him in a fine assortment of a black shirt and dress pants. A siphon remained on the back of each hand.

She handed him her circlet. He placed it on her hand, meticulously adjusting it then running light hands down either side of her face. Arwen couldn’t wait. Stretching high, already on her toes with the silver heels she wore, she kissed him. He smiled against her lips, his movements soft and little.

Arwen leant back, running her palms over his cheeks and through his hair, pinching the strands as she reached the nape of his neck. “I love you.”

He held her wrist. “You are my mate.”

She raised a brow. “I’d prefer the I love you.” Mates were not choice. Love, she liked to believe, was something they decided, unconscious or not.

“It was what I said to you when I first realised.” Azriel pulled on her wrist, bringing her palm to his mouth to kiss. “I couldn’t stop saying it. My mate. I loved my mate. And I haven’t stopped loving you since that moment.”

She remembered that night—noting how odd it seemed for him to repeat the phrase as though it was a new revelation and not something that had known for a decade. The night at Windhaven where he had killed for her.

They joined their family on the main balcony at the height of the mountain. The space was wide and open, the floor polished to look like marble. Fae were spread across the mountain, many still within the city, their lights low. Arwen made her way to the railing, trying to ignore the sudden nervousness in her stomach. It wasn’t the good kind either. Like one of warning.

Still, she smiled when Rhysand approached and kissed her cheek, the movement mimicked by Feyre. Then soon Cassian, Mor and Amren joined. Elain was elsewhere but Arwen was sure she had joined the celebration. The night was beautifully clear, a near full moon perfectly lighting their little sanctuary.

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the railing, attempting to focus on Azriel’s hands which were settled on the cinch of her waist, his body behind her. Staring at the stars, her heart thumped painfully in waiting.

Then it began. The first spirit of Starfall crossed the skies. More and more appeared behind their leader, each one its own unique shade of iridescence. Arwen watched each one’s journey, moving from something unknown to somewhere even more unknown.

She could not smile.

Her stomach sat heavy in her body and her legs felt a little weak. Eventually, her eyes dropped to the city below. She would not be one of them. Arwen tilted her head back. “Would you mind fetching a drink?” she asked of her mate.

“Of course.” He squeezed her waist and then left to fill out her request.

Arwen waited until he had moved off in the direction of the served drinks before fully turning away from the balcony. She kept her head low and made her way for the inside of the House.

Someone grasped her arm. “Arwen.”

She looked up. Rhys. She gently removed his hand from her. “I need to go.”

~

Rhysand stood just a little way off from Feyre. He watched Azriel return, two thin drinks of wine in hand. The shadowsinger had a small smile upon his lips until he looked at an empty space near the railing. His step faltered. Snapping to alert, he looked up and down the balcony. Searching. For Arwen. Rhysand had hoped her mate was aware of her leaving—that they had planned on sneaking off. He knew but the look on his sister’s face that it was unlikely already and now it was confirmed. She would never leave on Starfall.

“She left,” he said to Azriel.

Confusion flickered in his brother’s eyes. “Where?”

Rhysand could only shrug. Azriel paused, then shoved the two drinks into Rhysand’s chest who stumbled to catch them. By the time the golden liquid settled inside the glass, the spymaster was long gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 97

Arwen relished the darkness of the bedchamber. Relished the scent of her mate clinging to every part of it. Her hand fisted around the maroon sheet that currently lay over his mattress, her head buried in a pillow of a matching shade. The bed was massive—enough so that she could not reach two ends at the same time in any direction. She traced an assortment of shapes into the material with her fingertip, unable to suppress the growing sense of helplessness. Arwen wished she could be outside as her family were. As the people of her city were. But they did not feel as she did and would not understand it.

She was, after all, the only one alive that knew of their fate.

It had to have been close to half an hour before anybody found her place of hiding. The door creaked in warning but Arwen made no move to acknowledge it. Azriel kept the room veiled in darkness as he silently manoeuvred around the bed. He climbed onto it behind her and she shifted with the bounce of the mattress as he pushed up to her back. Long fingers guided strands of hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ear.

Azriel kissed her bare shoulder. “Was it too much?”

She nodded. It was the best answer she could give. Arwen lifted her head as his arm snaked under her neck, letting it turn her with his other to face him. She tucked her head into the space under his chin.

“You could have just told me,” he whispered, not in accusation but in offer.

“I didn’t want to explain myself. You should rejoin them, I don’t mind being alone tonight.”

His nose brushed her hair. “I’ve spent far too many Starfalls without you. I intend to spend every minute of this one at your side. And every Starfall to come.” Those words made her smile as they reminded her once more of what she still had here. But it would not wean the loss of what this night brought. Not when it celebrated something that would never be for her. Limited—that is what her existence now was. “You look beautiful, if I have not already told you.”

She played with the neckline of his black shirt. “You had forgotten.”

“My greatest apologies.”

He held her and all she wanted was to be held. Arwen focused on her breaths as Cassian taught her, closing her eyes and using Azriel’s scent as an anchor. She was here. She had this world. What was beyond it did not matter anymore.

The decision was made.
There was no turning back.
She gave it up willingly.

But had she? Had Arwen truly given it up knowing what it was? She recalled the day, the words she had said. I’ll stay. Spoken only after her brother had touched her scars. In fear of the prison world and of the tether. I’ll stay.

If he hadn’t touched her scars, what might she have said?

Her gut audibly rumbled. These thoughts were ruining her.

Arwen pried her circlet off, tossed it to the foot of the bed and resettled deeper into the crook of Azriel’s neck. He tightened his grip in response and tried to push his knee between her legs, but the sturdiness of the fabric did not allow it. He grumbled under his breath and instead settled with pulling their bodies closer. Drifting from his neck, the knuckles of Arwen’s fingers brushed against a sturdy ridge of his wing.

Her lips inched up at his twitch of response but chose to continuously rake her hand through his hair instead. “I’m not sure I like Starfall anymore,” she whispered.

“Nobody holds you to that expectation.”

She agreed with that observation, but Azriel did not understand the extent of what it meant. A night that was revered throughout her court. A night her family celebrated and treasured. A night she could no longer celebrate with them. It would be a night she now spent alone, remembering what she has lost—what she had given up for the same family that celebrated it. 

The backs of her fingers brushed against a firm tendon on his wing again. Azriel’s chin pressed harder against her hairline. Arwen smiled to herself and pressed her lips to his throat where she was resting against while her fingers moved idly again. His outermost wing began to inch open.

“You know what you’re doing,” he muttered lowly in accusation.

Her smile turned devious. “It’s been many years since I’ve had wings. You’ll have to remind me.”

A huff of air passed through her hair. Bringing her head out from underneath his so she could watch him, Arwen trailed from the firmness of the tendons to the leathery membrane that spanned between them. His face was almost impossible to make out through the darkness, just the harsh lines of his silhouette. Azriel’s breathing had already deepened, his chest moving against hers. Gliding her fingers across, she continued examining the shadows on his face for each reaction the touch brought.

At one particular spot, the hand belonging to the arm underneath her neck fell away from her back to the bed. His bicep flexed against her jaw in a way that he must have been clenching his fist around the bedding behind her as she focused on the crook between two folds. It excited her to just know that the simple touch could elicit such a reaction.

“My control, Arwen,” he murmured, “is very limited around you.”

She kissed his jaw. “You have my permission to lose it.” The glint that flashed through his eyes was predatory. “Tell me where to touch you.”

Suddenly she was on her back, Azriel’s form hovering over her. Heat and surprise flushed through her. It became his turn to give as his mouth found the junction of her neck and jaw. Arwen lifted her chin up, welcoming the sensation of his attention on the sensitive spot. He broke only for a moment. “Everywhere.”

His wings silently flared out and eased down on either side of him, giving her hands the access to roam wherever they desired. Arwen brought both hands to duty, one grasping back at his head, the other palming the expanse of the membrane. A gasp lodged in her throat as his teeth scraped her neck before gently tugging with a bite. He soothed the slight sting after he released with his tongue, lapping over the spot. While one of his arms was still trapped under her head, the hand of the other strayed down her body. The thickness of the dress annoyed her, barely able to feel the way his hand was against her body and had to pour her focus onto it—how it palmed down the length of her stomach, then over her hip and over her thigh before coming back up.

“Arwen,” he growled into her ear. “Move your hand.”

She blinked, snapping back to focus. Her hand on his wing had paused. Giving a slight laugh at his feral annoyance, she reset her concentration. Arwen attempted to draw him back to her lips in order to kiss him but his mouth dove lower to the column of her neck. The low but modest neckline cutting across her chest offered him a large expanse of bare skin which he greedily hunted down.  

When his mouth dipped low enough, her eyes fluttered as he licked across the swollen hills of her breasts, leaving lines of wet marks. Forcing herself to retain lucidness, she continued working on his wings, listening to how each move had his body reacting. When she raked her fingers over a certain area near the base, he would roll his hips into hers and feeling that hardness against her at the same time his tongue worked at her chest was enough to produce a moan.

Azriel laughed huskily against her skin and gave another light press of himself against her. Frustrated at her dress once more, Arwen pushed her heels into the bed and arched herself to increase the pressure. His hand snapped to the low of her stomach, forcing her back against the bed.

He liked control then.

He kissed his way back up her neck then along her cheek. Stealing the opportunity, she twisted her head to capture his lips with her own. That, at least, he gave her. She forgot about the rest of him, resting both palms against his cheeks.

Gently, he pulled away but remained close enough for her to continue framing his face with her hands. “I’ve never brought another female into this room before,” he said.

Arwen cocked her head, smoothing the pads of her thumbs across his cheekbones. “Never? But you’ve had plenty of partners.”

He smiled and shook his head, glancing around the dark space. “This room is mine. A space away from everything else. From everybody else. I wouldn’t allow myself to share it.” Heart thudding, she wondered if she was about to receive a scold for intruding without permission. “I don’t want to share you. I see you and I feel... at home. I wanted to find you in here.”

Everything in her felt light. “I love you,” was all she could answer with.

“Tell me you want this, Arwen. Tell me so I can stop holding back.”

“I thought I already had.”

Azriel pressed himself back to her lips, her gasp smothered against them. Everything about him became more fervent. More charged. He went to the left strap of the dress, tugging it down over her shoulder, his mouth trailing down to follow in its path. Lifting herself, she allowed him to pull it down off one side. Biting the neckline of her dress, he tugged down on the same side, the crisp air meeting the sudden bareness. He pleasured them both with his ministrations before repeating the series of movements on her other side. Arwen made her own way, unlatching the buttons of the slats of his dark shirt and it prying up his torso until it was bunched under his wings. Only with a sound of complaint did he recede from her, sitting against her thighs and reaching overhead to pull the material fully off. Even against only the milky moonlight she could make out the trained body of a warrior. A body that had worked time and time again to protect her.

She was surprised when he kissed her again but not so much when his hands went to pull her dress down further. He found the same issue she had been facing—inflexibility. He growled in frustration and pulled away to look down. With a split moment of contemplation, he rolled her onto her stomach. Arwen let out a small sound at the movement, already feeling his hands work at the small hook latches down her spine that were so small she had twisted her arms into awkward angles to put on in the first place. He sat at the high of her thighs as he worked. A strategic position that allowed him to press himself against her, every so often giving a small thrust that had heat pooling in her stomach.

When the fabric was loose, Azriel took his time pulling the dress down. He bent low, inching back with it, kissing her skin when she arched her hips for him to free her from the restraint of it.

Her legs were trapped by the weight of his when he pressed his hand between her thighs. He took pleasure in it, watching her struggle to move how she wanted as he worked at the exact pace and exact position that he desired. Eventually he let her return to her back, snatching a moment of revenge by palming him through his pants. Arwen laughed at his snarl of annoyance—the sound blending with a guttural groan as he ground into her hand.

Soon her lay atop of her, both completely bare. Her head was encased by his arms, their breath mingling, noses touching. Almost silently save the sound of shifting fabric, he used his knees to nudge hers apart. Arwen couldn’t take her eyes away from his just as they held hers, even as he blindly adjusted himself. He waited just outside of her, his eyes turning into a search.

In answer, she tilted her hips.

~

Azriel lay perfectly still, not daring to move in case it aroused her. The pillows had been arranged to support his body so he could lie on his back the most he could. He wanted to sleep with her on his chest, but it seemed she was the one to find sleep first in the position, her head rising with each breath he took. Looking down at himself—at them both—he contemplated the feeling. He had never felt so exhausted yet so complete. It was hardly near the most extensive night he had spent in such activity, having episodes that would span the entire moonlight hours, yet none had ever felt like this. Years of imagining it—imagining other females as her as well as during the ministrations of his doing—couldn’t compare.  

He didn’t know how he was going to deal with himself tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Chapter 98

Arwen snatched her glass of water from the small table it had been on, dropping down onto the stone before the shaking in her leg muscles had her falling. Rhysand followed her down a moment later, sipping at his own water. She knew that her training was hardly a workout for him, a fact which she pointed out and said she was fine to just go through drills Cassian had run her through before but apparently, he wanted the light morning.

Well, light to him. Arwen winced as she flexed her toes to stretch her calves. The pain in her hips, however, was from a completely different sort of stretch. “No more,” she groaned. “I beg of you.”

Her brother laughed, ruffling her hair. “You did well. You still strike sharp and the technique is there, just need to get that muscle back.”

“Think Cassian can spare some?” Arwen angled her chin over her shoulder where the general and shadowsinger were engaged in a spar. It was quite the sight and both appeared blind to the world around them. “I’m sure Helion has a spell for that.”

Rhysand snorted. “Almost certainly,” he said, playing with her tease. “It’s Cassian you’re going to have to convince to spare you any. It’ll be like stealing from the Weaver.” It was her turn to snort at the image of Cassian snarling like the death god. “It’ll probably just be easier to make it yourself. Safer too.”

“Yet you sent your mate right into the Weaver’s home,” Arwen recounted with a mocking tune. “We have yet to talk about that, Rhysie.”

Her brother rounded his lips and looked away. “Ah. I was hoping some things like that had been forgotten about. The others have already given me shit about it and Feyre darling has forgiven. I have paid my dues.” She thumped him hard on the chest with her fist, silently regretting the action with the new shaking in her arm. “Ow!”

“Now you’ve paid your dues.” Leaning back on her palms, she opened her heart to the clear sky. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. It is rather nice that you hear my complaints now. It was your stupidity that annoyed me the most. Nearly drove me insane some days.” Not a far cry from the truth.

They had a moment of silence, then: “Do you want to talk about last night?”

Arwen kept her gaze forward. “What about it?”

“You left. You left Starfall.”

“I’ve missed forty-nine years’ worth. Another isn’t a big deal,” she answered, keeping her voice low. She still hadn’t had that talk with Azriel, much to Cassian’s chagrin, but Arwen did have every intention to.

Rhysand leant forward, elbows bracing on his folded knees. “It’s those forty-nine years that worry me. And the two hundred others. You’ve loved Starfall ever since you were a babe.”

Shrugging, she decided to give the same answer that she gave Azriel. “It was just a lot. Being back. Feeling everything. I’m fine—spent the night with Az. Which, if you’re going to question me on was absolutely—”

Rhysand rose a hand between them. “Don’t need to know.” Arwen grinned at the expected reaction. “But you’re okay. I don’t have reason to worry?”

“I’m fine.” Fine. Fine. Fine. The words she kept telling herself.

~

It took a week for Arwen to feel like right again. She wondered why she had felt such a way at all as she sat with her family in the sunlight room, eating and trying to be heard over the other rambunctious conversations. After breakfast, Arwen caught Cassian on his way to the war room. She galloped in front of him, finding a backwards stride and took his hands.

He continued his steady pace, arching a dark brow that had a scar running through it. She tugged on each arm in time with her steps like a strange dance. “You and I are going to Rita’s tonight,” she declared. “Mor too.”

He didn’t fight the pulls at his arms. “There a special occasion happening?”

“Just feel like going dancing. Rhys and Az are working tonight on something and Feyre is tired.” She gave a little jump. “We should invite Lucien. He’s at his house in town for the next week.”

Cassian wrinkled his nose. “We should certainly not. Besides, I think he’ll be busy with Rhys and Azriel. Have you asked Mor already? I thought she was preparing to go to Hewn City tomorrow?”

Stopping her erratic movements, she admitted: “No.” She twisted around to walk at his side instead. “Will you come though?”

The wince answered before the words came. “I’ve actually got a bit to do by tonight, sweetheart. I’m not sure I’ll finish in time.” The disappointment must have become clear on her face as he quickly weighted her shoulders with his arm. “Why don’t you keep me company? Read and fetch me food when I’m hungry.”

She managed to roll her eyes. “I’m not your servant. But I’ll take the offer.”

Arwen resided in the war room for the next few hours, doing as he suggested and settling into one of the chairs and reading a book as he silently and meticulously worked over plans that she was not privy to (and didn’t bother inquiring on). When she could see the sun on the beginning of its descent across the sky, the shadow of the mountain beginning to stretch towards the city, Arwen quietly left the war room.

She wandered the halls for some time after that, weaving back and forth out of halls and into rooms, attempting to find something to occupy her time. To distract her. Eventually, drawing pad in hand, she found a study that was barely the size of a small washroom. With no window, she had a lantern lit and hung overhead. It was dark, almost cramped, but Arwen found the tightness of it something of a comfort. Like she belonged within its walls. Settling in one of its dim corners, alight by only the glow of the amber hue, she pulled the sketching paper to her lap and worked away, her hand never once stopping.

~

“Have you seen Arwen?”

Rhysand frowned at Azriel. His brother had decided to join Mor in her trip to Hewn City after her expression of concern about going alone. “Not this morning,” he answered, squinting against the new dawn that welcomed his lands.

Azriel’s eyes darkened as he glanced across the pavilion, wings tight and his leathers polished, gleaming with the azure glow of seven siphons. “She never came to my room last night. I haven’t had the chance to tell her I’m leaving.”

Rhysand shrugged off those worries. “She trained with Cassian yesterday. Probably curled up somewhere still fucking exhausted. I’ll let her know you wanted to pass on the message.” Azriel continued to look around in search of her presence. Rhysand waved him away. “Go on, you know Mor gets cranky when people are late.”

Azriel rolled his eyes to that, but with a hesitant nod, spread his wings and took flight from the large balcony on the House of Wind. Rhysand waited until he was out of sight to begin his journey across the expanse of the House, heading first to her private chambers. But when he got there, the first sign that she wasn’t in them was the open door. Arwen always closed them when she was inside. And unless she decided to become a freak for cleanliness, it didn’t seem as though she had slept in the bed either which was perfectly made. Not in her room then, or in Azriel’s. She hadn’t been at the town house since that is where he slept.

Rhysand liked to think that he knew his sister well enough—from her habits to the way she saw the world that he could find her with just a bit of thought. He set the challenge for himself, pretending that he wasn’t some powerful daemati that could hunt down the presence of her existence. So he checked the rooftop, the main balconies (especially one with a brilliant view of the sunrise which had now since ended) and the kitchen. All with no sign of her. No lingering scent either. His next bet was the library underneath the House but it wasn’t a place she commonly went alone.

So he found Cassian. “You didn’t fly Arwen anywhere yesterday, did you?” he asked, forgetting a proper greeting.

Cassian pursed his lips and shook his head, picking up a bright orange from the bowl of fruits. “No. What did she do?”

“Disappeared.” Rhysand yawned and interlaced his hands on top of his head. “Didn’t go back to her room last night. Or Azriel’s.”

Concern flittered across his brother’s expression. “You need me to start looking? She’ll have to be on the mountain somewhere unless she decided to brave the stairs. Wouldn’t have reached halfway with the state she’s in.”

Rhysand dismissively shook his head. “Nah. She’s up here somewhere.” He wasn’t worried about her hiding. Didn’t feel a need to be. But there was something he did worry himself over. “Azriel has gone with Mor to the City of Nightmares. I’ll find her but when she is about, keep her company will you?”

Cassian nodded dutifully.

Setting off on his hunt again, Rhysand gave in and opened his mind in search of hers. Pinpointing it to the hall she was, he wandered up and down the usually unoccupied space. Most of the doors led to quarters for servants, one belonging to the half-wraith sisters. He checked them all before finally stopping in front of a darkwood door with metal trimmings. An old study—one that he used as a child when he wanted to practice his work alone and unfound.

Rhysand opened the door. He didn’t know how to take in the sight before him. Hanging from the brass hook on the wall was a lantern, still alight although the flame was very low. The study itself hadn’t changed since he had last been in it many years ago. On the far corner, folded in on herself, was Arwen. Tangled raven hair drooped over her face, hands limp on one side of her legs as she leant against the wall. Her drawing pad had mostly slid off her other leg, the granite pencil resting a few inches away.

His chest tightened.

But he could feel her life. Could hear the steady breaths. Rhysand crept forward, unsure yet whether to disturb her or attempt to keep her asleep. The floorboard gave a low moan as he crouched beside her, picking up the drawing book to move it out of his way.

The picture caught his attention. It was an Illyrian, he first noticed. A falling Illyrian, both wings bent around the form of a body, reaching for the sky in the same way the arms were outreached, grasping at nothing. He could almost see the air as it ripped around the figure, tearing through the long hair. The detail was immaculate. Rhysand was always surprised by her artistic skill since it hadn’t been a trait of the family. He wondered what her prompt had been for this one.

Neatly closing the book and grabbing the pencil, he whisked them away with his magic to her room.

“Now you,” he mumbled under his breath, looking over his sister’s crooked position, “have got to be uncomfortable.” It was a marvel that she fell asleep at all in the wooden corner. Deciding to keep her asleep if he could, Rhysand gently wormed his arms underneath her body, urging her weight against him.

As he angled her body to his chest, she gave a small sound of disturbance. He slowed and waited but she only half-lucidly flopped an arm around his neck. Smiling, he restarted his efforts, pushing from the ground. Slipping into her mind, he gave a little tip in the direction of sleep, feeling her head lop heavier against his shoulder. Safe, as she should be.

Chapter Text

Chapter 99

Arwen lounged with Mor on a chair that she had brought up to the rooftop of the House, letting the late spring sun warm her as she watched the Illyrians train. It was her day off training, but she couldn’t resist coming up to watch Azriel. Mor was more than happy to be a companion.

Arwen wrinkled her nose as the sun suddenly disappeared. “Go away, Rhys,” she grumbled. “You’re blocking my sun and my view.” Rhysand silently arched a dark brow and looked over his shoulder to where Azriel and Cassian fought with their blades. When he looked back down at her, his lips were tugged in an amused grin at the evidence of her obvious position of spying. “What do you want?”

“Well, I was going to invite you out to something special but since you seem so keen on throwing my companionship away…” Rhysand slowly turned on his heels.

Arwen launched over the armrest of her chair, snatching his wrist. “You don’t get to ignite my curiosity then walk away. What’s the something special happening?”

“Is it that festival happening at the Rainbow tonight?” asked Mor from Arwen’s other side, her eyes not moving from the scene of the fight beyond. Arwen perked, dropping his wrist.

Rhysand scowled at their cousin. “I wanted to deliver the news.” The scowl dropped as his violet eyes moved back to Arwen. “We haven’t been out as just the two of us in a while.”

She pushed up from the recline, folding her legs underneath one another. “Why hadn’t I heard of this before now?” She liked to think she kept up to date with the happenings of her home. In the past months she had been reclusive from it, but she had spent centuries in this city and today’s date wasn’t anything notably.

He smirked. “Because I’m only telling you now.” Jerking his head in the direction of the city he said, “The people need a celebration with everything that’s happened. I want to celebrate. It finally feels like we’ve got a bit of peace.”

Humming, she leant back into the recline of her lounge chair, tenting her knees in an eased position. “I don’t know. I had plans to just mope around this evening.”

His entertainment only grew. “Is that so?”

Arwen nodded morosely. “You would have to convince me.”

“Is the idea of spending time with me not enough?” he demanded. Mor snorted before Arwen had a chance to. Clicking his tongue, Rhysand dropped to a crouch by the arm of her chair, rapping his fingers along it in thought. “I’ll take you flying after. All night. Wherever you want.”

Arwen hadn’t expected the offer. Truly she just thought he would offer to buy her a new piece of jewellery or artwork while they were out but this was far better. They hadn’t been flying out together in… years. “Let’s hope you’re fit enough for the task.”

Rhysand’s brows moved together as he examined her body. “Yes, you have put on quite a bit of weight haven’t you,” he remarked, throwing her taunt right back into her face. Arwen’s jaw dropped to her neck and he quickly veered out of the path of her thwack. His laughter quickly drowned out the low grunts in the short distance as he wrestled her hands back into her lap. “Which I am glad to see,” he finally added, the smile turning warm. “You look like you again.”

Cheeks pressing against her eyes with the smile she tried to tame, Arwen asked, “What time do I need to be ready by?”

“About an hour before sunset. It goes well into the night so wear something comfortable and warm. Pants. You always complained when I took you flying in dresses about the breeze.”

It was all he seemed to have come to the rooftop for as he left without waiting to greet his brothers. Arwen went back to watching them spar, excited for night to come. Clapping, she cheered at her mate’s victory in the current round. He turned a bit bashful at the public attention, keeping his head hanging low, hiding a smile as he wiped his sweat away from his brow. Cassian simply shoved a finger in her direction, already egging Azriel into another round.

At an hour until sunset, Arwen waited on the main balcony in a matching set of loose, forest green pants and a sleeved shirt, her feet comfortably sitting in black slippers. Rhysand arrived dressed as usual. He flew them down to the edge of the Rainbow. Market stalls were still open, crowds weaving between them like rivers as they did on the busiest of days. He let her lead the way.

Since the River House was near finished and the town house was nearly hers anyway, she spoke with an artist who had a small gallery of landscape paintings—from the mountains to forest rivers. There was one the fae had on display: a meadow, the long grass golden with sunlight and dark trees lining the background. Unable to take her eyes off it for so long, she put bought it outright, organising to collect it in the coming weeks.

As night fell, lanterns were lit, illuminating the roads.

“They’re pretty,” said Arwen, pointing at a fae’s basket of blue roses. She wondered how they became such a colour.

Rhysand hummed. “They are.”

Grinning, she gripped his arm tighter and pulled him towards the fae selling the flowers. Handing over the silver coin, Arwen brought the blue rose to her nose. It smelt almost salty. Breaking off a portion of the stem, she spun on her heels to face her brother and threaded the flower over his ear. He blinked in surprise, mouth parting. After a moment, he only gave a soft laugh of acceptance.

“Alright,” he said, pressing his hand to her back to guide her forward, “but you must wear flowers as well. I will look foolish if I’m the only one.”

Rather than purchase another blue rose, he took her to a stand that displayed headbands of weaved flowers tied to a thick ribbon. She chose white roses so she would match him, tying the ribbon off underneath her loose hair. “Happy?” she asked.

He wrinkled his nose through a grin and lightly flicked one of the flowers. “Very.”

They continued walking until they found the epicentre of the night markets. Dancers performed, their outfits skin-tight as they bent and twirled in ways that she didn’t know the body could. They sat on the stone ledge that encircled a raised garden to watch them. Arwen was suddenly thrown back to her last celebrated birthday where they sat along the same spot.

She needed this night. Perhaps Rhysand knew that or maybe it was just a coincidence, but Arwen needed to remind herself what it was like to be alive. Every morning she sat up in her bed and stared at herself in the mirror.

These are feelings she could have lost, she would tell herself. She wouldn’t be here with her brother, within the walls of her beloved city. She wouldn’t be alive.

She was fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Arwen avoided looking at the stars for how they teased her. Instead, she just watched the dancers. “The others didn’t wish to join tonight?” she inquired.

“They did. They’re probably just coming down about now actually. We might meet with them, or we might not.”

She clasped her hands between her knees, swinging her feet as they hung. “That is very cryptic of you,” she mused, knocking her shoulder into his. Rhysand smiled but gave no response to it. Arwen lifted her chest with a deep breath, blowing out her cheeks as she released it. Her eyes trailed to the black ink beneath the skin, poking out from his collar and sleeves. “I want to make a bargain with you.”

Her request took him by surprise. His eyes widened before narrowing in thought. “A bargain? What about?”

She shrugged, twisting around the skin of her fingers. “I don’t know really. I just… miss having one with you.”

He angled himself toward her, bringing his bent knee onto the stone ledge. “Would you like our Starfall one again?”

That bargain had been made shortly after Rhysand’s accession to High Lord. A promise because Arwen and her mother were visiting him for Starfall when they were attacked. Starfall had lost its meaning and so had that promise. “I’d like something else. Maybe a favour exchange.”

He squinted and reached out to pinch her chin. “We don’t need a bargain for that. I do not consider helping you as a favour.”

She gave a shrug. “I’ll think about it then.” A bargain would tie her here. Something that would act as a new tether. That would give her a new reason. “Perhaps one about entering my mind uninvited,” she added in a slight grumble. “You are growing a habit of the act.”

Rhysand tightened his lips. “If I hadn’t, would have told me everything?”

Arwen looked away. “Eventually,” she answered. “When I felt like it no longer would hurt to talk about.”

“Then it is not a bargain I can make,” he whispered, barely able to be heard over the drums and string instruments. “Because it will never stop hurting. I’m older and wiser than you so trust me on it.”

Her smile at the tease was weak. Taking her hand, Rhysand pulled her down from the ledge. She expected him to follow, but her brother remained seated on the stone. He manoeuvred her to stand in front of him—his height still towering over hers since the ledge was so high. With the fronts of her thighs pressing into the stone lip, Rhysand pulled her into an embrace.

His arms were tight and they were silent. Arwen hooked her chin over his shoulder, her fingers curling around the material of his tunic. Her eyes closed as his hand threaded through her hair, ignoring the eyes she could feel on her back from their audience. They were not heavy or judging. Though she couldn’t see his face, she had the feeling that he was simply watching the world behind her—watching the dancers and his people as he held her.

“I forgive you,” she whispered into the material of his tunic. Anger was exhausting. And Arwen was already so exhausted battling her own thoughts that she couldn’t give one more day to that hot feeling against another. If she wanted to reach any semblance of true happiness, she would need her brother.

The pad of his thumb gave a firm massage to the space behind her ear as he angled to press a kiss to her hair on the other side of her head. “I cannot be sorry. You’re alive and I don’t know if you would be if I hadn’t done what I did. I wouldn’t know what had been hurting you.”

Arwen sunk back to herself, letting him take her hands before they fell to her sides. “I don’t want to feel like that again, Rhys. It was like you were trapping me.” His throat bobbed as he gave the smallest of nods, but true to his word, he offered no apology. “Let me come to you. I promise that if I have something I need to share, I will come to you when I am ready. But you cannot force it out of me.”

“As long as you keep to that promise that you will find me when you need me.”

She smiled softly, the sounds of the festival drowned out. “I escaped five High Fae with two gaping holes in my back, having just seen our mother beheaded and travelled gods know how across Illyria just to find you.” She had to have winnowed that day, Arwen thought. There was no other possible explanation. Her powers must have been coming in and slipped right through their hands like she was nothing more than air and smoke. “And you took care of me when I did, and ever since. So yes, that is a promise you know I can keep.”

He gave up one of her hands to cup her cheek. “Then why did you not come to me earlier?”

Arwen lifted a single shoulder. “I watched you erase me. I did not think you wanted to be found.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 100

Arwen swung into Rhysand’s office inside the town house, grinning coyly as she leant against the doorframe. Her brother glanced up from his paperwork, arching a brow at her composure. “Dearest brother,” she sang, taking more light steps inside. Pulling up the spare chair, she flopped into it and braced her arms on the edge of the darkwood desk. “I have a proposition to make.”

His chair creaked slightly as he leant back into it. “Does this proposition include spending exorbitant amounts of my money?”

Arwen blinked and looked to the side in thought before answering. “No.”

“Good,” he sighed. “Cassian and Mor decided that they would celebrate his birthday early and pay for every drink of every guest at Rita’s last night. On my account.”

Arwen hid her laughter behind her hand but then realised that she had spent the night at home and slapped that hand on the desk. “Why wasn’t I invited? Why wasn’t Azriel invited? Who went to this?”

“Mor wanted to go dancing and Cassian was already in town with her. I think he added the part of his birthday just this morning when I asked about it.” Rhysand waved his hand. “So proposition me away.”

Collecting herself, Arwen straightened her back and interlaced her fingers. “I want a position in your court again. A proper position with work.”

She watched as he drew into a contemplative expression. “You know you don’t have to work if it’s the money you want. We’re blood—my wealth is yours. Your paycheck would literally just be numbers.”

“I’m sick of forcing myself to doodle just to fill in the hours of the day,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I feel like an ornament around this place.”

He nodded slowly, looking off to the side of the room as he continued to think. “I can restore you as Third in Command. Mor’s duties lie with Hewn City mostly and now with the mortal lands.”

She took a long breath. “I was actually thinking about a position as your emissary.”

He blinked.

“I know everything there is to know about this court,” Arwen continued. “I know about the other courts. I grew in this type of life as you did. I spent two hundred and fifty years stuck at your side and I’d like to think I’ve learnt a thing or two from it.” She gestured to his desk. “Besides, I’m already answering half your letters and I organised that new trade agreement last week that you forgot about with that merchant. It would take some of the weight off you, Feyre and Mor. This is something I could be good at.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, but she was prepared to fight his reluctance for this. “You would leave home often. Go to meetings with people that you probably never want to see again. I know you don’t like leaving Velaris.”

“Are you speaking on behalf of my fear, or your own?”

“There will be times that you may have to be alone with powerful people that don’t particularly like you. It’s a dangerous game.”

“You survived that game for forty-nine years.”

“I just—” he breathed out— “want you to understand what the job entails.”

“I already know the risk, Rhys,” she said. “Perhaps your fear blinds you.”

He gave her a pointed look. “My fear has me keeping you safe in this city. But I won’t stop you from leaving it.” She smiled as he leant against the desk. “We’ll transition. Slowly. Take on some responsibilities each week, perhaps visit the Day or Summer Court on my behalf. You can back out at any time and nobody will think less of you for it. But I’m not sending you to Hewn City—that’ll remain Mor’s duty.”

“And the mortal lands?”

“Perhaps, but not in the near future.” He tapped his fingers against the wood. “I also want to give you back your old title. Third in Command.”

Arwen frowned. “I’m not asking for it.”

He licked his lips and sat back into the chair. “Admittedly it’s rather decorative unless a drastic situation arises, but considering what Prythian has just been through, it’s not so outlandish a thought. Amren is my Second but if it comes to it, I want my court in your hands.” Rhysand glanced to the door. “You stood between myself and Azriel once when you thought he was going to hurt me. Why?”

“Because he was going to hurt you,” she answered slowly, wondering where his trail of thought was heading.

“But he’s your mate.”

“And you’re my brother. He was going to hurt you, but you weren’t going to hurt him.”

He gave her a small smile. “And that is why I trust you for this. Not because it was me or Azriel, but because you thought about the situation and you protected who you thought needed protecting, even against your mate.” 

Arwen shook her head, looking down to her lap. “I was scared. I had seen you hurt so many times that I couldn’t just not do something.”

“What if I had been ready to fight him?” She had no answer. “It is something that I have spent nights mulling over. If something happened where I was put in a similar position, would I protect you even if it meant standing against Feyre? And I would because that is my duty. I’d expect her to do the same. It is a duty you have already shown that you are ready for.”

“What will Mor think?” she asked quietly.

Rhysand shrugged. “It won’t matter. It’s my decision.”

“It will matter if she resents me for it.” Arwen gulped away the swelling in her throat. “Decorative or not, the title means something to people. It is a sign of respect and trust from a High Lord and people may talk if she is stripped of it. Does Feyre agree to this? She is your High Lady and equal.”

Lowering his chin, he asked, “Do you want her to have a problem with it? I won’t force it upon you, but it is yours to take. Exactly as you said, it’s a show of my respect and trust in you. Mor only assumed the position because you were no longer there to fill it.”

Resting her chin in her palm, she looked out of the small window. “Talk with Feyre first,” she said after a few minutes. “If she is happy with it, then I accept.”

~

“Emissary?”

Arwen nodded with an affirmative hum, stabbing her tomato with her polished fork as they sat at a riverfront restaurant. Azriel slowed eating as she gave him an account of her discussions with Rhysand. “I think I’ll be good at it. I already have good relations with Helion and Thesan for the most part. Lucien as well. Autumn Court is the only place that worries me.” So did Spring, but that was an issue she didn’t bother to bring up.

“A visit to Thesan’s court is the reason you died,” Azriel stated drily, looking away as he drank from a crystalline glass. Arwen paused her eating to send him a pointed look. “You cannot blame me for being hesitant at the idea,” he said upon catching her expression.

“I wish for my choices to make you happy, Azriel, but I will not sacrifice this opportunity on fear.”

He thought for a while. “It will make me happy to have you come home each time,” he murmured. Arwen smiled and took his hand across the table. “At least have an escort when you can. Cassian and I can alternate.”

“I won’t argue for the company,” she agreed swiftly, “but only if it doesn’t interfere with your own jobs. Besides, most of it at the moment is just letters and contracts. Now onto more important issues, what are you getting Cassian for his birthday because I am at a loss.” Azriel chuckled, easing back in his woven seat, the river painting the world behind him. “Do not laugh, it is in less than a week and I am clueless!”

He placed a hand on his chest. “And you think I am the one to help you with that? I’ve gotten him a new scented leather polish.”

Arwen pouted. “That’s smart. All I can think of is this damn gold bracelet that I saw.” It had been relatively thick—masculine. Now it was all she could think of whenever she tried to think of an idea for a present. “He’s not exactly a jewellery male.”

“He’s not exactly a rosemary and peppermint male either but that is what he will be getting from me. Get him the bracelet if your gut is telling you to.”

Nodding, she went back to her food. “The River House is almost done, you know.”

Azriel buried himself into his own lunch. “Feyre hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

“It’s going to be lonely in the town house without them living there all the time.”

“You’ll learn to enjoy the quietness. Besides, I plan to be there quite a bit.”

“I don’t want you to visit the town house.” Hazel eyes froze, pointed down at his half-eaten plate. Arwen waited until he looked up, the movement slow and cautious. “I want you to live there with me. I know you are attached to your room at the House of Wind and I’m more than happy if you wish to continue living there, perhaps with me as well or we can continue living separately but I thought we could have a space of our own—though Elain will be there and—”

“I will move in the moment you wish for me to.”

She let out a short breath and smiled to herself, placing her hands in her lap. “We should let Feyre and Rhys move out before we overfill the place. And… I also wanted to talk about the mating bond. About sealing it.”

His throat bobbed but his smile only warmed, his lunch again abandoned. Her heart pattered in a nervousness she knew was not warranted. “You want to seal it?”

Arwen nodded fervently. “Of course, Azriel.”

Azriel looked at her intently across the table. “How would you like to do it? I know you enjoy celebrations. Would you like a public ceremony?”

The idea had come to mind in the nights she had spent on this thought. “No. I think this should be private.” Laughing she added, “And I’m not going to force you onto a stage in front of everybody. I’d be standing in front of shadows.”

His shadows through their lunch had been playing with her, poking out from underneath the table and wrapping like vines around her legs and stomach. “Whatever you decide I’ll be more than happy.”

“Even if all I offer you is a cracker?”

“I might ask for some cheese to go with it.”

Arwen laughed and agreed, grateful that he was in a pleasant, teasing mood. She ran her nail along the grooves of the wood, resting her chin in her palm. “I’m only bringing this up because Rhys was worried but how do you think you’ll be after we seal it? Around… Cassian?” she eventually spat out. “Around everybody really.”

Running his tongue over his lips, Azriel took a moment to answer. “I don’t think we should stay here, if that’s what you need to hear. If you’re planning on starting your emissary duties anytime soon, I’d probably block out at least a month.”

Smiling crookedly, she asked, “I think you’d get bored of not working after a week.”

“Then I clearly haven’t communicated enough the extent of my desire when it comes to you.”

Heat of a blush dancing on her cheeks, Arwen went back to her meal and they finished with other nonsensical topics. Rather than head straight home, she led them to a bench that overlooked the river. They sat in silence for nearly half an hour before she could bring herself to speak. “I want all of those things with you, Az. But there is something that I need to tell you before any of it happens.”      

Azriel examined her with an unreadable expression. With a small nod: “You can tell me anything.”

“It’s nothing bad. Not like I’ve done something horribly bad, but you do need to know.”

Arwen had always been surprised at how heavy his attention felt. She could feel his eyes boring into her face, every inch of her under his careful watch. “Have you told anybody else? Rhys?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, Rhys knows.”

“Cassian?”

“Yes.”

His jaw twitched as he looked to the water instead of her. “Feyre? Mor? Amren?” She barely opened her mouth before he took the answer. Hurt shone in his eyes. “So I’m the last to know? Of course.”

It hurt her knowing that she was the one ruining what had otherwise been a more than merry day for him. His laughter and smiles were treats that were not often around, even for her. Arwen gripped his closest hand. “Azriel.” She waited until she had his gaze again, however reluctant it was to meet hers. “Rhys only knows because he broke into my mind. The day that Helion came, what he saw is what I need to tell you.”

Wrinkles formed between his brows. “I thought he stopped at your barrier.”

“He broke right through,” she whispered. “Rhys told Cassian and it spread from there, but I made them swear not to tell you because I wanted to be the one to do it. You are the first person I am willingly telling this to. The first person I choose to.”  

Azriel slowly squeezed her hand that held his. “Is this about what you said that day? About seeing us?”

Arwen nodded and looked down at their interlinked hands. “I need you to promise me something first.”

“Anything.”

“That you won’t look at me differently. That you won’t… blame yourself or worry.” She looked up and met his eyes again for his words alone would not be strong enough a promise. It needed to be there in his face as well. “I cannot handle you looking at me the way Rhys does now.”

Azriel gave a slow nod and a weak smile. “I certainly don’t look at you like a sister. Unless we’ve got some messed up ancestry, I don’t think that’s going to change”

A bubble of laughter tumbled from her lips but she quickly sobered. She had to spit it out, just get the words out before she could make up some horrid excuse. “I was here.” The words seemed to have struck the air which grew thick and hung still around them. Azriel only looked at her. “For two hundred and fifty years. Nobody could see me or hear me, but I was here. Trapped.” The last word came out by accident through trembling lips. “I was tethered to Rhys. It’s why I have these scars.”

His eyes dropped silently down to her hand.

“The entire time?”

Arwen had never heard three words spoken so brokenly. “Yes.”

“And I-I couldn’t see you?”

“No.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 101

Arwen wiped at her sleepy eyes, each step she took down the staircase of the town house making a resounding thumping noise. “Good morning,” Rhysand greeted her quietly as she made her way to the bottom. “You look dreadful.”

She dropped her hands from her face. “It is always pleasant seeing you,” she grumbled. “Do you have to insult me first thing in the morning?”

“I say it in worry,” he countered, though his tone hinted that an insult was still somewhat intended.

Arwen had slept alone. Though sleep had hardly taken her as she tossed and turned well into the midnight hours. Azriel had left after her long-winded confession of the past two hundred and fifty years. Unsurprised, she could only push her own worry aside.  “Didn’t sleep well,” she informed her brother. “I blame the full moon.”

“The moon?” he echoed in amused curiosity, turning on the spot as she passed him.

“Haven’t you heard the tales of the moon turning people into lunatics?” she said over her shoulder. “It’s sort of in the name.”

He pursed his lips. “Can’t say I’ve put much thought into it. Besides, you look terrible but your ability to be snarky at such an early hour informs me that your head is still perfectly on straight.”

She gave a weak smile but couldn’t be bothered to continue the banter, wandering down the hall to the kitchen where she was surprised to see Cassian leant over the island benchtop. Arwen hadn’t known that he would be here as he hadn’t spent the night but if Rhysand’s description of her appearance was anything of truth, Cassian didn’t look far better.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

He lifted his bowed head and smiled tightly with a nod. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Arwen made them both a honey and camomile tea, placing the steaming mug that matched hers in front of him. Cassian cupped it, taking his time before bringing it to his lips. “What’s got you so glum?” she asked.

At his dry answer, she wished she never asked. “Who do you think?” Nesta. Arwen wasn’t aware he had gone to see her—if that is how their interaction had occurred. “She pisses me off. The way she acts—speaks about Rhys.”

Arwen caught a slight hesitance in his words. “And me?” she guessed. Not that she’d be surprised, or truly offended. She believed what she told Cassian; Nesta was angry at the world and Arwen belonged to it.

Cassian rounded his jaw, the muscle straining, but gave a nod.

“Should I be curious to know?” Arwen wondered.

His eyes darkened. “I’m not going to repeat her. It’s not worth it.”

She fingered the ring of the ceramic mug’s lip in thought, weighing the choice of pushing him to speak more or forgetting the subject altogether. Taking a deep breath, she finally said, “I told Azriel. About everything.”  

He stared at her for a moment, perhaps attempting to deduce how he would approach the topic. “How did it go?”

“How do you expect?” Arwen glanced around the kitchen. “He listened then he left. I don’t suspect he went back to the House of Wind last night?”

Cassian shook his head, a crease forming between his brows much as one had stayed between Azriel’s when he listened intently to her story. “No,” he answered. “Fucking prat.”

She was unaffected. Or at least, not angry in the way that Cassian was showing himself to be. So, she told him just that. “I’m not sure what else you would have expected from him. You know Azriel as well as I do.”

“He shouldn’t have left,” he said fiercely.

“He is not like you and me,” Arwen said softly, her morning headache unappreciative of his guttural tone. “Azriel doesn’t like talking things through with people. He deals with things by being alone and thinking. By fighting and getting it out of his system. He will return when he is ready.”

“When he’s ready?” Cassian placed his mug back down on the table. “It’s not about him and what he needs. He needed to know for your sake, Arwen.” 

She sipped at hers. “I seem to remember you being quite fraught at the information. You were upset because you believed it affected you.”

Narrowed-eyed he said, “I’m trying to be on your side here, sweetheart. I needed to know so I could understand how to help you if you needed it, not to go wallow in self-pity.”

Arwen kept herself steady. “I have a feeling that you’re more upset than you would usually be because things with Nesta haven’t been going your way.” She waited, watching his grim features twitch. “We have a fantasy of our mates being perfect for us and it’s troubling you that they’re not.”

His throat bobbed but the anger receded, letting something more sullen take place. “Maybe Azriel and Nesta were made for each other. They both seem to be in the habit of running.”

The comment stung Arwen in a way she wasn’t prepared for. The idea that she and Azriel were a mistake had long since been a wound she carried and now it felt like it had been prodded at with the tip of a sharp knife. Cassian only said it from a place of hurt, but it didn’t stop it from hurting. “Is that what you believe of mates?” she asked, quieter than she meant. “That mates are meant because they are alike?”

Rhysand and Feyre were similar in many measures, but there were also just as many differences. Arwen didn’t feel as though she could properly compare herself to Azriel—her view distorted by her own perspective of herself.

“I believe it would make it a hell-of-a-lot easier,” Cassian said, gentler like he realised what his words had done to her but refused to take them back. “It’s hard not to be jealous of them.” Even quiet those words were.

Feyre and Rhys, he meant. Arwen agreed. “They went through their own trials,” she murmured. “If I recall correctly, she was about ten feet away from marrying another male at one point. At least Nesta has yet to get a proposal of marriage.”

For the first time that morning, Cassian gave a smile. “Always on the bright side you are.”

Arwen sipped again at her tea and looked away. 

~

Cold engulfed her. Black tendrils billowed around her, floating, and stealing the light. She had stared at the stars too long. Her necklace, the one that Rhysand gave her all those Starfalls ago lay abandoned at the gold claw foot of the bathtub. Arwen hadn’t yet gathered the courage to put it on before today. The longer it sat around her neck, the heavier it felt and the heavier it felt, the more she felt like she was going to throw up.

The world was little more than a halo of light piercing through the bathwater, not a sound beside her own heartbeat in her ear. Her lungs were beginning to starve, but her thoughts were still in a place she could not let them go, so until they learned, she would remain underwater.

It was working. Her thoughts grew foggy, less worried about anything other than the need for her to breathe. Arwen let her eyes close, focusing on that struggle. Focused on how desperately her body wanted to stay alive—

A hand scooped under her neck, forcing her upright. Coughing and spluttering, she wiped away her hanging wet hair from her face. Azriel was crouched next to the large tub. “You were under there for nearly a minute,” he muttered lowly.

Arwen stared at him. “You’re back,” she said after a minute of silence. It had been two days. “When did you get back?” Her arm rose from the bathwater, droplets dripping down like rain first over the water, the bath’s edge, then the floor as she rested her hand on his cheek.

He swallowed and tightened his lips into a small smile. “Just now. I’m sorry for leaving. It was just…”

She nodded. “I know. I know you, Azriel.” Whether or not Cassian was right didn’t matter. Azriel had his own ways of dealing with his emotions and as long as he dealt with them, Arwen would not force him to speak of them.

He leant into her palm, eyes angled down to the water between them. “It was hard, those years without you. I don’t know if knowing you were actually there makes me feel better or a thousand times worse.” His hair was messier than usual, she noticed. The waves were more defined, almost curled in some places. She brushed them away from his forehead, leaving a glistening trail of moisture. “May I join you?”

She frowned down at the long since tepid water. “It is not warm anymore.”

He tapped her chin. “I believe you have magic.”

Arwen gave a small breath through rounded lips, realising he was right. At her smile and nod, Azriel stood, already moving to unlatch the latches of his leathers. She warmed the water, feeling the slight tug on her reservoir of magic. As the new warmth stole away with her goosebumps, she turned towards the edge of the bath and reached out, her fingers making to work on the belt of his leather pants as he pulled the pieces off his torso.

He pulled her hands away gently, leaving only the buckle undone. “It won’t work in that order.” Turning his bare back to her, he sat on the thick edge of the bath and leant down to take off his boots.

Arwen pushed to her knees, in line with his spine. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the protruding bone, between the trunks of his wings. Azriel paused and moved a hand behind him, taking her arm. “This is not a day for me,” he whispered.

She tilted her head as he turned his.

“I just want to focus on you,” he said. In her silence, he stripped completely. She admired everything about him. Arwen fell back into the deep water as he sunk in with her, his wings giving a small stretch as they became partially submerged.

“Will you let me touch you at least?” she questioned. Azriel’s hand moved across the surface of the water, extending to her. Taking it, she let it anchor her as she drifted to him before circling both arms around his neck, settling lightly in his lap as the water lapped at the height of their chests. “I didn’t tell anybody because I wanted to forget. It was easier to deal with it alone.”

He rested his chin on her head, an arm wrapping around her waist. “When you’re alone for so long, it becomes hard to remember what it is like for other people to care.”

How could she have forgotten how Azriel spent many years of his childhood in solitude? Locked in a dark chamber with only shadows for company. The thought had her heart aching, her jaw clenching at the feeling of his scarred hands on her skin. “At least I was not a child,” she found herself saying out of anger. “At least it was not by someone else’s cruelty. Locked in darkness.”

The hand not at her waist went to the side of her face, the tips of his fingers curving around her ear. He dipped his chin to press a kiss to her forehead. “Not about me,” he reminded her softly.

Cassian was wrong, Arwen decided. She knew that before, but the thought solidified now. “I am lucky to have you,” she said. “The others do not understand.” Not even Rhys—not in the same way. “They think it is better to speak of it. To share it. They don’t understand that it just makes it all feel heavier.” 

Azriel needed to know, Arwen would accept that. But she had no desire to speak of the true pits of that loneliness with him. Her talks with Rhysand were of memories they already shared, her pain in that she could not help him. But never about the weight of being alone. She and Azriel shared knowing what that sort of loneliness did to someone. They shared the scars of that time and what people had done to them. Perhaps they were different in many ways as Cassian had implied, yet they were alike in many others.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “That you went through this.”

Arwen nestled into the crook of his neck and shoulder, the slope of her nose fitting with that of his throat. She kept the water at a constant, comfortable warmth, listening to nothing but the sound of her mate’s breathing and the occasional trickling of water. He remained so still that if he weren’t holding her upright, she would have thought him asleep. Eventually, the water had dried from his skin so when a drop fell, plopping into the water with a light sound, Arwen lifted her head.

Azriel seemed to ignore the existence of his tears altogether, even though they streamed silently down his cheeks and his eyes were rimmed with red. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then guided her head back under his.

Chapter Text

Chapter 102

Arwen rubbed the tips of her fingers against her head, hair threaded between the long bones. When she pulled her head and eyes up, her reflection in the vanity mirror met her. Pretty, she concluded. Nuala had been so kind to help her style her hair in loose curls and line her cheeks with blush and her eyes with kohl. On her neck sat a pendant necklace she was certain Cassian gave her many years ago. The black dress was daring. Night Court, Arwen described it as. The intricately cut material that clung to her body, black as an endless abyss, winding up her body like a dark snake to cover all the right places and reveal the rest was perfectly Night Court. The nude mesh blurred her scars.

So pretty might be an understatement in some way, but there was a little emptiness that kept Arwen from labelling herself as beautiful that night. It was not a matter to be thought of that night however—not on Cassian’s birthday.

Hearing the front door open, she rose from the vanity seat and grabbed the small, black box from the wooden top as she left. The town house was already filling with chatter. It seemed she was the last of them to join. Making her way down the stairs, Elain was the first she saw, who was clad in a periwinkle dress with ruffled sleeves. Arwen gently took her arm, spying the rest of her family beginning to gather in the sitting room. “Enjoy tonight, Elain. And don’t let them force you into anything. Their mopey faces are nothing but a ploy.”

Elain looked nothing short of uncertain but gave a timid nod. “Should I expect them to force me into things?”

Arwen laughed and shrugged. “Nothing terrible. Dancing, perhaps. Downing your drink in a single breath. Be not afraid to knock them over the head if they get too pushy.” Her step away had intended to take her to join them, but she faltered on an extra thought. “Azriel enjoys himself on these nights but sometimes he likes to take a step back. He will like the quiet company if you’re feeling overwhelmed.” 

Elain peered carefully at her, as though she was aware of every conversation that Arwen had had with Azriel regarding her. “You would not be…”

“If I am to spend my eternity with him, I must trust him,” Arwen said, carefully. “It does not mean I trust your intentions with him, but I cannot live being scared that I am not enough. I have far too many other worries to spend my time on. But do remember, Elain, that I won’t take kindly to someone trying to take from me what I have just gotten back.”

It was a sourer note than she would have liked to let their conversation finish on, but Arwen couldn’t help the warning pouring from her lips. Elain’s eyes hardened and she nodded once. Arwen glanced over her again before turning away and walking towards the sounds of her family.

“Do not fear, the light of your lives has arrived,” she proclaimed, swinging into the wide room.

Rhysand rolled his eyes whilst Feyre and Cassian laughed. Azriel pursed his lips, attempting to flatten the grin she knew was threatening. Mor placed a hand on her hip, raising a golden brow and looked Arwen up and down. “Now I feel underdressed,” her cousin said. “You must let me borrow that one day.”

Arwen blushed, despite her own confidence and look down at it again. “I thought the occasion called for it.”

“I for one, am certainly not complaining,” Cassian announced, not bothering to hide his appreciative, wandering eyes. With a squint, he looked over his shoulder to Azriel who rested against the hearth. “Lucky bastard.”

Azriel kicked off the stone and strode forward. Even as Arwen heard Elain entering behind her, Azriel’s eyes never left her. He took her hand, looking handsome as ever in his formal black slacks and shirt, and kissed her cheek in welcome. “I certainly am.”

Remembering the black box in her hand, she handed it to Cassian. “Happy birthday.” Arwen gave him the box. “I don’t expect you to really like it, but it was stuck on my mind.”

Cassian’s look at her was pointed. “Don’t make presumptions,” he chided her, prying the lid free. Sat on a white pillow was the golden chain. It was simple, the gold thick and the bends in each link angular rather than rounded. He looked back to her and handed the box back. “Put it on me.”

A breath of relief escaped her. Taking the box, she pulled the gold chain free and twisted the clasp open. Cassian held his wrist out in waiting, his sleeve tugged to reveal part of his tanned, muscled forearm. Once it was secure, the same hand rose to her head and scuffled her hair. Arwen whined and smacked his hand away, only to his amusement.

“Try not to throw a drink on me tonight,” he crooned.

Arwen looked at him through her lashes. “Try not to earn it.”

He laughed. She grinned.

They decided to walk to Cassian’s restaurant of choice. Feyre and Elain fell into step whilst Cassian, Mor and Azriel became their own branch, leaving Arwen with her brother. “It worries me,” she murmured to him, letting the other voices drown hers out to all but his ears. “How much Nesta upsets him.”

Rhysand’s expression was grim, his hands shoved into his pockets. “I’ve noticed too. I think it’s hard for him to see both Az and I happy with our mates.”

Arwen’s heart twisted with painful empathy because she understood what Cassian felt, almost exactly. “He deserves that happiness, but I’m scared for him. We both know how hard it is to have a mate we believe does not want us.”

He gave her a pitying look. “You know there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

She rolled her eyes. Yes, she did know that. But there must be something else she could do. “Then why did the Mother choose her for him?” Arwen looked to Azriel. She knew now why he had been chosen for her and it had never been a mystery between Rhysand and Feyre.

Rhysand’s answer was a hand to the back of her neck and a small squeeze. She glimpsed up at him, his face half-alight with the golden hue of an oil lantern. The way his lips twitched, she knew he had something to say, but for whatever reason, did not.

The restaurant was a well-lit establishment with tables cloaked in fine white cloth, a large round one of which where Amren was already sitting in waiting. Arwen was mutely surprised that he chose somewhere where he would have to behave himself. Squat stools with plush red velvet were brought in place of chairs for her winged companions and Arwen couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

That smile did not leave her cheeks once through dinner. She sat between Azriel and Cassian, delighted at the sense of belonging that she felt there. Elain made quite a bit of conversation, seated between Feyre and Cassian’s other side. As usual, Azriel kept a small distance between them but would run his hand over her thigh underneath the cover of the tablecloth. Though Arwen would rather be perched on his lap, uncaring to the eyes of others, she accepted his affections in the way that he could give them.

After dessert and a second glass of wine, they left for Rita’s. Before they even found their seats, Cassian had his arm thrown around her shoulders, or more so her neck, and guided them both to the tap bar. “She’s paying,” was the first thing he said to the handsome server on the other side. Arwen shot Cassian an expression of amused disbelief but acquiesced.

They returned to the table with two silver trays of drinks. This time, she found herself at Rhysand’s side, taking the end seat across from Cassian since they were last to sit. Arwen inspected a frosty blue drink. “I’m not sure what this one is.”

Rhysand promptly took it from her grasp and sipped at it. With a satisfied nod, he handed it back. “You’ll like it.”

“I could have figured that out for myself, thank you,” she griped, jutting out her elbow in preparatory defence against any more theft.

He grinned down at her. “Yes, but the insulted pout you give is as nearly as entertaining as the one you give when you realise you’ve already eaten all your dessert.”

Her pout grew, not realising that anybody had seen her little moment of mourning when her silver spoon scraped the empty bowl. “You are finding entertainment out of my suffering? If I spill this drink, will I find you dancing in glee?”

“You know I don’t dance,” he said. “Not like that, anyway.”

Arwen leant forward, smiling flatly at Feyre on his other side. “Your mate is a prick, Feyre. He enjoys stealing my drinks and my mourning at a lack of dessert.”

Feyre arched both her brows as she looked up at the male between them. “Yes, I’ve come to know. He made me write notes about how he was an invigorating lover and irresistible to all females.”

“He once locked me outside in the middle of winter because I ate a pudding he was saving for himself.”

Rhysand’s head snapped back and forth, mouth agape.

Feyre nodded ruefully as though she experienced the same. “He stole me from my wedding.”

“You know,” Rhysand began, staring ahead but clearly speaking to them both, “I’m not entirely sure either of you were actually invited tonight so feel free to leave. And I stole you away from marrying Tamlin, darling. Which I think, in wise hindsight, was one of my best decisions to date.”

Arwen cocked her head. “What about when you locked me outside for the pudding?”

“I believe I did warn you prior to the fact that I would do so if you touched it,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And I let you inside before you got frostbite.”

Arwen snorted into her glass. “You mean before Mother got home.”

“Perhaps.”

~

Arwen wasn’t drunk, but the others were certainly varying degrees of the state. Even Azriel was unrestrained, freely enjoying himself with his brothers and Mor. Elain was the soberest of them all and after an hour, decided to head home. Feyre and Amren kept Arwen company at the table as the others danced in the pit of the crowd. That was, until Cassian returned only to yank on Feyre and Arwen’s arms, Amren threatening to cut off his hair if he touched her, until they too were between bodies much taller and broader than themselves. Feyre quickly went to Rhysand’s side and Cassian took Arwen’s hands, tipping his head back as they danced haphazardly to the music, pulling her arms back and forth as she had to him only weeks ago. 

It was clear soon enough, that Cassian had drunk more than the rest of them. But he was enjoying himself, without a wrinkle of worry to be seen. He didn’t let her hands go the entire time. She didn’t know how they were managing to stand by the end of the night as her own legs were weak with tire. Yet, as they strode along the cobblestone road, Cassian refusing to be winnowed anywhere (the night was too pretty to not walk under, in his words), Arwen had his heavy arm strapped over her shoulder, his weight slumped against hers.

A glance over her shoulder ensured that Feyre still had Rhysand in her hold. Her brother was still walking upright, but his eyes had that haze about them that she knew not to trust him without Feyre’s guidance. Amren watched over a prancing Mor from a short distance, arms folded over her chest. Azriel walked on Cassian’s other side, his eyes also in a haze and his walk slightly uneven.

Mor shoved the door of the town house open, tumbling into the golden-hued home. Arwen had to push Cassian in first, unable to fit side by side before careening in front of him and taking him to the sitting room. “Sit,” she ordered him like a child, pressing down on his shoulders so he sat on the end of the main lounge. “I’ll get you lot some water.”

Cassian groaned and tipped his head back against the cushioning, eyes half-lidded.

Arwen passed Azriel as he came through the hallway. “You look tired,” she told him. Azriel sighed and nodded, but his cheeks were pleasantly lifted. “You should go to bed.”

“And leave with those bastards?” He kissed her, the scent of alcohol like a perfume on him. “I think not.”

She smiled and kissed him back before urging him to go sit down with the others. Shortly, she returned from the kitchen with glasses of water that she didn’t mind being accidentally broken. Taking the seat on the other end of the lounge, she sunk into the comfortable cushioning, taking a moment to be glad that the day ended all well. Rhysand seemed to be clearing up the fastest, Azriel behind him.

“I will not,” Cassian grumbled, brushing off Mor’s warning of a morning headache. “I don’t get those.”

Mor rolled her eyes. “We’ll see what you say in the morning. Is everybody sleeping here? Do we have enough room?”

Arwen nodded. “You’ll have to take the spare room with Cass, but everybody has a bed. I feel like a hostess,” she muttered in thought. “Should I organise breakf—” She was cut off by a steady weight falling into her lap. “Oh, hello.”

Cassian had spread himself along the lounge, stomach down for his wings, and laid his head in her lap. Her hands hovered before one finally fell to his shoulder as he grumbled something unintelligible into her thigh. Far drunker than she had seen him in many years. Hastily looking around, Arwen snatched one of the pillows and somehow convinced him to lift his head, stashing the pillow underneath it before the weight on her legs returned. It was thin, so as to not awkward prop his neck up and his face was turned inwards toward her stomach.

“I think that was his way of saying I’ll get the room to myself,” Mor said gleefully.

“Is he out?” Rhysand asked Arwen.

She tilted her head down and then shook it. “Nearly,” she laughed, resting her second hand on the side of his face and pushing back the long hairs that fell over his cheek.

“I’m tired,” he mumbled, the sound muffled as it was spoken into the tight space between his mouth and her body. “And you—” a wild finger rose and somehow found its way to her ribcage— “are comfortable.”

“A strange compliment but I shall take it,” she decided aloud.

“Do you need me to haul him up to his bed?” Azriel asked from his spot on the armchair. “Since he’s acting like an overgrown child, using my mate as a pillow.”

Cassian managed to turn his head towards the shadowsinger. “Are you jealous?”

Arwen’s eyes fled to her mate, quick to examine his reaction. Azriel leant forward onto his knees. “I have nothing to be jealous of. The same cannot be said for you.”

The room seemed to dim after that comment. Azriel acted non-the-wiser that he was the cause of such a shift as everybody else glanced at each other. Cassian didn’t answer, rolling his head back to face Arwen. He seemed heavier and the placid smile that had remained all night, was wiped from existence. She peered over at Rhysand, and he met the gaze. I know, he seemed to say to her, concerning their earlier conversation.

She knew that Cassian had enjoyed his night, but how much of it had been a mask? An attempt to cover up what he was feeling? Arwen knew that tactic all too well.  

“Always entertaining you lot are,” Amren muttered, picking at her nails. “Like children left unattended.”

Arwen stroked her fingers through his hair, idly rubbing her thumb along the bone of his brow as soft murmurs of conversation ensued around her. Hazels disappeared behind his lids and she watched as the tension keeping his wings to his back eased, the forms beginning to droop on either side of him. Resting her head against the lounge, she let her hand continue blindly, closing her own eyes.

When someone shook her awake, the lights in the house had been extinguished. Cassian’s head was still in her lap and the silhouette of wings of the person waking her was a quick informant to their identity. “Az?” she whispered, her throat croaking with tire. He bent over, hands scooping between the pillow and her legs, lifting Cassian’s head, gesturing for her to slip out.

Arwen did, using him as support to push herself up.

“Leave him here for the night,” he murmured. “I’m not dragging him upstairs.”

She nodded, not in the mood to try. “Take off his shoes. I’ll find him a blanket.” Finding one in the closet, Azriel just finished prying off the second shoe by the time she returned. Billowing out the material, the blanket lay over him, the shadow resembling a dark plain of rolling hills. “It doesn’t look terribly comfortable.”

“That is going to be the least of his problems when he wakes,” said Azriel. Arwen looked at him. “The headache, I mean,” he added. “Come to bed with me.”

Before she could answer, he silently swept her from her feet, holding her high to his chest. Sighing, she lay her head on his shoulder, wrapping her loose arm around the front of his neck. “You know it is not me that he desires, right?” she asked as he climbed the stairs.

Azriel kept his gaze forward in concentration. “I’m not jealous.”  

“Nesta is troubling him,” she continued anyway. “I have to be there for him. I… I know the feeling.” The shadow of his throat bobbed. “He was there for me.”

“Arwen.” He urged her ajar door open. “I know. You don’t have to explain to me.” Bringing her to the bed, he set her down on it, bracing one knee on the mattress next to her. “You look exquisite tonight. But you should take that dress off before I’m tempted enough to tear it as I’ve been imagining doing all night.”

Laughing tiredly, Arwen rolled onto her back to give him access to the hidden buttonhooks. He worked at them from the nape of her neck down her spine. “I wanted to feel good about myself tonight. Wanted to be noticed.” The exhaustion was making her talk, she noted.

“You certainly had enough eyes on you.”

Resting her chin on her folded arms, she said, “You are the only one who has the fortune to touch where those eyes wander.” Turning over once the last buttonhook was undone, she let Azriel peel the top of the dress down and shimmied her out of it. Already dressed in nightwear, he climbed over her to the other side of the bed, drawing her back into his front, pulling the blanket over them.

“Goodnight, Arwen.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 103  

“Good,” Cassian said, holding up the sparring pads between them. Arwen’s focus narrowed on each one, her knuckles even under their bandages feeling like they were raw and burning. “Strengthen your core.”

She tightened her stomach.

By the time he called for them to finish, sweat glistened down her temples and onto her cheeks. The early summer days were already hot. Arwen retied her bun that had fallen across her neck, strands sticking to her wet skin. Cassian discarded the pads. “I don’t feel like I’ve improved from last week,” she muttered, squinting against the sun.

“Since last week?” he echoed. “You’ve got to give yourself a bigger timeline. You’re doing better than you were a month ago. Far better than two months ago.”

Arwen looked at him. “But not last week.” She needed the improvement—needed to see that she was bettering. If this life was all she had, then she needed to move like there was no tomorrow. It had instilled an urgency in her.

Cassian looked her up and down. “You left strikes are getting more accurate,” he said after a moment. “Have you been eating what I’ve told you to?”

She nodded. Her diet wasn’t strict by any means, but the choices had become more deliberate. Meats, legumes, vegetables. Her body had already regained much of her prior weight, muscle building with it. Most of her dresses sat tight on her now and she’s had to favour the looser styles when she wasn’t in pants. Azriel appreciated her returned curves. Spent an entire night admiring them with his hands. And mouth.

Cassian moved on to training with Feyre when Arwen left. Each step she made into the House of Wind was heavy with exhaustion. Cassian wouldn’t be ready to fly her down to the town house for another hour or so, and Rhysand and Azriel were off somewhere together which meant she was stuck here for a while and may as well do work. There was anything immediate to tend to as emissary here, but Arwen made do with responding to one of Lucien’s letters and writing an introductory letter to the Summer Court. She had only met Tarquin through her death and was now quite set on reaffirming the newly regained friendship between their courts.

She jumped as two hands smoothed down her arms, a shadow looming over her. “Hello, Az,” she greeted softly, sinking back into her chair and her mate. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“I wasn’t trying to be quiet,” he replied. He leant over her, picking up the letter she had been working on and examined it. “You were just very concentrated. You need to work on your handwriting.”

Arwen snatched the letter back, his laughter warm in her ear. “I could not write for over two centuries, I’ll remind you. My fingers have forgotten how to.”

Azriel’s arms crossed over her chest as he bowed to her height. “Practice makes perfect. But breaks are a necessity. Come have lunch with us.”

“Lunch? Already?” Indeed, beyond the window, the sun had reached its peak. “I haven’t even gotten two letters done.”

“Letters that are in no rush,” he told her, rising slowly and using the strength of his arms to urge her to rise with him.

“How would you know?”

“Spymaster.”

She rolled her eyes, finally obliging his silent request for her to stand. They joined Cassian, Mor and Feyre for lunch. Arwen piled her plate with salad and chicken, mixing them together with her heavy, silver fork. “Where’s Rhys?” she asked.

“I think he’s with Amren,” Feyre answered. “Boring business, he told me.”

“Usually, he’s getting me to do that,” Mor chimed. “Finally, the sympathies must be rolling in.”

“Please,” Arwen laughed. “Boring business is code for something interesting that he wants to do himself. Probably working with the merchants for the summer solstice festival.” She waved her fork around. “He loves deciding all that for some reason. I think it’s tedious.”

Feyre frowned mockingly. “Well, now I’m upset that I wasn’t invited.”

“Considering how you and Cassian decorated for Winter Solstice,” said Azriel, low and smooth, “I’m not surprised.”

Cassian whistled and placed a hand on his leathered chest. “Right in the heart, Az. Right in the heart. You better be putting that big mouth of yours to good use.” Cassian’s gaze diverted to Arwen. He winked.

Her jaw fell and she flung a cut of tomato across the table. Azriel laughed as the juice hit Cassian’s eye, his hand slipping onto her thigh with a squeeze.

“You did deserve that,” Mor concluded, watching Cassian struggle to wipe his eye clean as she blindly shoved her fork into her mouth. He cursed her name.

~

Arwen held her knees to her chest as she sat in the faded white square on her bedchamber floor. Her eyes were set high, beyond her open curtains and on the night sky. The opaque drapes were pushed far to either side, the transparent hangings still half-across the glass. Nothing moved inside of her room, or outside of it, the rest of the town house residents retreated to their rooms.

The door creaked open behind her. Her lips tightened and the soft footsteps warned her of his approach. Azriel knelt beside her, slipping her resting hand into his. “What are you doing on the floor?” he gently asked.

“Talking,” she croaked. “With the stars.”

He glanced to the window. “Was it a good conversation?”

Arwen shook her head. “They weren’t very talkative tonight. I think they’re busy.”

He squeezed her hand and slowly rose. “Well, I’m all ears if you still want to talk. I promise to listen but come to bed first.” He pulled her up with him, just as he had done earlier that day in the office. “What were you talking about?”

“Nothing really.” Her voice felt meeker than usual. “I just wanted to hear them again.”

“Do you truly hear them, or is that just something… you like to believe?”

That was the first time someone had ever asked her that. She assumed most people just believed the latter—that it was a habit she picked up, like writing in a journal, a way to gather her thoughts. “I hear them, Az.” Arwen looked back to the window as she reached their bed. “They speak in a language that I’m not sure how I know, but they do speak. It’s like… whispers on a mountain.” A mountain that had become unnaturally silent now. It felt like standing on a barren, snow-capped peak, encased with nothing but grey mist and hearing absolutely nothing. It was wrong. Unnatural.

“Maybe Rhys is taking up all their time.”

She snorted weakly and agreed, shimming her legs under the blanket. “I’ll have a talk with him about taking up all their time. Just because he’s a High Lord of the Night Court does not mean he can steal the stars for himself.”

Azriel lay next to her, turned on his side so they face each other. Now in the warmer months, he wore only light pants, leaving his torso bare for her to admire. She often fell asleep tracing the Illyrian markings inked into his skin.

Arwen stared at the one on his chest, the dark whorls a delight for the mind. “I don’t think they want to talk to me,” she confessed quietly.

His hand lay over her cheek, thumb caressing her brow. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I do not belong with them anymore. They spoke with me because I was one of them and now I am not.” She wrinkled her nose and sniffed, stifling the pain from rising to her face. “Maybe they still do but I can’t hear them. Everybody else lives with this silence, but it makes it harder to fall asleep some nights.”

Azriel shifted closer, curling his arm around her head, letting his thumb stroke her forehead from above. His scent tingled her nose. “Will it help if I talk?”

She traced that tattoo. “I like when you fall asleep before me.” Which was not often. The ease upon his face was not something she would ever see in his waking. It made her feel at peace. “I will get used to it. Things have been silent for… many years now.”

Azriel smiled grimly, smoothing his hand down the side of her face and holding it in place as he kissed her. He pulled away first, softly taming her hairs with his fingertips. “If the stars will not listen to you, they are not worth the worship this court gives them.”

Arwen couldn’t help her smile and burrowed herself into his chest to hide it. His warm laugh rumbled against her ear. He held her there, tight and secure, her own little cage safe away from the world.

Yet when Azriel fell asleep, she could not. She lay in the bed, for some time in his arms, then with her back to him. With the blanket and without. With the curtains open and with them closed. Tears of frustration prickled at her eyes when not a wink of sleep would come. Arwen wiped them away and sat up, scowling at the empty air.

She sat like that until her back grew stiff and sore, then moved onto her feet and out into the hallway.

Standing in front of Feyre and Rhysand’s room, she fisted her hand and lifted it to the wood. Her knuckles hovered as she gave a shaky breath. Slowly, her skin pressed against the cool surface, then snapped back down to her side without a sound. He didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to worry. There wasn’t anything her brother could do.

Arwen lightly rapped her knuckles against the door—lightly enough to not wake any sleeping occupants. In an afterthought, she prayed they were both sleeping but when she ducked her head, she found amber light slipping through the thin groove near her feet. Her bottom lip twitched as guilt built up inside of her, urging her to leave before the footsteps made it to the door.

The door opened soundlessly. Feyre stood on the other side, dressed in a beautiful nightgown slip. Beyond her, the bedroom was well lit as she guessed. Rhysand sat on their bed, the blanket pulled over his lap with one knee tented. “Arwen,” Feyre breathed. “Is something wrong?”

Arwen parted her lips. “I’m sorry, I…” Her lip trembled as the tears sprung back from where she had wiped them away moments before.

“Rhys?” Arwen nodded, her throat stinging. Feyre glanced over her shoulder, Rhysand’s name forming on her lips but he was already on his feet and making way to them. “I’ll go get something to drink,” she murmured, slipping past Arwen in the doorway.

Rhysand rested his arm around Arwen’s shoulders, drawing her into the room, and closing the door behind them. “Talk to me,” he whispered to her. She folded her arms across her stomach. He pulled her to his front, embracing her even though she could not embrace him back. Kissing her hair, he said, “I need you to talk to me.”

Talking was the hard part. The words felt stuck in her throat, a dark claw inside of her trying to pull them back down before they were put into the world. But they both felt her shift because when her lips finally broke apart, he took a step back.

“I’m struggling.”

The two words alone felt like they might break her to admit. But she did, and now they were truth. A truth she could not back away from.

Rhysand opened his arms again and she fell into them, finally letting the bottled feelings bubble over.

Chapter Text

Chapter 104

Arwen sat on the small settee in Rhysand’s chamber. Her brother sat on a round footstool in front of her, their knees nearly touching. “I don’t know what to do. I want to be here and I would not trade this life for any other yet I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost a large part of myself. It’s confusing and I feel panicked every day like everything needs to be done then and there because what if I don’t have tomorrow to do it? What if I die tomorrow and it’s all a waste? There could have been a whole new life after this, maybe with you and this family but I know I’ll never have that. And I know that I made the decision and I’m certain I chose right but it hurts knowing what I lost. But if I hadn’t stayed, I would have hurt you. Hurt Azriel. And that would have hurt me too. What if there isn’t anything spectacular and I’m just yearning for something that does not exist?”

Rhysand didn’t move as she rambled, eyes pinned on her and somehow, she knew he heard every single word even though she could barely recall what she had said herself.

She pushed her lips together, bowing her head in a moment of silence. “I want to be here.” A statement to convince herself or Rhys, she didn’t know. “But I feel so… lost.”

“That must be hard.”

Arwen blinked away the fresh fall of tears. “There’s no escape from it. Dying would just… It’s not what I want.”

A pause lapsed. “Have you told anybody else about how you’re feeling? Azriel?”

Shaking her head, she looked at her lap again. “I don’t want to put this on him. I didn’t want to put it on you either.”

“Hey,” he called. Her eyes lifted. Rhysand shook his head. “This is not a burden. I’m glad you trusted me enough to come to me first.” He took her hand and held it between them. “This is just a step. Maybe even a hurdle, but it’s something we just got to get past. Do you want me to it talk through with you, or do you just want some comfort?”

“I want to forget.” The words slipped from her mouth and couldn’t be taken back. “I want you to erase the decision from my memory.”

He stared at her, long and hard. “I know the feeling,” he said eventually and by the tone alone, Arwen knew her wish would not be granted. “But memory erasure is a tricky thing. I can’t just pick things out. It’s like a thread—you pull on it and it begins to unravel everything. You would forget weeks of your life.”

“I can live with that.”

“Can you? Think about everything that happened between when we went to Day Court until today. You would lose too much.”

Azriel. She would lose Azriel. Or rather, Azriel would lose her as she would be the one to not remember. Her teetering grip on life was the push they needed to be raw with each other. There was a chance that it wouldn’t matter, that things could return as they are now but Rhysand was right. The risk was too much. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Her brother gave a soft sigh of thought before cupping her chin. “You live this life,” he said. “I live this life like I have no other and so will you. That doesn’t mean overworking yourself or overtraining—yes, I’ve been informed of your habits,” he added at her narrowing eyes. “It means you live this life to enjoy it. Do things that you want to. Make this life have a purpose.”

She had lived so long with that. Purpose. Just a ghost who could not feel, destined to follow the path of another. It had been like that longer though, hadn’t it? Her life was to be whatever her father needed her to be until Rhysand came to power. From then until now she had still been searching for her role. For her purpose.

“I don’t feel in control of my life.”

Rhysand’s solution was simple. “Take control.” Yet she had no idea how to do it. What did purpose look like for her? “Arwen you are in a position of freedom right now. You have wealth beyond measure, my protection, a mate who loves you. There is nothing stopping you from doing what you love.”

Arwen stared at an empty spot near his shoulder. “This family is what I love, Rhys—the thought of it not being forever scares me.”

“It scares me too,” he told her. “Neither of us know what is after this all. But I know that whatever it is, there will be a piece missing without you. So do me a favour and be happy in this life, for both our sakes. So I can move on knowing that you’re alright.”

~

Arwen flipped the book. Her elbows made divots in the soft chair, her weight braced upon them as her legs lay stretched out behind her. The inked words were a distraction from the painful inking happening at the low of her back. Some areas were more sensitive than others and right now she had a break. The artist took her dear time, that was for certain. But she was glad for it at the same time. She hadn’t decided yet on a bargain with Rhysand and the desire for a tattoo had grown too great to be ignored. The shop was clean and small, the artist leaning over her a lesser fae with bright red hair and green skin.

The bell over the door rang. The artist stopped momentarily but on a glance at who just strode in, went back to work. Arwen, however, glared. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Cassian examined the room before looking down at her, his tall form like a mountain over her as she lay flat. “Azriel said you were getting a tattoo and wouldn’t tell him what you were getting. I wanted to find out.”

“It was going to be a surprise to all of you,” she replied dryly. “But since you’re here…” Arwen nodded to the space behind her. “It’s not big or that Illyrian but I wanted the design.”

Cassian moved to the side of the table opposite the artist and peered at her exposed back. “What does it mean?”

She smiled. “One for each of you.” Stars. She was getting stars scattered at the back of her hip. There would be eight in total once it was complete—which would hopefully be soon. “O-ow!” His low laugh echoed throughout the shop.

“I’m on the last one,” the artist said, her amusement slipping through the words.

“You’ve got eight,” Cassian noted.

Arwen let her book fold close and counted aloud on her fingers. “Feyre, Rhys, you, Azriel, Mor, Amren, Nesta, Elain. Mother­—this is so much worse than making a bargain!” Her eyes screwed shut as she placed her forehead on the table.

“Nearly done,” the artist muttered, concentrated.

Cassian gave the back of her should a comforting rub. “You’re including them?”

Them. It didn’t need an elaboration. “By all legal terms they are my family,” she said through gritted teeth, forcing her head back up. “Besides, family doesn’t always get along, but they still belong on there. This last one is definitely Nesta, though.”

When the artist rose and said, “Done,” Arwen let out an awful sound and let herself slump completely. Sitting up, she let the artist clean away the remnants of ink and blood and lightly bandage her stomach.

“I think I’ll stick with bargains from now on,” she muttered, breathless.

Cassian stood at her knees, smiling. “Give me your hands.” With an eye of caution, she laid her hands in his far larger and rougher ones. He lifted them, forcing her arms overhead, earning a wince from Arwen. “Your muscles have been tensed; you’ve got to stretch them out.”

They moved through a sequence, his hands pulling and pushing her body into positions it didn’t really wish to be in, but after each release, felt immense relief.  When they were done, she slipped from the table and took another breath. Peeking at her companion, she couldn’t help but ask, “Did you really just come to see the tattoo?” Cassian’s patience might not be his virtue, but he certainly wasn’t the type to fly across town just to see the small, inked art before everybody else.

He shrugged. “Thought you could use the company.” She stared at him, blindly fixing her shirt over her stomach. “It’s my day off and I didn’t want to spend it listening to everybody else working. Why don’t we go get lunch?”

“I could use some food.”

They took an outside table at a restaurant neither of them had been to before. The seats were rather unsuited to his wings so they dragged the table up to a stone ledge making the perimeter of the garden for him to sit upon.

“How are you and Az?”

Arwen looked at him through her lashes as she gathered her meal onto her fork. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Making conversation. Is there a reason you’re hesitant to tell me?”

She decided to be honest. “I’m wondering what you want to hear.” His brows lowered into a dark frown. “Perhaps you’re hoping to hear things aren’t perfect?”

Hazels flashed. “Why would I want to hear that? You think I don’t want you happy? My brother happy?”

This was a conversation to tread carefully with but since he had a policy about her being open with him, she expected the same in return, and told him as such. “You want some sign that things aren’t what they look like from the outside. I think you’re trying to convince yourself that just because Nesta is your mate doesn’t mean you’ll get happiness from being with her.”

Cassian slouched against the table, looking down at the meal that he stopped eating.  “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I won’t lie to you, Az and I are happier than we’ve been in a long time. It’s taken years of work to get to this, but both of us wanted to be here.” Arwen let thoughts of her meal go and folded her hands under her chin. “Do you want to be with Nesta—the person she is—or do you just want to have a mate?”

The way he looked at her, observing every detail of her face, she imagined that he was finding the parts of Nesta to see there. Placing Nesta in Arwen so he could make that decision with his mate staring right back at him. Cassian ran his tongue between his teeth. “The person she is now… No. I can’t accept the way she treats this family. The way she treated Feyre, speaks about you and Rhys. Accepting that person would be an insult to the people that do love me.”

Arwen smiled grimly, sad for the knowledge that he faced such struggles but happy in her own greediness that he wouldn’t accept Nesta’s behaviour. “If Nesta is prepared to heal herself and make amends for her wrongs, I’ll be the first to forgive her. For your sake. Until then, if your bed is ever feeling a bit too cold and lonely, you’re free to join mine.”

Cassian hummed lightly, rapping his fingers along the table. Then paused. She chuckled as her words processed on his face for her to see. He leant back in his chair with a new regarding gaze of her, arching a dark brow. “By yours, you mean—”

“Azriel doesn’t mind the company.”

“You’ve discussed this?”

“He was the one to bring it up actually.” Arwen cocked her head as he remained silent for another moment. “Am I wrong to assume—”

“No.” His lips crossed high into his cheeks as he laughed to himself, wiping his hand across that grinning mouth. “Not at all. Just didn’t expect the offer.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 105

Azriel landed at the front of the River House—a grand estate. Nothing short of a home for a High Lord and Lady. He tucked his wings to his back and knocked on the door. Rhys was quick to welcome him in but as Azriel entered the main foyer, Rhysand kept the door open and looked between the empty space and his brother.

“I thought Arwen was coming with you,” he said.

“She’s winnowing down,” Azriel said, pulling himself away from examining the details of the room. His shadows went to work exploring as he looked at Rhys. “Nightmare. It was bad.” The memory of waking to her thrashing about in the sheets flashed in his head. It had scared him, perhaps as much as whatever the nightmare was about, scared her. “She doesn’t wish to be touched today.” Not even by him to fly them across town. “She might walk. The weather is nice.”

“I’ll let Feyre know,” Rhysand said softly, sounding as though he was drifting in thought. “And Cassian, if he shows up. You don’t sound rather joyous either. Here I was hoping for a happy day, revealing the home I’ve been working on for weeks to my family.”

“Sorry,” Azriel muttered. “Wasn’t the best morning.” He made a gesture with his head to the large archway that led to the rest of the house, prompting his brother to lead on.

Rhysand smiled the whole way, and they met Feyre in the large sitting space which was open to the rest of the house. It had a large fireplace, tall windows on either side. Welcoming, but not homely like the town house. Azriel was glad that they still considered the town house the place to meet together, even if it meant more disruptions to his living space.

Azriel sat on the arm of a leather chair that had been dyed white, listening intently as Feyre pointed out all her choices of design. She hardly skipped a beat when another knock resounded through the house. Rhysand left, returning with Mor and Cassian on his tale, giving them the same tour as Azriel had just received. Mor had her head tipped back, examining details on the high ceiling that he hadn’t bothered to check.