Chapter Text
Do it. Do it.
Do it.
Aelin- Celaena, she reminds herself, she is not Aelin, Aelin is dead- grits her teeth, eyes flicking down to the dagger next to her, glinting so innocently on her bedsheets.
Coward. You are a coward.
The worst part about it was that it isn't even just Nehemia's voice that whispers in her ear anymore. Now, Rowan's voice joins in. Coward, coward, coward.
There are other, far worse things whispering in the back of her head, things that Rowan had said. His words were meant to cut deep and sharp, and hurt. And hurt they did.
Pathetic. Spineless and pathetic.
No discipline, no control, and no courage.
She shivers, just slightly. She tries not to think about it, but Rowan...she's not even sure what she feels for him, about him. He terrifies her, and she's not even sure in what way. Just that, from him, the same insults that have been thrown her way all her life seem more vicious, more painful. Partially because he seems to know just how to get under her skin- or perhaps he's just lucky. She'd never know.
Why don't I give you the lashing you deserve?
She sighs. He's right, she knows. She deserves all the pain everyone in this entire world can bestow upon her, and much, much more. But still... the cruel, almost bored expression on his face...
"You're worthless."
Her muted scoff. "Tell me something I don't know."
"You would probably have been more useful to the world if you'd actually died ten years ago."
The worst part is that he was right- that he is always right. That, if she died now, she'd be just as useful as if she were alive. Which is to say, not at all.
She eyes the knife again. Rowan had been foolish to take his eye off of her after they'd gotten back, foolish to let her roam, alone, until she'd found someone's room, the knife gleaming on top of a bundle of their clothes like it was waiting for her to take it. Foolish for him to not have been watching her as she hid it in her clothes and brought it back to her room.
Although she supposes he's occupied with his precious kitty-cat friend, Gavriel.
I don't care what you have been through or what you want to do with your life.
Don't think, she instructs herself very carefully. Don't think about that.
Don't think about the moment when the last ember of something inside her had guttered out into nothing. Had left her in complete, utter darkness and emptiness.
The sooner you can sort out your whining and self-pity, the sooner I can be rid of you.
Rid of her. Like she was a disease.
She knows he isn't wrong- is he ever? She knows he's right. She is a monster, a plague. She's known that for a long, long time; the only difference now is how Rowan had finally voiced the very words she'd thought for years.
You are nothing to me, and I do not care.
Her hand inches towards the blade, before her eyes lift and she glances towards the door again; making sure it was locked, making sure there was no one outside of the door, no one anywhere near her.
Because, if a Fae- even a demi-Fae- happened to be anywhere near her room when she started, well...
Don't Fae warriors tend to have a good nose for blood?
It's not the first time she's hurt herself. No, not by far.
Even if you didn't count the time when Arobynn had forced her to break her right hand, or made her break her legs in order to get out of the head-to-toe restraints he'd put on her, or all the fights she'd gone into willingly, knowing she was probably going to die, she'd done much worse, much more explicit things to herself. Not a few of the scars on her body were from her own hand.
But, regardless, it's the first time she's been so...calculated. So...precise about it.
The last time she'd done it, she'd been 17, grieving, in the Endovier mines. She had hardly realized what she was doing when the axe she'd been using to cut stone had turned on her leg instead. It was a miracle it hadn't gotten infected.
This time, though, this was much, much different. This is her paying all of her dead back. If they couldn't hurt her, couldn't get their dues from her, then she would do it for them. To honor them.
Celaena glances briefly at the five, now covered by her tunic, cuts on her upper arm, strategically placed to give as much pain as possible without cutting into valuable muscle. Nehemia, Sam, Lady Marion, her parents. Then her gaze drops down to her side, where more wounds were hidden. One, for Dorian. One for Chaol. One for Aedion. Shallower, because they're still alive. She hasn't failed them quite as badly as the others. Not yet, anyway.
She wipes the blood off the blade, hides it in the lining of her mattress.
Maybe she should've made the marks deeper. Maybe she should've hurt herself more.
It's what she deserves, anyways.
The next day, Rowan is there, taking her into that old cave with Luca bound to the ice.
It's hell, it's agony, the cuts throbbing with every movement, every breath. But she manages to keep her Fae form from healing them over. All while carefully burning through Luca's shackles and then running for their godsdamned lives.
When they finally get back to the fortress, she's exhausted. Tired, and her bones ache, her wounds throbbing and the pain simply worsening since she knows she can't even wince or Rowan would know. How can he not smell the blood on her?
She closes her eyes briefly. It's not that he can't smell it. It's that he just doesn't care.
You are nothing to me, and I don't care.
She glances behind her, eyes dull and almost dead. "Don't you dare touch him again," she half-whispers, voice hardly a croak. As she brushes past him, he moves to stop her. She grabs his wrist harshly and throws it out of her way. "Don't touch me, either."
She feels him stiffen, hears a near-silent hiss, but walks off before he could say anything.
She wonders if Rowan still thinks she's useless, still wouldn't care if she died.
If he does, then that would be two of them.
She apologizes to Emrys, to Luca and Malakai and all of them. They accept her apologies, but warily, and it makes her heart, and the cuts on her body, throb. Perhaps she should add an extra three to the next time she does it- should add them to her list of the people she's failed.
But then, then there's laughter and almost...comfort. And for a moment, she could've sworn a tiny ember inside her lit up, just for a few minutes, just while she was with them, with Rowan who had the tiniest half-smile on his face.
And then she's back in her room, and it fades. Fades as she locks the door and takes her shirt off.
There're three more names, three more wounds she now has to add to her body. Three more cuts she'd never allow to heal for what she'd done to the people they symbolized.
When it's all done, her clothing back on and her wounds clotted but still agonizingly painful, she eyes the tin of salve on her table.
Not for her wounds, of course, but perhaps for Rowan. She can still hear the hiss he made when she grabbed him and Celaena has a very bad feeling that she accidentally burned him. If she wants to do penance for the others she's failed, it's only right that she gives him the salve. It's her fault he got hurt, after all.
She growls and picks up the tin, ignoring the lightning pain throbbing through her entire body from the three new cuts and the ones she'd made before that she'd reopened. She has another debt to pay, now.
It takes her all of a few minutes to get up to his room and knock, half-praying he wouldn't be there. When his snapped, annoyed what? sounds, she has to grit her teeth against a sigh.
He's beautiful, she realizes once she comes in and sees him, shirtless, at his worktable. And not just him, but the tattoo running all the way down his body, from his face to the tips of his left fingers. The only thing that mars it are the bruises all along his ribs, the cuts and gashes around his wrists, and an angry, red, manacled burn on his wrist.
"What do you want?"
She tries not to look at his body, at the power and strength and grace that resides in it, and tosses him the salve. "I thought you might want this." she doesn't say I heard you or I'm sorry because she's not. She's not really anything.
He says nothing, but his eyes stay on her, evaluating her. As if he could see the fresh wounds. But that would be impossible, Celaena reminds herself. They were clotted and dried minutes ago and you masked their scent with some herbs you stole from the kitchen.
And besides. It's not like Rowan would care if she 'accidentally' hurt herself. She's sure he's hungry for the opportunity to do it himself.
"You could heal me yourself, you know," Rowan says finally. "You have that gift. It's in your blood."
She tries not to glare at him and fails. "There's only the barest drop of water affinity in my blood, from my- from my mother." She pretends the last two words hadn't hurt. "It's not enough to heal anyone. I was told that long ago. That my flames were the only useful part of me."
She wants to finish it, to add that there's nothing useful about her now, to feel her heart splinter just a bit more at Rowan's bored agreement. She ignores the part of her that wants to say it just for his rebuttal, for him to tell her she's wrong.
She knows she's right. Rowan knows it, too.
"Go to bed," he tells her, calm and measured. "We start at dawn tomorrow, as you've been banned from the kitchens."
It's a clear dismissal; Celaena doesn't hesitate to turn her back and start out.
And even though she thought she might've heard Rowan shift, thought she might've felt the slightest hint of regret from him-
She still shuts the door. And then she walks all the way back to her room.
"You're completely insane," Celaena growls, crossing her arms and suppressing a wince as deep, long rows of hidden cuts tug open and smart. Rowan doesn't give an inch, merely staring back at her with equal defiance. "You want me to tend three fires for, what? The rest of this night?"
"Until I say to stop."
She growls, low in her throat. "I could kill someone."
"Then don't get out of control."
She just glares at him, hatred- for him, but mostly for herself because of how hard it is to control herself, how weak she is- deep-set in her veins. But she says nothing, simply turning her gaze to the burning fires.
The moment she exerts her will over them, they turn- black. Not noticeably, but mingled in with the blue and scarlet and purple, something undeniably black sparks and crackles. She smiles a bit bitterly, although outwardly her expression remains blank. Black flames for a black-hearted monster. It fits, perfectly.
"Your power has evolved over the weeks," Rowan comments. Although he doesn't sound like there's anything in particular to be concerned about, he never brings stuff up just for casual conversation. He must've noticed the unusual colors.
"At least, even if I'm useless, my flames are slightly entertaining to watch," she snarks back, voice a bit too dull. Rowan doesn't react, which is slightly disappointing; she'd been hoping for a fight, or at least something to keep her amused other than the dark-colored flames she was tending. She thanks the gods the Fae are too occupied in their celebration to think the unusual blues and purples of the fires are anything noteworthy.
She wants to scoff, wants to tear into her skin again with that hidden blade. There's nothing noteworthy about her. She's just a sham queen with nothing except a blackened heart and an overwhelming uselessness no one would ever try to deny. Especially not Rowan, one of the only people that, well, one of the only people whose opinion she values. Mostly because he's one of the oldest, most powerful Fae alive currently.
If Rowan; powerful, ancient Rowan, sees nothing worthwhile in her...how could she be anything other than worthless?
The music is beautiful.
It makes her long for better times, times when she had not been so unveiled to the full extent of her worthlessness. When she'd had Sam, or Nehemia; when Chaol didn't detest her like she is sure he must now. Times when they could be alive again, and maybe Rowan would actually think a bit more highly of her, instead of treating her like the scum on his boots- which she is.
"Easy," Rowan murmurs into her ear, a muscle in his jaw twitching when she flinches involuntarily.
"I know," she hisses back, trying to rein in the flames. The music's just so beautiful...
"When can I stop?"
"When I say so," comes the unyielding answer.
She wants to whine or plead, say she's tired, she's been bleeding for hours from the cuts ever since they reopened and her salty sweat has been steadily dripping on them, whine about how her magic is becoming harder and harder to control, but she stays silent.
"Not much longer," Rowan finally amends. She almost sags with relief. Perhaps, soon, she can go and join the wild dances, move in tune to that entrancing music...
She sways a little, just a little, to the beat. Magic, and music, they're not so different, she realizes. They both build and create, both can be used to bind the beautiful essence of things together again. Can bind broken people together.
She sways a little more.
"Easy," Rowan says again. "Let the music steady you."
What would it be like, she wonders, to be free; free, like the music? To no longer feel the guilt and pain and blood of innocents, of her failures, on her skin?
"Easy, Aelin."
Gods, she hates that name.
But more than her hatred of that, more than anything, she just feels the music. Feels her flames moving up and down with the drum beat.
"Calm down. Steady yourself."
Why? She wonders, looking at the flames- the things she made, undulating with the music. They are so beautiful; why should she calm them?
She wonders, how much they'd hurt if she used them against herself. If they'd smart more than the blade she keeps in her mattress.
"That's enough." She vaguely feels him grab her arm roughly, try to tug her. "That's enough, Aelin."
But that hardly matters, she decides. She doesn't need to atone for her sins, either by fire or blade. Not if she can just...
She takes a step towards the fire.
"Look at me," Rowan orders. "Look at me."
Why? So he can just tell her how undisciplined she is? How uncontrolled and unqueenly?
"Stop. Stop this. Stop the fires, Aelin."
There's the slightest tinge of fear in his tone. She ignores it. Let him be afraid; she could care less.
She takes another step. She still wonders what it'd be like to finally experience death; even death by her own flames. It'd be cruel, and perhaps a bit fitting. Fire can be one of the most painful ways to die. Perhaps almost as painful as how Sam did.
"Aelin!" his voice is louder, the fear easier to hear now. "Aelin, stop this! You're going to burn out!"
"Why do you care?" she asks, or tries. It never makes it past her throat. It's so...almost relieving, to hear him say that. Just a few hours- barely three- and she's already burning out. It's joyous, blessed. It's a confirmation of her worth, or lack of it.
"Aelin," Rowan says, quieter. "Please. Stop this. You're going to kill yourself."
Something in her blood flares viciously at his words, sadistic pleasure coursing through her veins. The same feeling she'd felt at Endovier, when she snapped, is running through her mind.
That's just the plan. She doesn't particularly want to make it out of here alive, not with the flames calling for her.
There's a curse, then she feels Rowan back away from her. Good. She takes another step towards the fires.
Then she hears Rowan whisper, "I'm sorry."
She falls to her knees, gasping, clutching her throat. The air- it's gone. Rowan sucked the air out.
Just like that, the fires die- but the one inside her flares up, an inferno of agony. The grass around her smolders and steams as she struggles to breathe, then stops.
She could die. It would be easy.
Just- she just needs to let go.
"Breathe," Rowan orders, tone calm and low but not without that same tinge of fear in it she's heard a lot of tonight. "Breathe. Hold on."
She doesn't want to breathe.
There are new voices now, people yelling for healers, asking if there are any water-wielders. "Prince, you need to carry her. We have to get her to water."
Water. She loathes that word. Loathes it because it could be her salvation.
They're saving her. Saving someone who doesn't want to be saved, who doesn't deserve to be saved.
Would they still do this if they knew all the things she'd done, all the people she'd betrayed? Rowan doesn't even know half of what she's done and hates her- although that strange fear in his voice makes her wonder.
She silently curses herself for even thinking that. The fear was all for himself. All for himself and the rest of the people there. Not for her.
But even as she tells herself that, Rowan is picking her up, practically cradling her in his arms, icy air surrounding her as he runs. "Aelin, Aelin, stay with me," she thinks she hears, but she decides not to put too much weight into his words. She's probably hallucinating.
Then she's cold, surrounded by water. It's blessed, perfect, but she growls. They should not be trying to save her. Not after what she's done, what she's become.
"Freeze it!"
"I'm trying!"
There are confused, panicked voices around her- panicked because she could've killed them all, could still probably kill them now. Rowan's voice rings out the loudest.
The water grows colder.
No.
She wants to die. She wants to die, dammit! It shouldn't be that hard!
There are curses as the water steams, then Rowan's arms are around her again. "Get another tub!"
She can faintly hear the boiling of the water before they're moving again, and allows herself to feel a faint, tired satisfaction. She almost boiled herself. Would've, if Rowan- stupid, fucking Rowan- hadn't gotten her out.
Why had he pulled her out? Just a few weeks ago, he'd told her she'd be better off dead. She was simply obeying the unspoken command there.
She's plunged into another tub. This time, the water's frozen almost the moment she's in. She lets out a cry, one that could be interpreted as pained but is just frustration.
Stop, she growls at Rowan in the depths of her own head. Stop trying to keep me alive.
The water heats again.
Rowan curses.
Then it's cold, so cold she wants to shiver. It's instinct this time that heats it back up.
Pulling and shoving back, the battle rages on for what seems like hours. Each time Rowan freezes the water, Celaena heats it up, trying to boil herself alive. Just as quickly, he cools it back down again, will impenetrable and steel-strong.
Finally, finally she gives in, surrenders. The water stays cool; not icy, but not burning either. She will not meet her death tonight, at least not this way.
"Good," Rowan breathes, much closer to her than she'd thought. "Good. Good job, Aelin." As if the heat hadn't been under her control. As if she hadn't tried to broil herself.
"We should take these clothes off of her," another voice- female- remarks. "Help the cooling process."
Panic stabs through her, adrenaline piercing through the veil of tiredness. "No," she rasps, opening her eyes. "Don't take my clothes off."
Rowan hisses, eyes dark and dangerous. "This is hardly the time for modesty, Princess. And you're hardly the type, so knock it off." He reaches forward, hands moving towards her clothing- moving towards the burning, blistering, throbbing cuts all over her body. She knows Rowan will know exactly what happened the moment he sees them and doesn't want his pity- or his scorn.
"No," she says again. Then- "Please." she hates having to beg, but she can't- can't let him see that. Can't let anyone, but especially not him.
"Aelin-"
"Please."
He grits his teeth and glares at her. "Fine. But you're staying with me tonight. And you don't get to argue your way out of that."
Without waiting for her reply, he lifts her up out of the water and stalks off towards his room.
It's harder after that, keeping her penance up. She manages to move the dagger to Rowan's- their- room one day, but it's almost impossible to find the right time to use it.
Rowan almost never lets her out of his eye, even to bathe, and she knows he'd smell the blood with his Fae senses. But, still, she manages to do so, waiting either until after he's sound asleep next to her to crawl out of bed, or else waking up before him. She's almost surprised the scent of fresh blood doesn't awaken him, but she'll definitely count her blessings.
Of course, that is until that one night when Rowan's pine-green eyes are darker, sadder than usual and he gets into the wrong side of the bed, trapping her against the wall. And then tangles himself up with her.
She gives him a mouthful of curses. "What are you doing?"
"We're sharing a bed," Rowan retorts. "It's cold, and shared body heat is one of the best ways to stay warm."
"We have a literal fucking fire going on," Celaena snaps but there's no real bite in her voice. Her and Rowan have gotten closer over the weeks. "And I didn't know you were such a cuddler."
Rowan glares at her; she fights off a laugh.
"Go to sleep." the words are pointed, almost like-
She shoves the thought away. No. He doesn't know about that. He couldn't possibly.
Although if he did, why the fuck would he care? He might not have insulted her lately, at least not as much as he used to, but that hardly means he cares about her. Celaena certainly knows she doesn't care about herself, so why should he? Why should an immortal Fae Prince care about her wellbeing in the least?
She slips out of the bed a few hours later, once Rowan's breathing has slowed and he's rolled away just enough to let her crawl over his body stealthily. She could've sworn, just for a second, she sensed movement, but she shoves it away. She's just being paranoid. Her heightened Fae senses have been going haywire, that's all.
But despite that, she still looks around an extra time, then turns around to survey Rowan's sleeping form for a long, long moment. His breathing is deep and steady, his face relaxed. He's definitely asleep, no doubt about it.
She turns back around, moving with feline grace and swiftness to the place she'd stashed the knife- the lining of the rug in front of the fireplace. It's small enough she knows Rowan would never notice the lump in his rug, and well enough hidden in there that he'd give up trying to find its source. The perfect hiding place.
She retrieves the dagger, dried blood still crusted on it, and wipes it on the rug. It's dark enough Rowan will never notice the slight stain there. Then she carefully, silently takes off her clothes, exposing not only her scarred back- which Rowan has never seen- but also the deep gashes lining her arms and torso. Which, coincidentally, Rowan has also not seen. Thankfully.
She furrows her brows. Thankfully? He wouldn't care one way or another.
He wouldn't.
...right?
She picks the knife back up again, humming something as she looks over her scarred and mutilated torso for the best place to cut next. Should she reopen the almost scabbed over cuts or make new ones?
Just as she's decided on new, just as she's putting the knife to her flesh, there's a deep growl and the knife is taken from her grip with a force she could never hope to counter.
"Just what the fuck," Rowan hisses behind her, "Do you think you're doing?"
Shit is about the best word to sum up her thoughts in that moment.
Then she forces herself to calm down. Rowan wouldn't care, Rowan doesn't care, she reminds herself. He'd just as soon see you dead as alive.
She pretends that night at the festival, that night when he'd practically begged her to stop before she burned out, that week afterwards he spent fussing over her, doesn't exist.
"Penance," she answers coldly and turns around to face him, remembering too late that not only are her breasts exposed but also her new scars- and her cuts. She tries to turn back around but Rowan's arms snap to her shoulders, holding her there.
"Are you insane?" he snarls. "Penance?"
"For all the crimes I've committed, for all the deaths that have been my fault," she snaps back. "Surely you understand that."
He flinches- just barely- just enough for her to know that he probably regrets telling her about his dead mate, about what Maeve had done to them. But he recovers quickly.
"Yes," he hisses, "Yes, of course I understand that, but this," he motions to her bare torso, "This is not the way to deal with that!"
"Why not?" Celaena fires back. "They're all dead, or close to it! Why shouldn't I do this since they will now never get the chance to punish me themselves?"
Rowan swears, the vulgarity of his words almost surpassing her own curses. "Because that's stupid, that's why! Hurting yourself for no reason is completely idiotic!"
She gives him no answer, feeling the familiar underwater feeling creep in, like it always does when he says something particularly cruel. "There are people out there who need saving, people who need their queen, and what do you do? You're going to go and fucking cut yourself!"
She grabs the knife back, quick as lightning, and backs away. Rowan doesn't follow. "Nice to know that, even now, that's all you think of me. The irresponsible, worthless would-be queen who can't do anything right." she laughs bitterly. "You were right, all those months ago."
His eyes narrow. "About what?"
"About how I'd benefit the kingdom more if I'd just died a decade ago."
He goes silent, expression unreadable.
She flips the hilt of the dagger in the air, catching it with perfect precision. "What? Got nothing left to say, Prince?" she sneers. "Nothing except more pathetic insults about my intelligence, my worth, my cowardice? Or are you finished yet? Are you done wasting your breath by telling me how worthless I am to you, to everyone?" her voice crescendos rapidly near the end of her speech, to the point where she's almost shouting. "Because you know what, Rowan? You've already said all this before! There's nothing, nothing new you can say to me, nothing that I don't already know about my own pathetic, worthless, cowardly self!"
Rowan's brilliant green eyes spark, and then he's shouting back. "Why are you so godsdamned thick? Why don't you ever stop and think that maybe, somehow, I actually rutting care about you? That, maybe, I don't want you dead?"
There's a long moment of silence. Celaena can hear her heart pounding in her chest in the deathly stillness of the room. Then, finally, she speaks, hardening her voice. "If you really do care, then you do a piss-poor job of showing it."
"I do care," Rowan says honestly, empathetically. The sheer lack of any kind of subterfuge is what sets Celaena off. Rowan would never be that forthright with her.
She scoffs, crossing her arms in derision. "And here I thought, for a Fae, you were actually semi-decent. But, surprise, surprise, you're just as into playing with humans' minds as Maeve is. If you thought that something that petty could actually trick me, you're wrong."
He growls, eyes like glowing green flames. "You think I'm lying? Fine."
Before she has a chance to react, she's against the wall, Rowan's lips against hers.