#she hands an arch fae her 4 year old.

[the-weeping-dawn]

///

[acourtofantumbra]

Where Have All the Dragons Gone?

☆ All SJM spoilers: ACOTAR, CC, and TOG ☆

It's been quite a while since I put my SJM tin foil hat... I've got the attention span of a squirrel and moved onto other things.

Anyway, over the past 3-4 months I decided to start my first true re-read of all of SJM's books while a bunch of my friends were beginning the series for the first time. This week I finished Crescent City (just in time for my insanely beautiful Fairyloot editions to show up 1/2 a year later) and plan on moving onto TOG this week... but I have so, so, so many scenes that have been bothering me that I fully skimmed over in my first reads.

This scene above from HOSAB, chapter 46, with Ariadne has been fueling my intrusive thoughts lately. On my first read of CC2 I was so distracted by that insane ending that I could probably sum up my thoughts about Ariadne as "Well, that felt like a waste of time?" But upon further review (and now having read TOG in its entirety as well)... I'm starting to feel like she might be one of the most easter egg laden chess pieces placed on the board.

Per usual, I don't really have answers as much as I have some glaring parallels that feel important... But ultimately I think our "long, lost dragons" are not so lost and have been waiting patiently to enter the chat.

Ok, let's go back to the (extended) scene from HOSAB:

“Exactly,” Flynn said, as if the Fae lord weren’t taunting a dragon. A fucking dragon. A Lower, yes, but … fuck. They weren’t true shifters, switching between humanoid and animal bodies at will. They were more like the mer, if anything. There was a biological or magical difference to explain it—Ithan vaguely remembered learning about it in school, though he’d promptly forgotten the details.  It didn’t matter now, he supposed. The dragon could navigate two forms. He’d be a fool to underestimate her in this one.  The dragon stared Flynn down. He gave her a charming smile back. Her chin lifted. “Ariadne.” Flynn arched a brow. “A dragon named Ariadne?”  “I suppose you have a better name for me?” she shot back.  “Skull-Crusher, Winged Doom, Light-Eater.” Flynn ticked them off on his fingers.  She snorted, and the hint of amusement had Ithan realizing that the dragon was … beautiful. Utterly lethal and defiant, but—well, damn. From the gleam in Flynn’s eyes, Ithan could tell the Fae lord was thinking the same. Ariadne said, “Such names are for the old ones who dwell in their mountain caves and sleep the long slumber of true immortals.” “But you’re not one of them?” Ithan asked.   “My kin are more … modern.” Her gaze sharpened on Flynn. “Hence Ariadne.”  Flynn winked. She scowled.  “How did all of you”—Declan cut in, motioning to Ariadne, her body similar to that of a Fae female’s—“fit into that tiny ring?”  “We were bespelled by the Astronomer,” Sasa whispered. “He’s an ancient sorcerer—don’t let him deceive you with that feeble act. He bought us all, and shoved us into those rings to light the way when he descends into Hel. Though Ariadne got put into the ring by …” She trailed off when the dragon cut her a scathing, warning look. HOSAB, Chapter 46

It needs to be said, the difference between magical beings feels like it has only barely scraped the surface at the end of CC2 and I have not one clue how Sarah is finally gonna break all that shit down for us. But during my reread I finally got really into the Mer plot for this exact reason as well... clearly quite a bit going on there. Also... with the sprites magic not being first light-based??? Ok, back to the task at hand.

So Ariadne is identified as a dragon, which according to the front of both Crescent City books, is part of the House of Flame and Shadow. Perhaps our most controversial collection of beings in the CC world, our Slytherin house lol.

But, according to Ariadne herself, there is a difference between the kind of dragon shifter she is and a dragon that is a true immortal... and allegedly sleeping in a cave somewhere?! —> remember this. Ok, so what is a true immortal? Aren't the Vanir and fae immortal for the most part?

Well, we've been getting corrections through SJM's series that there is a difference between long-lived, which is what the fae and Vanir are, and true immortals.

Particularly in the ACOTAR series we've had Death Gods explain the difference between their true immortality aka "[they have] no death awaiting them." And suspiciously, the Bone Carver claims that his sister, the Weaver, is not only truly immortal, but she's found a way to "eat life itself" so that's remains youthful. Interesting... can think of around 6 folks allegedly able to do that in Crescent City, but I digress.

So true dragons — the ancient ones — seem to be true immortals as well. There is "no death waiting for them." Interesting considering we've had references in both TOG and CC that dragons are either no more or MIA. We actually get references at least once to dragons in each of SJM's series. Let's dig in a little more.

So TOG is our series with the most obvious inclusion of, at the very least, dragon-like creatures (we love you Abraxos) aka Wyverns. Wyverns we learn were made by the king - in a process Manon claims to not know much about... but happens in a mountain. But let's not skip ahead.

We've known since early on in TOG that dragons once existed in Erilea, but wyverns remain and are even the symbol represented on Ardalan's royal seal.

Celeana is surprised to see dragons depicted on the doors to the palace's library - because of course... libraries are at this point one of our most consistent, important, and often lost/destroyed, settings/plot points across worlds. Followed up with her feeling "a shot of lightning" about this dragon-adorned library... my spidey senses are tingling, how about you? Have dragons been associated with lightning in mythology? Yes. Yes they have.

First, what is the difference between a dragon and a wyvern? In fact lets take a look at all the varietals, some of the names might be familiar.

Who could forget the Wyrm from ACOTAR? Characters (amren) have been referred to as drakes, and I think we can argue that we've encountered a couple others from this list (perhaps sent from Hel?).

Anyway, what happened to the dragons of Erilea? It seems that they were defeated during a conflict and people largely believe them to be gone and whole societies (the mycenians) lost hope and fight once the last dragon disappeared/was killed.

But it's Maeve who gives us the clearest picture as to what happened to the dragons.

Glass is obviously significant in Throne of Glass and brings new meaning to the now destroyed glass castle, which I now assume was made from dragon glass.

But Maeve having "ensured" dragons were eradicated is particularly interesting knowing what we know about dragon fire from CC2 (we'll get to that). What this "ancient and bloody conflict" was we can guess at, but much like ACOTAR and CC we've got a wealth of wars to choose some and some we have more information about than others... anyone else suspicious about the sprite rebellion?

But Maeve mentioning Aelin's own "fire-breathing heritage" gave me pause... is she suggesting Aelin has any relation to dragons? Especially when Aelin starts to feel pangs of empathy for reasons she can't explain (a lightbulb moment in any SJM book - she uses this easter egg tactic a lot), her overwhelming sorrow while she's actively being tortured feels notable. Especially mentioning dragons "would never again been on this earth." Perhaps they can be found on another?

But Maeve destroying dragons is important because Bryce learns from Jesiba in CC2 that the strongest weapon against a Prince of Hel is in fact... dragon fire. Seems like an important tool to have in the arsenal... and why mention it if there are no dragons left anyway?

It contained an analysis of dragon fire, dating back five thousand years. It was in a language Bryce didn’t know, but a translation had been included. Jesiba had scribbled Good luck at the top. 

Well, now she knew why the Astronomer kept Ariadne in a ring. Not for light—but for protection. 

Among its many uses, the ancient scholar had written, dragon fire is one of the few substances proven to harm the Princes of Hel. It can burn even the Prince of the Pit’s dark hide. 

Yeah, Ariadne was valuable. And if Apollion was readying his armies … Bryce had no intention of letting the dragon return to the Astronomer’s clutches. HOSAB, Chapter 50

Granted, this alludes to there being a few substances that can harm a Prince of Hel, but with the introduction of Ariadne and "the ancient ones"... dragons have just shot to the top of my personal list of "things that are probably coming for us in CC3 and beyond" especially in this fight against the Big Bads.

Granted we learned when Bryce breaks into the Dawn room at the Crystal Palace (dragon glass too???) that the warring factions of Hel united to oust the Asteri and Thanatos is only now saying he doesn't give an f about his brothers' plans... maybe we don't want to roast Apollion, but just some of his brothers? And maybe dragon fire has some ability to take down an Asteri too? Who can say?

But that brings me back to Ariadne's conversation about the difference between the kind of dragon she is an the kind of dragons that have allegedly gone missing... she doesn't say they're gone.

“Skull-Crusher, Winged Doom, Light-Eater.” Flynn ticked them off on his fingers.  She snorted, and the hint of amusement had Ithan realizing that the dragon was … beautiful. Utterly lethal and defiant, but—well, damn. From the gleam in Flynn’s eyes, Ithan could tell the Fae lord was thinking the same. Ariadne said, “Such names are for the old ones who dwell in their mountain caves and sleep the long slumber of true immortals.”

Hm... sleeping in mountain caves? We've definitely had some not super subtle hints about some giant presence slumbering below mountains — in both TOG and ACOTAR. And while TOG has clearly mentioned their missing dragons... ACOTAR explicitly references dragons one time.

When Lucien gives Feyre a cloak UTM she notes Amarantha's coat of arms isn't just a dragon... but a sleeping dragon. Can I fully say I understand all the implications here? Certainly not. But it was an "oh damn" moment when I saw it. Especially considering how convinced I am that Hybern was possessed by a Valg. And if Maeve (Valg) and Princes of Hel (??) fear dragon fire... that... is an intriguing parallel.

But ok, so we've got a coat of arms with a sleeping dragon... what else has been referenced as a massive sleeping force?

Cassian wondered if his brother had ever told her what dwelled in these mountains. Most had been slain by the Illyrians, or sent fleeing to those Steppes. But the most cunning of them, the most ancient … they had found ways to hide. To emerge on moonless nights to feed. Even five centuries of training couldn’t stop the chill that skittered down his spine as Cassian surveyed the empty, quiet mountains below and wondered what slept beneath the snow...

Cassian soared toward it, unable to resist Ramiel’s ancient summons. Different—the mountain was so different from the barren, terrible presence of the lone peak in the center of Prythian. Ramiel had always felt alive, somehow. Awake and watchful....

Ramiel rose higher still, a shard of stone piercing the gray sky. Beautiful and lonely. Eternal and ageless.  ACOFAS, Chapter 3

Now I'm not saying I'm 100% confident a dragon is sleeping beneath Ramiel... but I am saying I feel confident we've gotta find dragons sleeping somewhere and the planet that's retained the most magic seems like an obvious first place to look.

I also wonder how much connection there could be between lost ancient dragons and the rare thunderbird line — a CC plot point that has been breaking my brain even more the second time around (all thoughts, no real conclusions). But with the inclusion of lightning + dragons (Aelin at the library, the Great Rite, etc.)... thunderbirds are looking even more suspicious in my eyes. Even more suspicious is our dear Hunt Athalar... lightning wielder of our dreams...

Her teeth shone, her canines long enough to shred flesh. “Did Bryce Quinlan tell you what occurred when she stood in this chamber twelve years ago?” His blood turned to ice. “That’s Quinlan’s business.” That smile didn’t falter. “You do not wish to know what I saw for her, either?” “No.” He spoke from his heart. “It’s her business,” he repeated. His lightning rose within him, rallying against a foe he could not slay. The Oracle blinked, a slow bob of those thick lashes. “You remind me of that which was lost long ago,” she said quietly. “I had not realized it might ever appear again.” HOEAB, Chapter 33

That's all I got for now... stay tuned for a potential descent into madness about Thunderbirds. We'll see.

[separatist-apologist]

Cruel Summer

I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?

Summary: It was supposed to be a summer trip around Europe before Elain Archeron settled into life as a post-grad. It was supposed to be nothing more than a 2,000 year old wall built by a long dead Roman Emperor. It was supposed to be fun.

So why is Elain Archeron trapped in a strange world filled to the brim with magic and men in masks who refuse to let her leave? Something isn't right and Elain is determined to get to the bottom of her accidental shift in the world.

Or die trying.

Outlander-ish IDK you know what you're getting from me at this point just come inside.

Chapter 5: I Once Believed Love Would Be Burning Red

Read more: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | AO3

Night wore on and the groaning dead was replaced with true battle…and now Lucien. Bron was antsy, setting Elain in front of a dying campfire. He wanted to join in the war, was a warrior first. It was unfair to keep him, to force him to babysit her. “Go,” she told him, her mind constantly assaulted by a barrage of images she wished she could not see. Elain, Elain, Elain. That voice was a terrible thing. 

“I can’t abandon you,” Bron hedged, already moving towards the fighting. Elain went to him, sliding her hand down his leg without him realizing—taking one of his blades without asking.  A new image, of Hybern’s severed head, of a blade she’d never seen puncturing the skin, of her made of mist and shadow, her skin dotted with blood, assaulted her senses. Elain forced herself to smile, to turn her wide eyes on his face, to let him see the human beneath the veneer of fae. 

“What trouble could I get into?”

That seemed to pacify Bron, who clearly had forgotten all the trouble they’d gotten into before. He vanished, leaving her alone in that massive camp, waiting on a man she knew she wouldn’t see until this ended. She wanted to see Lucien without the mask, wanted to touch his face—touch him. He would know what was going on with her, what terrible roiling mess now churned through her gut.

Elain stood, walking slowly in her ruined white dress given alongside her magic. This army she hid in had been unleashed in the valley below, fighting alongside Nesta’s army of the dead. Elain understood what needed to happen but not when. Only how. She knew how to wrap her magic about her body like a well-worn cloak, knew how to step through the world, conjuring soft, sunlit wind to envelope her body…to take her back to Hybern and that Cauldron that should never have existed.

To Feyre and other people she didn’t know, trying desperately to shatter that Cauldron. Elain watched, bathed in shadow. Watched that dark haired man approach, watched that winged creature throw his body over Nesta’s, shredding the thin membranes of his skin. How Nesta flung out the last ravages of her power desperately while Hybern mocked—laughed. All while the wind sang. Elain, Elain, Elain.

And she understood, reaching for her stolen blade, why the wall had beckoned her in the first place. Not for that love, that bond, but because someone had to be there for this moment. Someone had to set it all in motion. Elain, Elain, Elain. 

It was a cruel fate set upon all three of them, to be asked to fix this world. To break themselves apart for some sliver of good, some promise of happiness. Elain’s eyes snagged on the wounded warrior who had come to protect Nesta. Nesta didn’t look at him with kindness, with affection—like she knew him at all. Pointed, arched ears, the immortal glow…Nesta, the corporate lawyer and Nesta, wielder of death itself. What did that make her, she wondered? Did it even matter?” No. All that mattered was Elain took that step from the shadows and did exactly as she was supposed to. “Don’t you touch my sister,” she snarled, her voice a gunshot in the dark. Hybern, who had thought nothing of her the entire time he’d had her in his clutches, went utterly rigid. Nesta rose to her feet like a Queen, her rage palpable and dark. Elain darted back to Nesta could finish what Hybern had started long before any of them had ever been born, severing his head as if she’d been born a warrior—born to do this.

That winged fairy had to pry his hair from her hands, staring at her like he’d never seen the sun before. As if Nesta were the only thing in the world. Nesta didn’t notice, was looking at Feyre, bowed over the Cauldron. Over that dark haired man who Elain had forgotten about. Rhysand. Andras’s killer. And her sister clawing at his unmoving chest screaming in agony. Elain recognized that sound. She had one made the same as the mating bond in her chest shredded to nothing. Winked out like a candle, leaving her hollow and empty. 

“Please,” Feyre begged, while Nesta trembled at Elain’s side, bloodied and bruised and traumatized. They’d come to find her, to make sure she was safe. Elain had imagined a soft reunion, a return to Spring and the softness she’d found within those strange, cursed borders. It was all wrong no matter how the world writhed and danced around her, pleased that things had been set right. Some ancient prophecy fulfilled, a return of long forgotten princesses. 

Six High Lords came, offering a piece of themselves to resurrect Rhysand. Elain wasn’t sure that was wise though she didn’t dare say so, not in the wake of her sister's terrible suffering. Elain wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy…who, she supposed, was lying on the ground, having sacrificed himself to wreck that Cauldron. No more women would go in, would have done to them what had been done to Nesta and Elain.

He came back with a soft gasp of air, reaching for Feyre as his first act. Nesta watched with Elain, threading her fingers through Elain’s, her face still smeared with blood. “We’re never going back, are we?”

Elain meant to answer. No, we’re not human, we can’t go back to highrises and nine to fives, but she felt the burning, curious eyes of him. Somewhere in that mass of soldiers, Lucien was watching, searching. Had found her. Elain scanned but didn’t see him. She wondered if he didn’t want her too. Doubt crept in, drawing Ianthe’s last words to her mind. Maybe, she thought with a small amount of fear, he didn’t care. 

“Come on,” Nesta tugged at Feyre's hand when people began to disperse, hunting down the remainder of Hyberns army and licking their wounds. There had been no proper greeting, no reunion the way Elain had hoped. She pushed past Rhysand, who ran a hand through that ink black hair, eyes widening with surprise.

“It’s you again.”

“I haven’t forgiven you,” Elain replied, noting how Feyre’s back stiffened, eyes sliding to this man with curiosity. Rhysand’s smile stretched over his pale, half-dead face. 

“I will endeavor to change that. I did help you once, you know. And I kept your secret long after you left.”

Elain swallowed when Rhysand offered her a tanned hand. “To new beginnings, little human.” She took it hesitantly which only seemed to amuse him. “Immortality suits you, Elain.”

“Go away,” Elain shooed and Rhysand did, leaving them on that battlefield, surrounded by the pieces of the Cauldron that, just a night before, had stolen their lives.

“You couldn’t write?” were Nesta’s first trembling words. “We thought you were in Paris.”

“I was,” Feyre said sheepishly. “I took a boat over…just to see. Once I got here, I couldn’t go back. Trust me, I tried.”

“You broke their curse,” Elain added gently, reaching for Feyre’s freckled cheek. Feyre smiled. 

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“No,” Elain all but whispered. Feyre inclined her head to the side, gesturing to a body Elain was too scared to fully look at.

“You should. He’s been obnoxiously helpful ever since I got here.” “High praise,” a rich, deep voice replied, the sound skittering up her spine. Of course. It’s you. 

She turned her head, every inch of her trembling with fear, with hope, with the worry he’d moved on or worse—that the bond between them was nothing more than a memory, that they’d lost it when she left and Lucien would be a mere stranger to her now.

He looked just as scared when their eyes met. For a moment there was nothing else, no one else. Only his face, just as she’d dreamed it would be. Perfect. Golden brown skin swept over every inch of his beautiful face. Strong nose, sharp cheekbones all highlighted the strength of his jaw and the curving sweep of his lips. Elain might have stared for the rest of her life had a violent, twanging snap drawn a soft “Oh,” from her lips. 

Lucien stumbled forward and Elain forgot they were being watched, perhaps too carefully as she flung herself into his waiting arms. 

And Elain was home.

~*~

In all Lucien’s life, he’d never know how he made it through that night. Hacking and slashing until he was coated in blood and gore. His first war—and, he hoped, his last. Her name was a prayer on the wind. His mate. Elain, Elain, Elain. He wanted to see her, to know if the bond would resnap. It propelled him forward, forced him to continue slicing through enemies, hoping he’d find her, that he could take her out of this place, squirrel her away somewhere safe.

Her sister, the one commanding the army of the undead, shimmered with an immortal glow. Her eyes shone silver, her ears pointed and arched. It filled Lucien with dread every time he caught sight of her, back to back with Cassian, whose curved blade hacked enemies for Nesta Archeron to resurrect and induct into her service. 

There was no sight of Elain until dawn broke over the horizon and Feyre’s piercing scream, along with a ceasefire, stilled them all. Lucien shoved to the front, noting the way Hybern’s army had begun to flee the way they’d come, chased by more than a few vengeful Illyrians. Rhysand—dead, at the edge of the fractured Cauldron while Feyre screamed at the bond he was sure had snapped in her chest. Nesta Archeron held the head of Hybern in her hands, grasping his dark hair with her broken, bloodied nails.

And Elain, her beautiful face splattered with blood, a blade clutched in her hand so tightly Lucien could see the whites of her knuckles. He wanted to pry it from her hands, wanted to get her out of this. Elain, with her sweet smiles and her games on the Spring Court lawn hardly belonged here, coated in blood. 

His eyes drifted to her own skin, shimmering and practically iridescent. Her ears arched and pointed just as Nesta and Feyre’s were. It was as if some inner light had been poured into her body, leaking from every pore to enhance the beauty that had always existed. Even in war, Elain was so heartbreakingly stunning.

He didn’t move, not when the other High Lord’s brought Rhysand back to life or when Feyre, Nesta, and Elain turned to each other. Cassian pried the head from Nesta’s hands and Lucien wondered if he didn’t have a connection to the eldest Archeron the way he and Rhysand had to Elain and Feyre. 

There was still no bond between them and Lucien was terrified there wouldn’t be. Not until Elain seemed to sense him watching, turning her head of golden brown curls to the spectators. Her eyes found his as Lucien begged for things to return as they were, staggering backwards when the snap reverberated painfully through his chest. She ripped against it, dragging him a stumbling, inelegant step forward as a sob escaped her throat. He caught her against him, ignoring the looks from her sisters, from Rhysand and Cassian, from Beron and Eris and everyone still lingering too close. Let them all wonder, he thought, sweeping her bloodied form off the ground and striding away.

“Hey–!” Feyre called but Lucien didn’t stop. Feyre would almost certainly try and interfere but not today. Not after nearly two years of being separated from his very heart. Lucien wove his way through the sea of tents, wondering where, after this day, he would take her. He very much doubted Feyre would be amenable to Spring and Lucien wasn’t willing to see Elain shut into Night. 

He’d worry about it tomorrow, he decided as he shoved the flaps of his nondescript tent to the side. In the dark, Lucien dropped to the cot he’d been sleeping on, holding her in his lap. Elain was trembling, eyes never leaving her face. “What happened?” he murmured, fingers tracing her face. “What did that bastard do to you?” “I stabbed him,” she said, her first words since they’d said goodbye. 

“Tell me what happened.”

Elain sucked in a breath and then, arms twined around his neck, started from the very beginning. He’d expected a tale of Hybern, of whatever he’d done but Elain spoke of going back through the wall and the ordeal of the snapped bond. It was reassuring, in a strange way, to know it was not just him who’d suffered. He could have done without all the details of Graysen, who he knew she included so Lucien would be aware that Elain had at least tried to uphold his request, even if she failed. It was comforting in a way to hear she’d taken up with another male so she could feel close to him, even if he would have preferred no male ever touch his mate. 

Elain’s guilt wove through her tale—finding joy when she didn’t want to, in picking up her old life and moving on…and not recognizing Feyre had been gone as long as she had. He interrupted then, answering her own questions and piecing together their two sides of misery. Trapped beneath the mountain, saved by a strange human woman who had heard of Prythian from her near catatonic sister. A curse broken in hopes of helping Elain find joy, only to realize she could not return like Elain had—even as a human, Feyre could not go back. She’d been forced through to fulfill a destiny she didn’t know she had and unlike Elain, who had done perfectly well as a human among the fae, Feyre seemed to have been born for this life. Feyre, who had found her mate, who had helped end two different wars without having to be asked. They owed the Archeron’s so much. 

Lucien’s stomach clenched when he learned Elain and Nesta came through the ruined wall, unaware there would be no way back for them. He wondered how Nesta would fare, given she’d never meant to stay, had only wanted to ensure her sisters were safe before she returned. Intercepted by Hybern, who had been monitoring Spring. Lucien had known that, had been hunting his beasts down in that very same wood merely a day after. While Ianthe had been taunting him, Elain had been forced into the Cauldron to die alone, twisting and remade within its inky depths.

He held her tighter as she described it. Magic, she murmured, fluttered through her veins, whispering secrets she had no right to know. Elain explained the wind and how it chanted those words, teaching her to winnow, how to grip her blade and where exactly to strike. Not sinister—a Seer. She seemed to know even when he spoke the words aloud, as if she’d heard it whispered, too. What else had the world shared with her, he wondered? Wide, liquid eyes peered at him with too much understanding and Lucien suspected she might have been gifted that magic even if she’d never been dipped into the Cauldron at all. Elain had that way about her, just always seemed to guess right. 

“It’s over now,” Lucien whispered, slamming the walls of his mind shut when he felt Feyre’s clawed presence raking up his senses. What are you doing with my sister?

Whatever I like, was his sneering response before those walls closed on her. Elain cocked her head but didn’t move and Lucien, irritated by Feyre’s meddling, murmured, “Tell her to mind her own business.”

“She’s only concerned,” came Elain’s too understanding response. “And wants to know if we’d like to return to a place called Velaris.”

“Not yet,” Lucien murmured, his lips pressed against her temple. “Not until—”

A screaming interrupted his words. He scrambled upwards while Elain stood beside, her face unnervingly calm. Elain slid her hand into his. “Day Court?” she murmured, peering up at him owlishly. 

“We’re going to have to work on your delivery,” Lucien grumbled. “I only learned yesterday.”

“You look good in white,” she told him sweetly, her earnest words almost erasing their horrible setting and the horror that enveloped them. Lucien pushed through a gathered crowd, noting the overwhelming heat that radiated.

Elain gasped at the sight of Beron, a bolt of faebane shoved through his chest. He laid in the middle of Autumn’s camp, eyes staring towards the sky unseeing. It was hardly a mystery who had plunged that wood into the High Lord—Lucien’s mother stood defiant, her face bloodied and bruised while her eldest son, just behind her, was bathed in the all consuming magic that marked him heir. 

“Did you see that coming?” Lucien asked, wishing she could have warned him ahead of time. Elain merely shook her head, taking a step behind his body. 

“No,” she admitted. “But I sense it’s well-deserved.”

“A long time coming,” Lucien murmured, catching Helion’s Spell-Cleavers form in the distance, eyes pinned on his mothers back. “I don’t know if I’m ready for the fall out.”

“Is there nowhere we can go?” she asked softly, lacing her fingers through his own. “Even for the night?”

Lucien opened his mouth, turning his back to Beron’s body and the messy, overly complicated politics that were surely about to erupt for Autumn. Good fucking luck, he thought to his elder brother, ushering Elain away. “Spring is in tatters.”

“Night, then,” Elain replied softly. “I want to leave this place.”

Feyre all but appeared at Elain’s elbows, eyes bright with mischief. “I’ve been summoned.”

Lucien sighed with exasperation but Feyre wasn’t having it. “You can have a very private room,” Feyre added.

“For what price?” he asked, noting the curved, half-wicked smile on her lips.

“No prince yet, prince of Day.”

Lucien narrowed his eyes but Elain pressed her head against his arm, eyes drooping. When had she last slept? The mating bond overrode all of Lucien’s good senses, prompting him to agree with a too-loud sigh.

“One very small favor,” Lucien grumbled, well aware Feyre could wring far more from him than one favor by the time it was all said and done. He had her sister, after all. He would be duty bound to help Feyre and her mate as a gift to his soon-to-be-wife, and Feyre knew it.

“What’s going on with that preening bat and your sister?” Lucien asked, all but dragging a stumbling, sleeping Elain towards the Night Court encampment. 

“A different sort of war,” Feyre murmured knowingly.

“Mates?”

“Who am I to say?” Feyre replied, glancing towards Elain, her body all but sagging against Lucien. He hoisted her back into his arms, letting her head thump heavily against his chest. He was tired, too, was struggling to hold her when the ground seemed as an appealing place as any to rest. 

“Did the bond…”

“Yes,” he agreed quickly. “Stronger than before.”

Feyre glanced towards Elain. “Did she say what the Cauldron gifted her?”

Lucien held Elain a little closer to his chest, lips pressed in a tight line. “She can share that, if she likes.”

“So protective,” Feyre grumbled. “I forgot how obnoxious mated males are.”

Lucien glanced to Rhysand, speaking with Kallias with a raised brow as though he’d heard her but couldn’t comment. Lucien, too, chose to keep his own thoughts to himself. Lucien merely adjusted Elain’s sleeping body in his arms and waited for Feyre to take him to Velaris with a rather pointed stare. She sighed.

“You’ll take care of her?”

Lucien decided not to take offense to Feyre’s words. “Of course.”

“She’s going to hate Night,” Feyre murmured. “Which is just as well given your father is Helion—”

“Am I the only one who did not know?” Lucien snapped, not daring to look for the male in question. 

“I suspect he doesn’t, either. That sort of obliviousness runs in the family,” Feyre said cheerfully. “But anyone with eyes can see it.”

She gripped Lucien’s forearm, taking him back to the city of starlight he had occasionally been granted access to. It was lovely, even bathed in daylight and blessedly untouched by the war that had ravaged through Spring and the human lands. Feyre had taken them just outside a townhouse in a nicer part of the city, its little lawn sprouting the first seedlings of grass.

“Nesta is in the House of Wind,” Feyre told him with a sigh, pushing open the door. “But I’m too tired to take you up there.”

“This is fine,” Lucien replied.

“She can stay as long as she likes,” Feyre added, granting him access to the High Lords' home. Lucien liked the sand and ivory color scheme, the tasteful decorations and well-designed furniture. The wood beneath his feet was far homier than marble and dotted about the walls were Feyre’s artwork, paintings he’d seen briefly when she’d lived among them in Spring, trying desperately to avoid the Night Court ruler and his terrible bargain.

Feyre took him up to a bedroom clearly built for someone with wings. Lucien was all too happy to put Elain down on the cream colored bedding, waiting for Feyre to leave so he could join her. He hadn’t missed her pointed words. She can stay as long as she likes. Not him, though. There was an expiration to his own visit and if Elain woke and decided she wanted to be with her sisters indefinitely, Lucien would eventually be forced to leave and ask permission to return. 

“Worry about that in the morning,” was Feyre’s response to his thoughts and too late, he’d forgotten about that fucking shield. 

“Good night, Feyre,” he replied, ignoring the way sunlight streamed cheerfully into the room. 

“Don’t forget a ward…Spell-cleaver,” she said, snapping the door shut without anger. A decent consideration, given how on top of each other they’d be and yet it almost felt presumptuous. Elain was passed out, practically curled in on herself. Lucien left her there for a bath before he finally joined her, carefully peeling her from her clothes without touching. 

It was bliss, he thought, face buried in her hair.

Home. 

~*~

For a moment, Elain thought she was back in Graysen’s apartment when she woke. It was cold and dark, just as his had always been, and she was pushed to one end of the bed while the body beside her was pressed against the other. No touching—Elain always broke down sobbing when Graysen cuddled her in her sleep. She believed him to be Lucien and couldn’t stand turning to look only to find Graysen’s dull eyes, his wrong face, his sleepy smile. Elain twisted, meaning to grab her phone and call a cab but her phone wasn’t on the nightstand…and the bed was far too large to belong to Graysen. The room was all wrong, too. Even in the dark, a sliver of moonlight slipped behind heavy curtains, pooling on hardwood floors. Chicago didn’t have a moon that bright.

She turned behind her, heart thumping in her chest at the red hair spilled over the pillow. Lucien lay on his back, the silken sheet draped over his naked hips, hand resting on his chest. Too late, Elain realized she was naked too, had likely been undressed by Lucien himself. She reached out a shaking hand to touch him, exhaling a soft, grateful sob when her hand met warm, solid flesh. It hadn’t been a dream. The shimmering bond pulling her towards him was still there. He was alive. 

Elain flung herself at him, pressing open mouthed kisses against his neck, his jaw, his ear. Lucien shifted, a soft moan slipping from his lips. “Go to sleep, Elain.” “Kiss me,” she insisted, pulling his face towards her. Lucien didn’t resist, shifting to his side as his mouth covered her own. Elain could have screamed at the feel of his lips pressed against her own, of the hungry way he immediately began devouring her. Lucien slid a hand through her hair, pulling her closer as she opened her mouth, needing to taste, to remember what it had been about him she’d once found so addicting.

“You’ve been through an ordeal,” Lucien groaned even as his body slid over her own, his mouth nipping and sucking against her neck. “You need to rest.”

“I need you,” she argued, raking her nails up and down his back. “I don’t want to sleep, I want you, Lucien—”

He covered her mouth with his again, grinding against her. Elain knew there would be no soft touches between them, no slow exploration. Not this night, not after the time that had separated them. She’d never hoped to feel the hard press of his body on her own, to have his calloused hands sliding on her skin and now that he was here, Elain needed him right now. 

Legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging against his bare ass, Lucien slid himself inside her without preamble. The thrust was almost punishing, drawing a soft gasp of air from both their lips. Elain arched against him, still clawing, still furiously kissing. 

“Oh, Gods,” Lucien groaned into her mouth, rolling his hips. He’d remained celibate when she’d left but Elain had the memory of Graysen and how she’d used him to chase the feeling of Lucien. How absurd, given how the real thing moved within her, his cock a thing of ecstasy. Gray had been nothing but a pale imitation and Elain wished she hadn’t even tried. 

“Need you,” Lucien managed, pulling her over his body, resituating them so she straddled his hips and controlled the motion between them. His hands flew to her breasts, teasing and tugging until Elain was a panting, writhing mess against him. Instinct made her grind her body against the solid muscle of his pelvis, chasing release from both the swollen bundle of nerves between her legs and the silky smooth glide of his cock within her body. Elain buried her face against Lucien’s neck, amazed by the symphony of scents that wafted around her. He was salty and musky, the scent of sun-warmed apples mixed against a smoky bonfire and chill autumn air. She wasn’t the only one driven by smell—Lucien ran his nose up and down the skin behind her ear, one hand tangled in her hair to keep her from going too far. 

He licked, shuddering a groan at whatever he tasted. His hips canted off the bed, other hand holding her hip to keep her still while he slammed into her, over and over and over until she couldn’t take it anymore. It was more than pleasure, a feeling so absolute Elain didn’t have to think about it. Just him, slick with sweat, and the utter rightness of being with him. If she’d been religious, it would have been holy, an act of divine worship. 

She came loudly, moaning his name over and over with a plea not to stop, even when she felt his erratic movement drawing him deeper, forcing him to spill himself when she suspected he would have preferred to hold out longer, to keep going. There was time, she tried to say with her still rolling hips, pulling every inch of pleasure she could get from him.

Lucien snarled, flipping her back to the bed, his mouth covering hers again with that same wild, punishing heat. Touch him, smell him, taste him—the instinct to keep going, to have more ran rampant through her, overwhelming every other thought. It was the frenzy all over again, urging them to complete the ritual, to give in and have him. Lucien was feeling it too, his cock still buried inside her, still hard and twitching. She imagined he needed very little time to recover, could keep going for the rest of the night, which was exactly what she wanted.

The voices on the wind were gone, unable to get through whatever magic Lucien had thrown around the room. She raked her fingers through his hair, holding his face in her hands. “I missed you,” she told him. “I love you, Lucien, I—” He silenced her with another scorching kiss, holding her so tight they could have melded into one person. Elain shifted and Lucien began thrusting again, wilder than before, the only sound between them the soft, wet slaps of skin meeting skin. And when his hands slid beneath her body, pushing her to her stomach, Elain whined at the loss of contact, of the connection between them breaking, if only for a second. Lucien hoisted her ass into the air, driving into her deeper, reaching for her neck until she was practically pressed against his chest.

“Kiss me,” he demanded, turning her head with one hand, the other spanning over her stomach as he drove into her, again and again until she was breathless with need. Clever fingers slid lower until he was rubbing her clit, wringing pleasure from her just as she had done before. Elain came more than once, held up only by the strong arm banded around her body until Lucien finally did, too, teeth biting into her neck to muffle the strangled sound of release. 

He collapsed to the bed, all but gasping for air. “I love you,” he panted, kissing the side of her face over and over and over. “Don’t ever leave me again.” She grasped for him in the dark, holding him tightly and smoothing the hair from his brow. “Never,” she swore, moving her face so he had to kiss her again, had to slide his tongue into her mouth to satisfy whatever need he had. 

“My mate,” he whispered desperately, sliding his cock from her body only to push back. He was still hard, still wanting. So was she, her legs sticky from release and the mingled fluid of their bodies. Elain groaned. She knew what this was and still wouldn’t have been prepared even if she had a thousand years to ready herself. Their two day frenzy, back when she’d been a human, was nothing to how she felt now. Wild. Unsated no matter how well he fucked her. She needed more, needed all of him.

Lucien was slower that time, softer, sweeter. His mouth never left hers, their bodies lined up perfectly as he pinned her to the mattress. This wasn’t the primal lust from before—it was love spoken through his hands, his lips, his gently rolling hips. Elain poured it all back, holding him even when after they came, her thighs squeezed tight around him. It would never be enough. She would always need him exactly like this. 

Lucien gave her a moment to breathe before he was lifting her leg, his fingers swirling around her again. It should have been too much. 

“More,” she whispered into the crook of his arm. “Give me more.”

~*~

Lucien didn’t know when he and Elain fell asleep, only that he woke up sticky and burning. She made it all of four steps towards the bathroom before he was on her, pushing her against the wall like it was the first time he’d ever touched her. They did even worse in the tub, fucking agaisnt the floor, the vanity, and in the water itself. She’d had to banish him in order to scrub herself clean, forcing him to cover his eyes so he could wash, too. Lucien had never been so hard in his life.

Elain was careful as they dressed, the two barely daring to look at each other. “I thought an offering of food was required?” she asked, pulling her hair off her face with little twin combs. Lucien didn’t bother with a jacket as he laced up his pants. “I think this is the bonds way of pushing us to accept.”

She didn’t respond to that and Lucien was grateful for it. He might have crawled on the floor and buried his face beneath her skirt if she had. As it stood, he’d done very little tasting and perhaps a little too much fucking. He meant to rectify that after breakfast. 

Elain pulled open the door, stepping to the side so he could lead her down where Feyre and her mate waited. Feyre wrinkled her nose the moment they stepped into the room while Rhysand grinned wolfishly.

“Sleep well?” he asked from his place at the table. 

“Like a baby,” Lucien replied, shooting them both a warning look. Don’t blow this for me.

“How long do you plan to stay?” Rhys asked instead. Elain cocked her head to the side, curls spilling down her shoulder. 

“One more night, I think,” she murmured in that faraway voice of hers. “And then we’ll go to Day Court to see Lucien’s mother.”

Lucien blinked. “Exactly.” As if he knew. Feyre raised her brows and Lucien shrugged. Who was he to deny his lady? There was no argument, not when Nesta Archeron burst into the room wearing a rather modest black dress and the angriest scowl.

“You cannot leave me up there with him,” she seethed, jerking her head towards an openly grinning Cassian just at her back. “I’d rather sleep in the street.”

“Aw, was it really that bad?” he asked, following her through the neat living room to the breakfast table. “I slept on a whole different floor!”

“How come Elain got to sleep down here?” Nesta demanded while Cassian snorted with laughter. 

“Oh, I don’t think Elain was doing any sleeping—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Lucien hissed when Elain’s eyes cleared, her cheeks blooming bright pink. Nesta swiveled her head to Lucien, eyes narrowed to slits.

“This is the man?” she demanded. “I would have thought him…” Lucien knew Nesta’s next words were going to be emotionally devastating. “More handsome.”

“That was uncalled for,” Elain said softly as Rhysand and Cassian roared with laughter. “I had nothing to say when you brought Tomas around.”

Cassian’s mouth immediately snapped shut. “Who is Tomas?”

“The ugliest man you’ve ever seen in your entire life,” Feyre replied with a smug smile. “I think Lucien is very handsome.”

“Oh, do you?” Rhysand all but purred as Lucien wished for a quick, merciful death.

“You never saw the men from Chicago,” Feyre told the table as Nesta scowled. 

“Tomas was nice—”

“He was no such thing!” Elain interrupted. “He was so rude.”

“And stupid,” Feyre added quickly, watching Nesta and Elain scoop eggs onto a plate. “Do you remember he thought chickens were related to cats?”

“Oh my God,” Elain began to laugh, wiping a tear from her eye. Even Nesta cracked a smile. 

“Because they both had feathers,” Nesta reminisced. “He’d never touched a cat before. I forgot about that.”

“I thought Elain was going to fly over the table and hit him,” Feyre laughed, her shoulders shaking.

“He was so rude about it,” Elain reminded them. “Like we were stupid for thinking otherwise. I had it on my phone and he was still arguing.”

It was nice seeing them like this, giggling over Nesta’s terrible partner and talking about a life Lucien had no awareness of. He’d forgotten the food on his plate as he watched and he certainly wasn’t the only one. Rhysand, his arm casual over Feyre’s chair, listened with starry-eyed adoration. Cassian, seated between Elain and Rhys, was trying to casually pretend he didn’t like the sight of Nesta’s animation, her bright laughter or her gesticulating hands. Their conversation slipped into other embarrassing moments—from Feyre’s first boyfriend named Isaac, a man who apparently was caught with his pants down by their father—to Gray proposing to Elain in front of a lot of people only to get rejected. The girls giggled all through breakfast and Lucien considered his exceptional good fortune to have Elain, to be part of her family in this small way. 

Elain reached for a little piece of melon on her plate, eyes sliding to Lucien. He grinned, ducking his head the moment she flung it at his face. Caught, easily, in his mouth, just as he always had. “Undefeated,” he reminded her while she smiled, turning her gaze back to her sisters. She spent the rest of the morning tossing food at him, a reminder of being human and offering him food so carelessly, casually even. Unaware of what they’d solidified, of what they were agreeing to. She knew now, had all but accepted it the night before.

Rhysand watched with bemused eyes and Lucien knew he’d be holding them to that leave date. Lucien didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t want a frenzied couple in his home, either. Lucien was mindful of his ward when he and Elain traipsed back upstairs. Nothing had changed other than the cord in their chest, which was only stronger, a steel cable instead of a silken strand. Unbroken. Permanent. 

Elain gave him no time to think on it, locking the door and accosting him with her mouth, pushing him back to the bed where they remained for the rest of the day and all of the night. He dreaded the early morning that forced them apart, sweaty and sticky and still desperate and needy. 

“I don’t want to do this,” Lucien whispered against her neck when he felt the shift in her body. “Tell me how it ends.”

“Do you really want to know?” she replied, stroking her fingers over his cheek.

“Yes.” NO. 

“It ends with us making love on a sandy beach…High Lord.”

Lucien shivered. “Today?”

Elain giggled. “Just the beach. The High Lord comes much, much later.”

“And Helion…”

“Some things even I don’t know,” Elain finally said, her face obscured in the early gloom. “We’ll face it together.”

Lucien sighed softly. “As long as there is sex afterwards.”

Elain kissed him. “There will always be sex afterwards.”

~*~

It would take decades to end the strange, stilted relationship between Lucien and Helion. That was obvious the moment Elain and Lucien had sauntered into Day Court dressed for winter despite the heat. Helion had awkwardly shook Lucien’s hand while Lucien looked anywhere but at the High Lord who might have raised him in a different world. Helion was curious about Lucien’s Day Court magic, having heard a particularly fascinating tale about Lucien’s utilization of daylight during the war. 

It probably helped very little that Lucien’s mother hovered about the study they sat in, flitting back and forth nervously, as if she expected some huge blow-up. Elain was the one who rose from the chair, trailing a hand over Lucien’s shoulder before she took the Lady of Autumn Court’s arm in her own and led her back into the spacious halls of Helion’s palace.

“They’ll be fine,” Elain murmured, slowing her steps to drink in the majesty that was Day Court. Of all the places she’d seen, Day was rapidly becoming her favorite. Everything was so open, so airy and warm and bright.

“Did he say…is he angry?” she asked, looking over her shoulder anxiously. 

“Surprised,” Elain murmured. “He loves you.”

Elain didn’t bother mentioning that Helion had been staring after Lucien’s mother with cartoon hearts in his eyes, unsure if they were anything more than two people who had accidentally made a child. The whispering wind assured her things would work out because they must, and Elain trusted the purring magic in her veins. That was true of all things. Her magic, their bond, this life…Nesta and Ferye and her, trapped in this place with immortality gilding their bones. It would work out because it had to, even if it took them a hundred years to figure it all out.

In some ways, she found that thought comforting long after she bade the Lady of Autumn–or Day—goodbye and turned towards the white sand beaches at the very edge of Helion’s palace. 

She waited, kicking off her shoes to slide her feet into the warm, crystal water, for Lucien to join her.

“This is not the place for boots,” he complained, yanking his own off before rolling his pants up to his knees. 

“How did it go?” she asked, turning her head to look up at him. Lucien offered her a shadowed smile.

“Just as you said,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her body to pull her against his chest. “He’s asked me to stay.”

Elain heard the question. We can go back if you want. Elain wanted to see her sisters, wanted to be there for Nesta as Nesta had been for her and yet it was no question at all to nod her head.

“Good. I’m already in love.”

Lucien relaxed against her. “In love, you say?”

“Desperately so,” she agreed, pleased with his wandering hand over her midsection. “I caught sight of Helion's son and could not tear my eyes off his handsome face.”

Lucien chuckled. “Helion’s son. That will take some getting used to.”

“There’s time,” Elain reminded him. “And if we tire of this place, we’ll go somewhere else. We can be nomads for the next couple centuries just figuring ourselves out.”

For Elain, who had always liked adventure and traveling, the idea was rather appealing. But for Lucien, who had always wanted a home, she thought the possibility that Day Court might provide that for him was too heady to pass up. 

He lowered his mouth to the skin behind her ear. “I believe I was promised fucking on a beach.”

“Oh you’re just the worst,” Elain complained, twisting in his arms to kiss him all the same. “Anyone could see us.”

“I hope so,” he agreed with a grin, pulling her towards the rolling waves. “I would hate to compete for your affections.”

“You’re becoming spoiled,” Elain complained, sinking into the water despite the dress she wore, so the crystal waves lapped around her neck.

“I could get used to it,” Lucien agreed, nipping at her neck. “I couldn’t do any of this without you.”

Elain twined her arms around his neck, legs tight against his waist. She was hovering over him ever so slightly this way, ignoring the way his hands had already skimmed beneath the dress floating around her to thumb against the band of her underwear. “Of course you could.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand how joyless life felt before you. An eternity stretching into nothing. I was living because I had to and not because I wanted to. You changed that, you…you were the first sunrise I’d seen in over a century. I’d been living in endless night, Elain and even after you left, I still felt your warmth, your hope.”

“Stop it,” Elain whispered, kissing him to hide her urge to cry. 

“I love you beyond reason, to the exclusion of my sanity,” he breathed against her mouth. “I didn’t realize what was missing until you came along.”

“You would have found—”

“No,” he interrupted impatiently, his cock somehow freed from his pants despite his soft words. She’d forgotten where they were, floating in that endless sea beneath sun warmed water. “ No, I wouldn’t have. I’d still be bathed in darkness even if I found this place and Helion and a home. You are the only light, Elain.”

What could she say besides, “I love you, Lucien.”

He thrust into her, mouth covering hers, swallowing her contented sigh. 

“There was never anyone else,” she continued, pressing her fingers against his cheeks so he couldn’t move, their foreheads pressed together. Lucien groaned.

“And now there never will be,” he told her roughly. She’d accepted the bond, accepted him. It hadn’t even been a choice so much as a given. Loving him was the most natural thing in the world, felt like breathing for all the thought she’d given acceptance. 

She could hear his heart over everything, drowning the sound of the crashing waves, the squalling birds, even their own ragged, frantic breathing. They were everything and nothing all at once, ancient as the very sea they stood in. When she fractured apart, her voice swallowed by the wind that had become her ever-present companion, Elain swore that the Gods themselves bowed their heads in acknowledgement of what had been created. What they shared was more than simple love—it was fate itself bending time to bring them together.

Lucien was home, wrapped in her arms, panting against her shoulder.

And so was Elain.

[poeticsandaliens]

A Pirate’s Life for Me Ch. 10

Yep. It’s still fuckin’ goin. Six months later, I finally work up the motivation to finish this chapter. I have to thank @rey-thelast-jedi for offering to draw the lovely Captain Gibson for this story; it’s been hugely helpful in pushing me to finish an especially difficult chapter (after an especially dragging absence). 

If anyone catches my stupid Shakespeare joke, congratulations and I’m so, so sorry. Cheers!

AO3 Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Stella%20Gibson*s*Dana%20Scully/works

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

Scully rowed through the burning boards of the Claudius, her mouth set in a grim line. She scoured the wreckage for a wooden chest that might contain Stella’s heart. She dared to hope she had beaten Spector to the blow; he hadn’t time to plunge his knife into the captain’s heart before the Claudius was set ablaze.

She looked to the beach, at the entrance to the creek, where a few surviving sailors had gathered at the sight of fresh water. Her paddle caught on the ship’s mast, where it floated in the center of the wreck, and as she dislodged herself, the Jolly Rodger reached from the waves, clinging to her paddle like a squid, sticky and soft from the water. She hauled it into the boat—it was only fair to carry it back to a pirate’s vessel.

In the aftermath of the battle, the bay stilled eerily. No longer did the raucous sounds of soldiers and buccaneers alike rattle on in the distance. Even the island itself, once buzzing with living creatures, had gone quiet, as if Stella’s heart beat life into the enchanted isle, and without it, the landscape itself began to wither. Davy Jones sailed with the dead, while her heart gave life to an island upon which she could never set foot. Stranger things had happened since she left Port Washington.

The rowboat carried her back to the Flying Dutchman, and the ship hoisted her aboard. She tossed the Jolly Rodger beside the a mop that was swabbing seaweed off the deck. Mulder leaned against the railing, just behind the wheel, watching the sun dip as Stella had done so many times. She told herself she’d squared with the possibility that Stella had died, that she was prepared to face the loss. Deep down, she knew adrenaline and unfinished business kept her going. There’d never been a moment to wonder if Stella would survive; Hell, not even to wonder whether she and Mulder would survive. If Spector lived long enough to plunge a knife through Stella’s heart, Scully would put a bullet in his head. An eye for an eye. A pirate’s trial.

“Any sign of Stella?” Mulder asked as she climbed the stairs to the upper deck.

When Scully shook her head, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug. “The crossfire couldn’t have killed her,” he promised, engulfing her in his arms. “You told me so—you’ve seen her get shot three times in chest and walk away unharmed.”

“What if Spector got ahold of the knife? What if he stabbed her heart before the ship went up?” Scully demanded. She stared defiantly up at him, arms crossed, steeling herself to face the worst possible outcome while hoping desperately for anything else.

“Then you would have found her body. The dead always leave bones, Scully. No one just disappears. Isn’t that something you promised me, every time I told a story of ships vanishing on haunted shores? If she died at sea, her body would be there.”

She might have believed him. But Stella’s body belonged to a curse, to the Hall of the Moerae and the forces that bound her to the Dutchman. It was ageless. For all she knew, it turned to sea foam as it hit the waves.

Still, she said, “I know.”

“Scully—” Mulder’s voice caught in his throat. “Scully, look.” He grasped her collar and pointed to the Dutchman’s lower deck. Two hands grappled with the wall, followed closely by a sooty face and a familiar waistcoat. The woman hauled herself over the side and dusted off her pants, and when she looked up, her eyes glittered even from so far away.

Scully practically slid down the netting, clambering toward the captain who stood sopping wet beneath the mast of her ship. “Stella,” she breathed, throwing her arms around her before she could get a word in. “God, Stella.” She took Stella’s ashen cheeks in her hands, took in her shape, her proud nose, the way she spelled relief and admiration and something Scully wanted to believe was love.

Scully kissed Stella with all she could muster, clasping her soot-stained cheeks in her hands. She felt Stella squeeze her waist and sweep her close, saltwater seeping through her coat and sticking to her skin. She stammered as she ran her hands through Stella’s stiff, wet hair. “I knew you couldn’t stay away for long.”

“You blew up a ship for me,” Stella rasped as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. “You commandeered the Flying Dutchman, and you sank a ship.” She shook her head, her eyes raking over Scully’s body, from bandanna to linen shirt, trousers, and bare feet. She cracked a dry, eye-crinkling smile. “You spectacular bloody pirate.”

Scully took in those otherworldly blue eyes, swimming in so much life. Socked into a body without a beating heart. Sea water dripped onto her shirt from the scarf tied around her bloody socket. She felt its loss like a garden dug into by foxes; she felt the hollowness of her face. Now, in the tattered absence of rapiers and cannonfire, she felt it fresher than the morning her mother had taught her to bake, and she’d scooped up the sweet-smelling pot with her bare hands. She gulped down a lump she hadn’t bargained for.

Stella’s fingers brushed feather-light over the worn scarf. She softened; her lower lip trembled as she tucked Scully’s hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry for what they did to you, Love. I’m so sorry.”

“Stella,” she scolded, “don’t apologize for my pain.” She pushed aside the lapels of her linen shirt to reveal the pale scar that trailed down Stella’s chest, “I make my own choices.”

“I know.” Stella kissed her again, smearing ash with her thumb down Scully’s cheek. “I never doubted you’d give them a hell of a fight. I won’t take from you the rewards and consequences of your battles. Not from such a respectable captain such as yourself.” She frowned, pulling away. “But I am sorry to see you hurt.”

“Captain Gibson.” Mulder descended from the quarterdeck, his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Scully touched his shoulder appreciatively, shooting him a grateful look as he came up beside them. He’d allowed them a moment of privacy between lovers. For the first time, she’d had carved a space in her heart for someone who wasn’t Mulder and had her life irreversibly altered in Mulder’s absence. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully had the priceless comfort of time, but with Stella, Scully shared romantic intimacy and six weeks at sea, facing monsters and deadly storms. Pirate’s life, she couldn’t help but think. Mulder hadn’t yet settled into piracy, discomfited at first by the Jolly Rodger and the self-sailing Dutchman, but for Scully he was trying, and she could ask nothing more.

Stella acknowledged him with an arch of her brow. “Fox Mulder, I presume. It’s a pleasure to meet you in one piece.”

If Mulder hadn’t had a chance to take in the chaotic grandeur of Davy Jones, he took it now. Scully leaned into Stella’s chest as Mulder studied her features. He took in her weatherbeaten cheeks, the flaking tan on the bridge of her aquiline nose, the severity of her profile. Scully loved that face; it arced and peaked like the desolate landscapes she’d read about as a child. It wasn’t the most welcoming visage, but to watch Mulder shake Stella’s hand felt as though the heavens had lifted a rock from her shoulders.

“Thanks for saving our asses,” said Mulder at last, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’d relaxed visibly in the past few minutes. They all had, slowly settling back into their bodies in the aftermath of the battle.

Stella shot him a wan half-smile. “Being dead has its perks.”

“Are you really—” Mulder stopped himself, struggling to contain his curiosity. “Dead?” it came out as a whisper.

Stella opened her shirt hem again to reveal the scar where her heart used to be and the three white bullet holes above it. One white bullet hole lay to the side, from Scully’s gun. Stella’s father’s gun.

“I’m alive,” explained Stella nonchalantly, “but the thing keeping me that way is thumping in a wooden chest.”

His initial apprehension dissolved, Mulder stared at her like a child who’d just met the fae folk. Davy Jones was the sea’s greatest legend; Stella was every mystery and old wives’ tale Mulder had worked to prove true. Scully couldn’t call her the elusive Truth—she wouldn’t wish that title upon anyone, but she was evidence of something Mulder had spent fifteen years searching for.

A glint over Stella’s shoulder caught her attention. She snatched the scope from Mulder’s hands and held it up to her eye, scanning the shoreline. What she saw squeezed the breath from her chest. Governor Spender hauled his beaten body ashore, crawling onto the pearl-white sand. The chest of Davy Jones was tucked beneath his arm. She growled and pounded her fist on the rail.

“What is it?” asked Stella.

Scully passed her the telescope. “Speaking of your bloody beating heart.”

Stella lifted the scope to her eye. Scully saw the moment it dawned on Stella that her heart was no longer thumping beneath the sand. “Shit,” she spat. “Shit. Fuck. Of course that sorry bastard has the chest.” Her chest heaved as if there were still breath in it. She flicked her gaze between Mulder’s fidgeting fingers and Scully’s gnawing at her lip. Scully drew Stella’s slight body toward her, slipping her arms around her waist.

Scully had never viewed Stella as an affectionate person, someone she had the power to comfort with a touch. Stella Gibson was a solitary creature on the prow of a ship, and to simply hold her had felt like a disturbance of that picture. Now, she sailed over that boundary.

Mulder wrung his hands. “Who has the chest?”

“Spender does.” Scully handed him the telescope. “He’s alive; he made it to shore.”  

She tightened her scabbard and fetched her coat from the rail, where it was hanging to dry. The sleeves were stiff with salt and sand, the collar stained with her blood.

“Scully,” Stella laid a hand on her shoulder, “what are you doing?”

“I’m going after him.”

Stella’s fingers brushed the bandage over her eye. She could still smell the rum on it, where it dried and caked her skin. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask. I said I was going.” Scully opened up the back of the pistol and counted the ammunition. “Where do you keep your guns?”

“Scully, listen—”

“Where do you keep your pistols?”

“ Listen to me .”

Beside them, Mulder sucked in a breath and took two steps back.

“What good will it do to save that chest? I’m cursed. I’m dead.”

“I know that,” Scully said breathlessly. “I’ve known that from the night I met you. I came aboard this ship knowing its curse.”

Stella pressed her lips together. “Then you know it can’t be broken. I will not stop you going ashore; I would never stop you. But know this: if you re-bury my heart, or we take it with us upon the Dutchman, it will do you no good to have it. I will still be cursed. You’ll grow old and die by the laws of nature, and I’ll remain as I am now until someone takes up my mantle. Remember what I am before you endanger yourself. I am not human.”

“I know,” Scully rasped. She pressed her forehead to Stella’s and cupped Stella’s cold, bloodless cheek. “I didn’t chase the horizon because I thought I could catch it. I just liked waking up to the sight of it while I could.” She took a deep breath. “Now where are the bullets?”

Stella knit her eyebrows. “Bullets are in the desk in my cabin.”

Scully nodded and fetched a handful of bullets from Stella’s desk. Tucking them into the gun one by one, she tightened the holster over her chest and re-wrapped the bandage around her head. Then she put a clean bandanna over her forehead, holding back her sea-dried hair.

“Scully.” Stella stood at the door of the cabin. “Before you go, I have something for you.” She opened a second drawer in the desk and pulled out a strip of stiff scrap leather. “Come here.”

Scully stepped forward. Stella held the leather up to her face, overtop the makeshift bandage and gauze. “This will do nicely.” She stretched out the leather on her desk, and with her letter opener, carved it into a patch. Then she sliced two eyelash-thin strips of it. Scully watched her work—quickly, methodically, chewing on her lower lip. She hated that someone else had to guard her life. She had relied only on herself for so many years that Scully could only imagine how much she hated this helplessness.

When she was finished, she gently pushed the bandage from Scully’s eye with her thumb. Scully winced. “I’m sorry,” Stella murmured. She sucked in a breath when she saw the damage, and not for the first time, Scully was thankful not to have a mirror nearby. She could feel the swollen skin, the empty socket still stinging from rum and loss. By now, the sting was a fact of life that she ignored as best she could.

Stella cleaned the wound again with the liquor and a wet cloth, unfazed by the rawness of it. If she was horrified, she didn’t say. For a moment Scully had worried she’d be put off of it; then she remembered the three bullets Stella had pulled out of her chest.

“The final touch,” Stella said softly. She slipped the leather strap over Scully’s head and pressed the black patch over her eye. Then she leaned back on her heels and examined her work. A tiny smile poked at the corners of her lips. “It’s not perfect, but you wear it well.”

Scully felt the eye patch—uneven on the edges, a little worn, but a hell of a lot better than the loose cloth she’d been using. “Do I look dangerous?” she teased.

“You look a handsome sailor,” Stella replied.

Scully smiled and patted her pistol. “Aye, Cap’n.”

The Dutchman lurked close to shore as Stella and Scully readied the rowboat one more time. Night had settled into the bay, and more stars speckled in the sky than Scully had seen in her life. Stella had pointed them out to her, one by one—Orion off the port side and Leo on starboard, the planet Venus burning white-hot overhead. Mulder was standing on the quarterdeck with Stella’s spyglass, keeping an eye on the beach.

“It looks like Spender has gone into the woods,” he said. “He was looking fairly weak, so he can’t have gone far. With this sky, you’ll be able to see his footprints.” He pointed to the full moon, hanging like a baby’s mobile over the Moerae.

“Good,” said Scully, “I’ll catch up to him quickly.”

Mulder put down the spyglass. “You mean we’ll catch up to him quickly.”

Scully fixed him with a skeptical stare. “Mulder,” she chastised. “You were hostage until this afternoon.”

“So what?” he said, descending the staircase. “I’m no pirate, but you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Scully gazed at him. “Are you absolutely sure?” She wasn’t sure what answer she wanted to hear more. She wanted Mulder’s company more than anything, but she didn’t want him to risk his life for her quest. After all, Mulder had left her in Port Washington because he couldn’t bear harm to come to her for the sake of his own crusade. Yet where had that decision landed them?

“I came all this way to keep you out of trouble, Mulder.” Scully crossed her arms. “I don’t want you to regret risking your life again.”

“Christ, Scully.” Mulder clasped her shoulder. “I spent my life awash in old wives’ tales. Davy Jones has haunted me since I was only a child. If you’re going to fetch the heart of the Sea Devil, just try to leave me behind.”

“Mulder—”

“You love the Dutchman. You love the open sea and the life of a pirate. You love Stella too much to leave her heart behind, and I love you too much to let you go alone.”

She thinks of Stella slicing out her heart in the Ophelia’s rickety cabin. My father loved England. And I loved my father.

They loosened a rowboat, and the Dutchman held it aloft over the bay. Mulder stepped in.

As the boat lowered, Scully patted her pistol and gazed up at Stella. “Remember me well.”

“Don’t jest with me, Dana,” Stella said. She kissed Scully’s cheek. “Be well.”

Scully sucked in a breath. “And you, Captain.” She climbed over the wall, holding onto the detailing with one hand. Turning her eye to the stars, she let go.

She landed with a thump in the rowboat.

“What’s the plan?” he said. He was sitting on a cross-plank, turning his pistol over in his hand. Scully wondered if the Navy had ever taught him to use it.

“Ideally,” she said, “We threaten his life and he gives us the chest without a fight.”

“Yes, because that worked so well for us last time.”

Scully rolled her eyes. “Spender had a ship of armed men. Now, he’s alone.”

“What makes you think he’ll give?”

“Because he hasn’t cut her heart out by now,” Scully said coldly. “Stella is right about him—he only wants to blackmail her to do his bidding. If there’s no one else to back up his threat, he’s harmless. Look at the way he captured you—he hired a pirate to betray his Navy because he couldn’t bear to do it himself. He’s old, rich, and comfortable. A man like Spender doesn’t fight on a principle; he fights when he knows he’ll win. He takes as much as he can while it’s easy.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Spender would rather be a prisoner on the Dutchman than die trying to command it.”

She touched the pistol again, taking comfort in the smooth hilt—molded to her father’s hands over many years of use. Mulder was watching her, his limbs curled into his body. There were lines in his face she had never seen before, an expression she didn’t recognize.

“You know… no one wants to die, Scully.” It wasn’t until he said her name that she realized what it was, the expression he was wearing: fear.

She took a deep breath. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly. “But—there are things that mean more to me than law and safety. My principles, my family…” she touched Mulder’s hand. “My friends.”

She studied him, this living face she hadn’t seen in weeks. She measured his features in the moonlight. His lower lip pushed out from his teeth like a puppy, or a young boy just getting his permanent teeth. His brow-line was perpetually worried, hanging over warm hounds’ eyes. He was at once far stronger and far weaker than her. He was a much more experienced sailor, but Scully had become something else altogether—a pirate.

“It’s funny,” he said. “All my life you’ve been the voice in my ear, telling me not to do anything foolish.”

“Are you saying that’s become your job?”

Mulder frowned. “I’m saying that if you wanted to do something foolish, I’m not sure I could stop you.”

The boat bucked in a wave, and Scully pitched forward. She gripped the wet rail as seawater sprayed her face. Mulder sputtered, snorting and shaking his head to get the water out of his nose. And Scully laughed, quietly at first, then shamelessly. Mulder joined in, a belly laugh she hadn’t heard since before he left Port Washington. He clutched his chest, his whole body bent in half and shaking uncontrollably. Scully’s lungs heaved, and a hiccup escaped her, which only made Mulder laugh harder.

They were still snickering when their boat bumped against the sand. The moon was high overhead, and the beach glowed a cold grey. She nearly expected the sand to feel like snow in her hand, but it was the same beach she’d crossed that morning. The treeline, under cover of night, was even more sinister, palm fronds dangling like fingers above the forest floor.

They followed the footprints Spender had left in the soft earth—the loping and limping tracks of a battered old man. Scully was confident they could outrun him. They hacked through bushes and vines rather than go around. They squeezed beneath roots as the trees turned from palms to monstrous oaks, thicker than she’d ever seen. They blotted out the stars, making the footprints nearly invisible. Still, strips of moonlight pierced the canopy like meat skewers, just enough to guide their way.

Then the trees vanished, as abruptly as waking from a dream. The woven roots gave way to granite, a stone desert dotted with scrub and cacti. On their right, the rock bent like a giant’s shoulders into massive cliffs. Even where she could standing, she could hear waves pound the bluff far below. She scanned the barren landscape. A silhouette stumbled through the plain.

“Mulder, look.” She pointed to the tiny figure. She started to run, always listening for the pound of his footsteps behind her.

As they approached Spender, their pace slowed. Scully constantly scanned the ground for dry scrub or gravel that would alert him to their approached. But Spender dragged on, hugging the precious box to his chest. His uniform was tattered, unbuttoned, scorched at the edges. The moon transformed his hair from grey to bone-white. He looked dead.

Once she reached a proper firing distance, Scully raised her pistol. “Stop.”

Spender froze. Slowly, he turned around. A bloody gash across his forehead muddled his face, giving him a half-eaten look. He was decaying before them, shrinking like pipe weed when it burns. He broke into a wheezing chuckle. “Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. How appropriate.”

Scully cocked the pistol. “Give us the box.”

“Why?”

“If you don’t, you’ll die.”

Spender was silent. He glanced between her and the vast expands of stone. He started to turn, and she realized—he didn’t think she would do it.

“Fuck you,” she snarled. She pulled the trigger. The bullet nicked the bottom of his loose sleeve. It wasn’t an accident—she was a better shot than that—but it had the desired effect. Spender’s eyes bugged like an insect. She noticed the tremble in his limbs. He knew the Dutchman was his only hope of escape. If he left, and Scully let him go, he would die on this island.

“Give up the chest, and we’ll take you back to Port Washington with us,” she said softly. “You’ll be a captive aboard an indomitable ship. You’ll be safe.”

Spender curled his lip. “And what about the Sea Devil?”

“She won’t kill an unarmed prisoner.”

“She’s a pirate,” he spat.

“And you have nothing to offer her. You’re disgraced. You have no gold, no land, no power.”

“Then why should I come with you? Why should I rot in jail with dogs and crooks?”

Scully curled her lip in a snarl. “Because without the Dutchman, you are doomed to wander this island until you die of heat exhaustion. Because even if you have the dagger, you couldn’t bear to stab that heart and take up Davy Jones’ mantle, utterly alone forever. You will live in prison, because you can’t live with yourself.”

Behind her, she heard Mulder take a step back.

Spender’s head hung off his neck like a vulture’s. He shivered. “Do you promise you’ll spare my life?”

Scully crossed her chest. “On my honor and the blood of Davy Jones.”

Spender put down the box. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out the dagger. The metal sang when it hit the ground. Mulder stepped forward and grasped Spender’s arms, tying them behind his back. Scully picked up the box.

It was heavier than she expected. It was made of iron and damp, dark wood. It was frigid under her fingertips. She could hear a rhythmic thump-thump inside that she tried to ignore. On the lid was an inscription.

“Ye dead man’s fingers never touch the Dutchman’s heart,” Scully read aloud. It chilled her.

Mulder held Spender by his wrists. “Let’s go, Scully.”

She glanced at the sky—clouds had begun to gather, not yet obscuring the moon, but harboring a coming storm. “You’re right. Let’s get back to—”

A gunshot. Scully dropped to a crouch. Spender crumpled in Mulder’s grip, choking and blathering. His body thumped against the earth.

She looked over Mulder’s shoulder. A man of about thirty was clinging to the edge of the cliff, his torso hauled over the side. He had friendly features that seemed to have thinned over time, taken on a rat-like quality. His eyes were fierce and cruel. This, Scully knew in an instant, was Captain Spector.

“Down with the heart,” he ordered, pointing his pistol at her. “Come on.”

Mulder cocked his pistol. “Two against one. Are you sure Stella’s heart is worth your life?”

A wicked smile crossed Spector’s lips. “Oh, you know her by name? Stroppy Stella, the great lady buccaneer. The great Davy Jones.” He sneered. “It’s only a name. What’s there to fear in a name?”

“You’re not convincing me,” Scully snapped.

“All right then,” Spector said, almost chipper. “Why don’t we settle this like gentleman? With a duel, for the dead lady’s heart. You and me, Miss Scully. After all, she’d give her heart to you freely, if you asked for it.”

“Scully—” Mulder started.

Scully held out her hand. “I accept.”

At the same time, they holstered their guns. Scully dropped the chest beside Mulder.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

Scully fixed him with the sharp gaze of one eye. “What I know how to do.”

She drew her sword. It wasn’t Stella’s father’s sword anymore—that was in the wreckage of the Claudius. But it belonged to the Dutchman, and she hoped it would lend her good luck.

Spector attacked first. She parried his strike and moved to stab at his knee, but he was quicker than she expected. He backed her toward the tree line, but she regained the ground when he briefly lost his footing. Back and forth they carried on.

She tried twice to disarm him but found him prepared for the blow. Spector had been training for longer than she had. Still, she heard her father’s voice in her head: strike; parry; lunge; watch your footwork. Always strike where he least expects it.

She caught him in the foot, and he yowled, but he blocked her next blow easily. The injury slowed him though, and soon she was gaining ground. His moves became more and more desperate. She blocked, expecting to disarm him with the next strike.

Then he reached for his pistol. She ducked before the shot went off, but the damage was done—she was on the ground. She felt Spector’s boot on her shoulder, shoving her onto her back. His sword point was at her throat, his gun at her forehead.

“No!” Mulder shouted. He aimed his own pistol at Spector, and Scully squeezed her eye shut, expecting at any second for a bullet to enter her head.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Three shots. She felt nothing. Tentatively, she opened her eye. Blood dribbled from Spector’s chest and forehead. His eyes wide with terror, he stumbled backwards. He used his last living breath to stare, glazed and shock-stricken at the person who shot him.

Stella.

[court-0f-dreamers]

ACOTAR: Restrung Chapter 2

Fic Summary: What if it was never up to Tamlin to break the curse? What if, instead, in a true test of love, Amarantha sent out Prythian’s most abhorred and cruel Highlord, to watch his land fall into ruin while trying to change the heart of a hateful human? A Court of Bitterness and Jasmine…A Court of Rhysand. Set in the same universe as our favourite Sarah J Maas characters, but with a twist. 

If Rhysand were to take Tamlin’s place how different would our story be? Or would it stay the same? 

Chapter 1  Chapter 3

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CHAPTER 2 4 days later

I need this. A few moments just for me. No one cares anyway, Feyre thought, as she leaned her head back against the coarse wooden grain.

She had had a surprising few days. After her night in the forest, she had had three days of kills. Three days of food. She was able to sell the pelts in the marketplace, where a mercenary gave her twice the normal amount for them. Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about that creature. At the most unexpected moments she would see those keen eyes, or remember that sense of home.

The rhythmic thumping sound brought her back to the present. From the sound, it was pretty obvious what was going on between Feyre and Isaac in the Hales’ old barn.

He held her, her legs wrapped around his waist, and lifted a single iron cuffed hand to push his hair off his sweaty brow.

She gripped his slight but toned shoulders harder.

He released her legs, spinning her around. She now faced a shoulder-height shelf piled high with rusty, old milk pails. She grabbed the edge and arched back urging him deeper.

His hands came around her front, squeezing her breasts, his fingertips grazing her erect nipples.

She looked down at his hands. Lean knuckled fingers, that often helped his father on the farm. She tried not to think back to last week when those hands were deworming a pig.

“More”, Feyre urgently whispered back. He increased his pace, and she arched even closer to him as the sounds of their meeting filled the barn.

She also heard a slight rustling to her side. It was a goat poking its nose in the hay strewn across the floor. It lifted its head, slowly chewing a mouthful of straw. Its beady eyes held her stare with idle tenacity.

“More!” she said, and slid her hand down. She groaned as her fingers rapidly moved between her legs.

She tried to ignore it when the goat sat down and watched.

Isaac stepped closer and thrust harder against her inner depths. For a few moments nothing else in the world existed but their bodies. Nearly there…

The door flew open. 

SHIT! Feyre thought. 

Nesta was standing there, hands on her hips, looking far too much like their mother. Shit shit shit. 

“What the hells Nesta?! Why are you here?” Feyre shrieked, as she grabbed for her clothes. She clamped down the anger and embarrassment welling inside her. No, I will not be embarrassed. She knew what we did here. “Get dressed and get outside.” Nesta said sharply, staring them down like disgruntled queen.

She buttoned my tunic and pants, not bothering to say goodbye to Isaac as she pushed her way through the doors. “Really, Nesta...!” Feyre started.

“I don’t care about your sad little tryst. There is someone waiting to see you at home, and you better start explaining yourself now.”

                                                    *** *** ***

Aalop Archeron dropped the bowl of thin soup. With even shakier hands he tried to pick it up, nearly falling over in the process.

Rhysand cringed inwardly. He should be used to this.

The older man’s cane slipped dangerously on the now wet floor.

“Father, let me”, Elain said rushing forward. “Please Sir, forgive us, please,” she whispered, bowing her head to him, unable to make eye contact.

Rhys’ expression remained impassive. He had worn this face many times over the last five hundred years. The cold, dark, soulless Highlord. For the last fifty years, this had become his face to the world. The mask he couldn’t remove.

Unless you do your job and free them, he reminded himself.

“Enough.” he said, the low tenor of his voice an unfailing command. “I don’t care. Where is Feyre, your youngest daughter?”

“She is c-coming, Sir,” Elain said, still unable to so much as lift her head up as tears silently streamed down her face.

“Please. Please.” their father begged. “Take me. I will do anything. Please. I will pay--”

Rhysand forced a cruel laugh, “You think you can pay me? How much is a life worth to you, Aalop Archeron?”.

The fact that he knew their names scared them as much as his words.

He casually picked up a small wooden carving from the table, examining the fragile object in his large hands - a winged woman with shining halo. He stared at it, the work was so delicate, and her face triggered a wisp of memory-

Behind him he heard a gasp.

He turned towards the door where Nesta held a shorter, thinner version of herself tightly in front her.

Such big eyes, was his first thought, big stormy eyes.

Feyre looked around the room, taking in the scene. Then she looked at him, and he wished she didn’t.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she spat. She seemed to look straight passed the mask, she seemed to look straight into his soul. And then across her face swept a hard look of hatred.

He would have hesitated if he hadn’t had fifty years to get used to that look.

“Now now now, Feyre”, his mocking voice drawled out her name. “Is that any way to speak to your new Highlord?”

She looked shocked. He saw her take in his immaculate black on black suit, his unnatural poise, perfect face, and his clearly non-human pointed ears. “Alright, pack your things; say goodbye. You killed a Fae in the forest, someone who was a vital part of the running of my court. As the treaty demands, you must now come with me to repay the debt.”

“What! This is absurd. I didn’t know. There is no law--”

“ENOUGH.” Rhysand raised his voice and very slightly released the damper on his power. Night filled the room. Wisps of darkness reached out and caressed Nesta’s cheek, trailed across Elain’s shaking shoulders, and clouded Aalop’s vision.

The fear in their eyes was real. He could hear it in the erratic beating of their hearts.

Good, he thought. He wanted this over as quickly as possible.

“Feyre,” her father pleaded.

Rhysand’s night receded.

Aalop reached out for his young daughter. “He has promised me that you won’t be harmed. That you just need to live in his court. You will be treated well, and then he will release you when you sentence is served. I-I am s-sorry my love”. His eyes beseeched her to understand. Understand how he couldn’t help his child. “You have always been too good for us…”

Elain finally looked at her, “Feyre, he will kill us all. He will raze this town. Feyre, help us.” she said between sobs.

Nesta said nothing, but released Feyre’s shoulder and stepped aside.

Rhysand watched shock, betrayal and then fearful acceptance cross her face. He couldn’t stand this stifling house anymore. With the single word “Hurry”, he stepped outside and waited at the road.

He was so angry. And the emotion burned through his guilt.

The fools! They had so much. They had their free lives, they had a roof over their heads, and most of all, they had each other. Yet they gave her away so easily. Even as their selfishness suited his cause, his anger grew.

He couldn’t hide his deep frown.

The Archerons mistook it for impatience.

“Go Feyre. Go.” Nesta pushed her out sold chattel.

Feyre turned away from the door and walked alongside him, looking back at her family with hungry eyes until she lost sight of them.

He looked at her small face and her stiff shoulders as she kept pace with his long strides. She was trying to be brave in front of the beast that took her away.

He was about to reach his hand out but stopped. She doesn’t want to touch you, he thought.

“We are going North”, was all he said before he grabbed her by the bag and winnowed them away.

                                                   *** *** ***

This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening to her. It took Feyre at least an hour, or longer, who knew, to get used to the idea that she was flying. No, not flying. Appearing and reappearing. Like her whole body was being shattered into a middle pieces and then reassembled in the blink of an eye. Each time in a different place across the land.

The first time she saw a sweet-smelling dark garden, the second was a stifling sandy beach, then so much orange and yellow she couldn’t tell the roof from the floor. Then, snowy blizzard. Warm light. Hot brighter light. Cold night. And then it was over.

The male next to her had barely touched her but she felt his magic release her from his side.

She tried not to look at him. He had the most stunningly beautiful face she had ever seen. That only made the terrible dark power rolling off him more terrifying. 

He turned away, panting.

They were outside a massive black wrought iron gate. Beyond it were red mountains to one side, partially obscuring the edges of a river bordered by more sharp dark mountains. On the other side were black buildings with heavy smoke churning out of the chimneys atop them.

But Feyre’s eyes were focused on the gate and its surrounding fence, and she couldn’t help but notice the intricate work, the curling whorls interspersed with ugly dangerous-looking spikes. Spikes facing inwards. This wasn’t a gate to keep people out, but one to keep people in.

She forgot all the assurances of her safety he had granted her before they left.

She was looking at the Gates of Hell.

He reached towards the double-doored gate, and at his touch it opened.

“Welcome home”, his voice, calm and soft, didn’t hide the malice at the last word.

6 hours later.

It was midnight and nothing was keeping me inside this house.

They told Feyre it was a “house” but in reality, it was a palace. A dark, festering palace atop a red mountain that looked like the maw of a giant beast. She supposed it was a fitting home for the male who ruled over it.

The city was called “Velaris” and from the little Feyre saw of it, it was a place of nightmares. It was mostly a ghost town, the buildings daubed with moist black streaks of mould. On her way in, she saw a family of faeries with long blue limbs being threatened by large, angry insectile creatures with batons. The night court police perhaps, Feyre assumed, and gave them a wide berth. Upon seeing their Highlord in the streets they immediately stopped and returned to their posts. Feyre tried not to think about how terrifying the male next to her was if these creatures feared him. The citizens hurried away without glancing in their Highlord’s direction.

After that he rushed her into this palace,and she didn’t see another being while they wandered through hallway after hallway. It might have been grand once. The red uncut stone of the walls might have been warm, the high ceilings open and inviting, but like the rest of the city it felt abandoned. Feyre tried to track the turns and distances they travelled, but she quickly lost count. She had never been in a place like this. They turned abruptly and headed down a dark staircase.

He’s taking me to the dungeons, Feyre panicked.

It must have shown because he immediately stopped, and said, “These are my private chambers. Only those closest to me can enter here. You will not be harmed.”

They went down more twisted hallways and then travelled up a long spiral staircase, which finally opened over a wide white-marble antechamber lined with high windows. Feyre realised the whole palace had been carved out of the mountain itself, and they were now at the summit.

The Highlord stopped at the first door on the left. A single glossy black door.

Throughout this journey, her emotions were a riot, swirling between blind panic and brave resignation. All those thoughts stood still when he pulled out a heavy golden key and placed in it her hand, careful not to touch her, “Your room. Once you are inside no one except your handmaiden can enter without your permission.” he said. He paused for a moment, hesitating, and then started to step away, his head low.

Who are you?, Feyre thought forcefully.

His head snapped up like she had shouted it. He looked at her for the first time since entering Velaris, really looked at her. Feyre didn’t dare look away from those fierce violet eyes.

He stepped closer, tilting his head to the side.

“What do I do now?” she blurted, “Highlord”, she quickly added.

That broke the strange silence over them.

His expression changed, and he gave her that frustratingly cool smile. “Tonight? Whatever you want. I don’t care. Eat, sleep, read, stare at the wall. I’ll come get you in the morning. Until then, feel at home.” He said mockingly, knowing she could never feel that way.

He spun on his heels and walked away, hands in his pockets, with an aura of complete satisfaction.

A beautiful Fae was waiting in her room. Cerriwden, she said her name was. She spoke softly and moved through the rooms with silent grace, her straight, waist-length hair swaying behind her. Rooms, Feyre had rooms now. There was a sitting room with a desk, shelves of books, and a large fireplace framed by a comfortable couch. The bedroom was dominated by a decadent high-canopied bed, and was connected to an equally large bathing room holding a sunken grey tub. Each room was at least three times the size of her whole house.

Cerriwden ran a bath for her and helped her into clean, soft night clothes. Her warm, sure hands on Feyre were the only reminder that this was real, and not a twisted dream. And though Cerriwden spoke little, her gaze was keen, taking in everything Feyre did.

Well, she doesn’t work for me, Feyre thought.

Occasionally, Feyre noticed a twinge of pity, of sadness when the handmaiden’s clear black eyes met hers. In those moments, Feyre felt shame, and guilt, and hurt. She wasn’t going to be kept here, a prisoner in a lavish cell.

Which brought her here, at midnight, with her legs thrown over the ledge of her window, high above the sleeping city. Feyre tried to judge how quickly she would die if her accidentally slipped right now. She had used the trimmings of the rich curtains to fashion a rope, and she planned to attach it to the multiple balconies and balustrades that dotted her path down the mountain face. Just like the trees in the forest at home, she told herself as took in deep breath and jumped.

She made leap after leap, careful not to look down the at the dizzying fall should she miss. But her forest and her home were far from here. She didn’t know if she was thankful or angry at that fact. Thankful that despite the little they had, her family were not in this place. But angry that they were left to die. Without her, how would they feed themselves? And deep down, she hoped they would realise how much she gave them, and then they would come to regret how they barely fought to keep her.

A few more leaps and she was at the bottom. She was careful to tuck her homemade rope into her bag. She then grabbed the bow and two fighting knives she took from home and secured them within easy reach.

Preparation first. Know your what you are dealing with, Feyre, she thought. Then figure a way out.

She was not prepared for the sight of Velaris at night.

Feyre’s senses were assaulted as she took in the scene before her. Everywhere the sights, sounds, and smells of the crowd was overwhelming. The streets were teeming with High Fae, pushing each other around, yelling, leering, grinding against each other. Thumping music blared from doorways, different beats and rhythms, all merging on the street into a chaotic cacophony. The main street was lined with bars and restaurants, all filled with fae and faeries. Feyre sensed the threat of violence slinking underneath the revelry, a manic intoxication was could be uncorked at any time.

Her subconscious had picked it up before she acknowledged it. This was not the celebration of a happy, satiated people. These were the revels of a cruel and angry court. Her eyes narrowed to the faeries interspersed between the High fae. The faeries were waiting on them, servicing them, desperately trying to keep their establishments from being torn apart by them - the faeries were being abused by them.  She tasted something bitter in her mouth. Fear.

She was an outsider here. She was a weak human. She quickly walked away from the broadway. She avoided the storefronts closing for the nights, patrons throwing down their rubbish as they left,  smashing bottles and swearing. She was careful to dodge a drunk vomiting man only to nearly walk into someone pissing off the broadwalk. Thankfully, no one paid much attention to her.

She decided to make for the docks. Docks meant ships, and ships meant a way out.

But there were no ships.

By the waterfront inside the abandoned boatshed, there were only more faeries. It was quieter here, but somehow even more dismal. There were faeries from every part of Prythian, it seemed. Some looked like humans, some seemed like an extension of nature itself. A faerie with verdigris skin and hair like the richest leaves sat next to a pale white faerie with skin like translucent tissue paper. Groups of threes and fours clustered around barrels filled with fire, clutching packets of food in paper. Others were sitting up on thin bed mats and cardboard mattresses laid on the floor. There was muted conversation amongst the heads held low. Feyre had seen enough of hunger and poverty to recognise it on all these faeries instantly. She didn’t dare speak to anyone, it was clear that no one here wanted to be noticed either.

She crossed a bridge to the other side of the river and entered another cluster of buildings.

Here were hundreds of houses built almost on top of each other. They had sprouted up in a disorganised mass, a colony that had grown too quickly and irregularly, crawling from the waterfront to cling to the steep mountain face. But there was a beauty in it, for it was the only speck of colour in this city of stark black, tarnished red and drab grey. All the shanty homes were painted every colour of the rainbow. Though fading, with nothing of the bright technicolour of Elain’s garden in spring, it had a coherence and unity that was lost everywhere else in the city.

As she walked through the uneven alleys, she saw the walls of the homes were crumbling, roofs replaced with corrugated iron, and doors and windows sealed shut with makeshift wood planks. There were signs of the fae that inhabited those homes, with occasional clotheslines, rain waterpots on doorsteps, and the telltale flicker of a candle beneath a door frame. But for so many homes, the silence was eerie.

Until she heard something.

The scratching of claws against a wall. A girlish scream cut short. The sounds of scuffed boots on the ground.

She cautiously turned the corner.

Four creatures with bat-like faces, leathery wings and insectile bodies were crowded around a Fae girl.

“Hmmm, out after curfew. Your Highlord’s rules don’t protect you now”, one of them hissed. They leaned in close. Their leering glances made it clear what she needed protecting from.

The girl looked around for any path to run into, for anything that might help her.

They creatures started clicking, rubbing their claws together, purposefully taunting her.

Before Feyre could consider the consequences she picked up a large rock and aimed it. The creature closest to her grunted loudly as it hit him on the back of the head.

They turned towards Feyre in unsettling unison.

“RUN!”, Feyre yelled to the girl, who needed no encouragement as she bolted towards Feyre. They both ran through the pot-holed alleys that bordered the homes, turning often in the hope they could lose the creatures.

“Attors!”, the girl exclaimed pointing to the right, “We need to go this way. Attors hate water”, she pointed back towards the docks.

They veered sharply right, ducking under a low clothesline.

Straight into the path of a waiting Attor.

“Aren’t I lucky? I get two of you all to myself”, his voice dripping with vicious pleasure.

Feyre palmed the knives she had hidden in her boots as they backed away.

They barely got three feet away when the Attor flapped its leathery wings and appeared behind them, obstructing their path out.

“Rhysand has been careless”, he hissed gleefully. “Let’s get rid of those”, he reached over and with one swipe knocked both the knives out of Feyre’s hands, cutting her skin with his razor claws.

Defenceless now, Feyre tried to reach for her bow.

My bow!, she realised belatedly it wasn’t on her back. She had made the thin linen string herself. It must have snapped while she was running.

Panic seeped into the souls of her feet. This is it. It’s over.

The Attor moved in closer, reaching towards Feyre. “I think I’ll start with you”, he rasped, breathless at the thought.

Suddenly his head jerked up, and before either of them could make another movement, a bone-shuddering tremor snapped through the ground. Immediately followed by another.

Feyre held her breath as everything stopped. A hundred feet behind the Attor, still crouching from the impact of their landing, were two leather-clad Fae.

They stood together and started walking towards them, their magnificent wings flared out wide, spanning the length of the alley. The way they moved their tall, muscular bodies with restrained ease, the weapons strapped to every inch of them, and the fierceness of their expressions made it clear who they were - Warriors. These were the Fae of dreams and nightmares. And they were beautiful, in all their gloriously and deathly fury.

Feyre made herself small and started to inch back the alley. For whatever reason they were here, the distraction could save her life. They surely didn’t even sense her insignificant human self.

“Who in the hells are you?” the Attor hissed at them.

“I’m glad you asked,” said the broader one with shoulder length hair and rough-cut features, coming up to them, “now you will know who sent you back to that pit you crawled from.”

In a flash of silver, he unsheathed two short swords and scissored them across the Attor’s thick neck. Feyre stopped still, barely noticing the black blood spraying the walls as its lifeless head rolled towards her feet.

“Oh I lied. I didn’t let you live long enough to find out”, he said with an angry half-smile.

The taller one, a dark Adonis, rolled his eyes. Shadows swirled around his ears as his gaze turned to her. She was trying to still her hammering heart, when he nodded and said, “Hello, Miss Feyre. I’m Azriel, and this is Cassian. Welcome to Velaris”.

[katerbees]

Say You Won’t Let Go

Song from Rowan’s perspective about meeting Aelin. Falling in love with her, and their life post-TOG Intertwined with Lyrics to Say You Won’t Let Go. Hope y’all love it!!

–Say You Won’t Let Go–  

Songwriter credit: Neil Richard Ormandy / James Arthur / Steve Solomon

I met you in the dark, you lit me up You made me feel as though I was enough

Rowan had been a broken male when he met Aelin. His wife and unborn child had been murdered, and in that vacuum of despair, he had sworn the rest of his life away in the service of Maeve. He had given up on everything and resigned himself to be used as a tool for destruction. What was the point in hoping for anything better? But then, he had met Aelin. She had been as lost and broken as he had. Rowan was assigned to train her by Maeve. Maeve had known that he and Aelin were mates. No doubt she had received sick pleasure in dangling them in front of each other.

Slowly, over time, they came to trust each other. Trust turned to friendship, friendship turned to love.

  We danced the night away, we drank too much I held your hair back when You were throwing up

Then you smiled over your shoulder For a minute, I was stone-cold sober

 The night of Aelin’s first burnout during Beltane, Rowan had been observing Aelin’s power to hold the flames steady. There was dancing, drinking, revelry, going on all around them. Rowan had found himself so attracted to Aelin that night that he barely noticed any of it. Until the strong woman he had been admiring and coaching became bewitched by the flames and the music. Her body and her power were no longer her own. He had lost her.

Instructed by the healers, he continuously cooled her off, over and over again. He placed freezing cold rags on her head to try and bring her back from the Hell that she had created inside her own body. He gently asked her questions each time he dispensed new rags and then had gone to fetch a tonic.

When Rowan returned he saw her back. More specifically, he had seen the scars on her back where her flesh had been torn from her young body. The shock and anger at seeing those healed wounds hit him like a physical blow. He had gaped. Rowan, who had killed hundreds of men, seen vicious wounds on the battlefield, found himself speechless.  

I pulled you closer to my chest And you asked me to stay over I said, I already told ya I think that you should get some rest

 Rowan had flown for hours after that. He was so angry at the nameless, faceless guards of Endovier. And at Maeve. And more than the rest, angry at himself for not being more approachable so she could have felt safe telling him. He had to do something. That woman deserved better in this world. And he could treat her better.  

He returned to Mistward, scooped her up, and took her into his own room. Into his own bed. No ulterior motives. He wanted her to feel safe. He wanted her to know that he cared about the terrible things that had been done to her and that she had almost died earlier that night. He needed her to know that she mattered to him.

She stretched out her hand towards his; he was at the edge of the bed, showing that he was a gentlemale. She told him her entire story, finally stopping as she was nodding off. He held her hand the whole night.

I knew I loved you then But you’d never know ‘Cause I played it cool when I was scared of letting go

Aelin had bargained for Rowan’s freedom. He could never have even hoped for a gift such as the one she had given him. He had never hoped for freedom. He had never hoped to love again. Yet here he was. He had fallen in love with Aelin.  He swore a blood oath to her immediately for her protection. And because a primal part of him wanted to always be needed by her. Even if she didn’t feel the same as him; even if he could never be the kind of male a queen deserved, he could still be useful to her in other ways.

And just like that, she was on a boat back to Adarlan. And she was not letting him go along. And it hurt so very badly. But he respected her and her wishes. He would repair Mistward and await word from her.

I know I needed you But I never showed But I wanna stay with you until we’re grey and old Just say you won’t let go Just say you won’t let go

 They were married in a small ceremony on a boat later that year in the middle of the War. Only Aedion and Lysandra and the ship’s captain had been present. Two days later Maeve had kidnapped Aelin, thrown her in an iron coffin, with chains and a mask to contain her power. Rowan had found her, his old cadre had risen up against Maeve. Aelin had died to fulfill the prophecy of the gods. Rowan gave up his immortality in exchange for Aelin to come back. It had been an easy choice. What would life be like without his Fireheart? It would be hell.  

I’ll wake you up with some breakfast in bed I’ll bring you coffee with a kiss on your head And I’ll take the kids to school Wave them goodbye

  Rowan and Aelin did not know if they would ever be blessed with children. They knew that due to both of them having fae heritage, the odds would not be in their favor. Additionally, the terms of Rowan’s bargain were nebulous, as deals with gods always are; while he and Aelin were no longer immortal, they also had no way of knowing if they would have short, normal, or longer lifespans.

After five years of making love whenever they felt like it, they were delighted to find out that Aelin was with child.  Rowan was excited yet so scared. When Aelin birthed their daughter, Nehemia, Rowan cried tears of joy. Aelin was exhausted but had never been so happy. She felt proud that after so many years of taking lives and destroying, she had created something so innocent and precious.

Rowan scooped up the tiny, chubby cheeked babe, brought it up to his chest, and breathed in her scent. He and Aelin had created this perfect new life. Gods his life had changed so much in the past 7 years.

7 years later Nehemia was a wonderful older sister to 3 year old Gavin. Rowan couldn’t believe how lucky he was. How he had now been blessed three times over by his wife and their children. He often thanked Mara for her protection and blessings, even though the gods had left when Erawan had been banished.  He never thought he would have the opportunity to wake up to his children laughing. To his wife’s beautiful body draped over him in the morning.

And I’ll thank my lucky stars for that night

When you looked over your shoulder For a minute, I forget that I’m older I wanna dance with you right now

 Rowan and Aelin were at a ball celebrating the birth of a new princess in Eyllwe.  He approached Aelin from behind, her scent filling his nostrils. He nuzzled the crown of her head, “I love you, Fireheart” Aelin reached back to bring Rowan’s arms around her torso.

“I love you buzzard” she arched her neck to the side and lifted her head to receive a kiss. Rowan obliged.

“May I have the next dance?” Rowan asked, pulling her close and kissing her delicate neck skin. “And the dance after that.” Another kiss. “And  after that, and I think you get the idea.” He twirled her around to face him.

Aelin tried to keep a straight face, tried to not let everyone see how much her mate had gotten her all worked up. At this rate they would need to excuse themselves to ‘freshen up.’ She pursed her lips together, and clicked her tongue. “Well, as you may know, as Queen, I don’t like to play favorites, but I’ll make an exception for you,” she winked at him, kissed him, and lead him out to the dance floor.

Oh, and you look as beautiful as ever And I swear that everyday you’ll get better You make me feel this way somehow

I’m so in love with you And I hope you know Darling your love is more than worth its weight in gold

Nehemia and Gavin were adults now. Nehemia had found love with a Prince from Briarcliff, while Gavin was studying healing and learning to control his water magic in Banjali.  Rowan and Aelin were beginning to age. Aelin would pause by the mirror on occasion, in disbelief that she now had 4 grey hairs and some fine lines. Rowan thought she had never looked more beautiful. She now possessed the kind of beauty that comes with age, with living . Fine lines forged in loving and crying and laughter. Lines created by days in the sun with their children and friends. Grey hairs from the privilege of growing older.  His mate didn’t always agree. “You’re biased! You’ve always had white hair so of course you don’t mind it!” Aelin shouted from the bathroom one night before bed. Rowan just chuckled. And when she came to bed that night, he worshipped her like he did when they were first together. He worshipped her from her toes all the way up to her grey hairs. We’ve come so far my dear Look how we’ve grown And I wanna stay with you until we’re grey and old Just say you won’t let go Just say you won’t let go

 There was no denying it. The King and Queen of Terrasen were approaching the end of their lives. Gavin would be a fair and just ruler. Nehemia was a consort in her own court and as such, the right to rule had passed on to her brother.  

Rowan had slowly begun to shrink the past few years. The frailty of aged bones and a lifetime of being a warrior catching up with him.  He and Aelin would walk in the Orynth courtyard on days when they felt up to it. Gavin had secretly been installing more benches as his parents needed to rest more and more often.

One Spring morning, they sat down on one of these new benches to take a rest.

Rowan turned to Aelin, a clarity in his eyes that was no longer always present. “Aelin. Have I ever thanked you for saving my life?”

Aelin took her husband’s hands into her papery hands. She sat there for a moment trying to guess what he meant, trying to feel it with her soul, as they so often were able to communicate. She gleaned nothing. “You gave up your immortality for me and to save me from death.” She responded, her long grey hair blowing in the breeze.

Rowan’s voice was quiet, “I wasn’t living until I met you Aelin. I was existing. I was skin. I was bones. But I was not alive. Thank you for giving me two wonderful children and for giving me a lifetime of love.” He squeezed her hand, and moved in to kiss her on her cheek.

Tears slid down Aelin’s timeworn face. “Oh Rowan. You saved my life long before you saved me from Limbo. You saved me from that pit of self-pitying hell I was in back at Mistward. I say, we’re even.” Alin smiled, lifting up their joined hands and kissing Rowan’s.

“To whatever end?” Rowan asked.

“To whatever end” Aelin replied. More tears were building up in her eyes and she did not need to ask what he meant.

I wanna live with you Even when we’re ghosts ‘Cause you were always there for me when I needed you most

I’m gonna love you till My lungs give out Aelin was alive. And yet she was not.

The King of Terrasen, Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, had passed away in his sleep the night before. The household woke to Aelin howling like an animal.

“Rowan!!!! Ro—–wan!!!!” wailed over and over again. Aelin was in the bed with him, lying next to him, shaking his body gently.  Even though she knew in her heart and soul he was going to die soon, even though she knew that he had been preparing for it, she still did not believe it. Her mate was dead. Her heart was breaking. It was broken. Her chest physically ached. She did not want to live without him again. She could not breathe, she did not want to breathe, she could not do th……..

I promise till death we part like in our vows So I wrote this song for you, now everybody knows 'Cause now it’s just you and me till we’re grey and old

Just say you won’t let go Just say you won’t let go

Just say you won’t let go Oh, just say you won’t let go

 And just like that, Aelin faded into the Afterworld. There was no pain. There was only warmth. And the smell of pine and snow.