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fenrys-moonbae · 4 years

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A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness--Chapter 4

Eleanor had been avoiding the male like the plague, skirting around him in the palace like a mouse desperately fleeing a hunting feline. She’d been at this since their awkward exchange days prior when he’d come to check on her and she’d halfheartedly muttered her thanks before claiming she felt faint and shooing him out.

Not that he’d been seeking her out; on the contrary, he’d been a right gentleman about respecting her space. She hadn’t caught a glimpse of him since that night, and she fully intended to keep it that way until he departed.

Grousing internally, she pulled her scarf about her shoulders and frowned. Men weren’t allowed to be that endearing, weren’t allowed to be that sincere and certainly weren’t allowed to be that pretty. He should have been a ripe ass, full of ego and entitlement like the other men she’d had the misfortune of knowing.

It was unnatural.

Walking briskly, she slipped into the hallway and down the stairs, taking them two at a time as she shuffled toward the kitchen hoping to snag a tray of tarts and some stew before lunch was served. She’d been skulking around in the shadows, only leaving her room when she was certain she could avoid running into anyone.

As far as Glaston was concerned she was still recuperating, healing from her unfortunate accident and unable to handle company and therefore free of her hosting obligation. Even as gossip ran rampant through the palace like a pox, every recollection of the tale growing grander and more outrageous.

These retellings had included such nonsense as the fae soldier having faced fifty feral boars with nothing more than his bare hands to protect their dear and precious princess. Eleanor had nearly wept when the tale had cycled back to her, Evalin in fits at the absurdity of it all as she recounted all the stories she’d gleaned.

Eleanor noted that it was most unfortunate they did not possess a moat in which she could drown herself and be rid of such nonsense. Perhaps if she died she’d return as a banshee, wailing her woes and drowning the servants who kept the wheel spinning.

They’d learn to stop moving their lips then.

Eleanor was nearly to the kitchens when she heard the tap of footsteps and cursed as she glanced around. What if it was Gavriel? She could not bear to face the male any more than she could bear to sit through another of Dennor’s nasally speeches.

Quickly she darted to the great window on the left of the hall and slipped behind the golden curtains, pulling the thick fabric around her. Surely even the fae warrior wouldn’t notice her if she remained entirely still and held her breath?

She waited several long seconds, breathing slowly as she heard the footsteps pause before rapidly approaching. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head to the side as the curtain was torn back away from her. She could just pretend she wasn’t there---

“Elle, what in hell’s realm are you doing?” She peeled open one eye, relieved to see Evalin holding the curtain back instead of a certain golden-haired male. She deflated.

“I was dusting!” She ran her hand over the window, already immaculately scrubbed. “See? Good as new.” Evalin narrowed her eyes in a way that assured Eleanor that she didn’t buy into such nonsense for a second. “Are you still hiding from our guest?” Her cousin pointed a lovely finger at her slippers. “A word of advice: if you’re going to hide, do so in a way that your shoes aren’t sticking out from the bottom of your hiding spot.” “Did you ever consider that the curtains may have started wearing shoes?” Eleanor poked her head out from behind the curtain, glancing sidelong to ensure she and Evalin were alone in the hallway. “It’s the newest in Adarlanian fashion, as you should know.” Evalin rolled her eyes as she dragged Eleanor out from behind the fabric. “I’ll make sure to note it. When was the last time you left the palace? You look dreadfully pale.”

“Not since the incident, if that’s what you’re asking. Do not fear, dear cousin, I’ve taken to the idea of becoming a cryptid, pale and monstrous, lurking through halls at night and preying on the innocent.” “Enough nonsense out of you,” Evalin shoved Eleanor forward, “you’ll go outside this instant, or so help me.” “Fine, fine!” Eleanor grumbled, stumbling forward as her cousin guided her toward the archway leading to the gardens. “Might we grab tarts first? I’m famished.” “You’ve eaten nothing but sweets for a week,” Evalin clicked her tongue. “Too much sugar. Get something with more sustenance.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“Of course, Nan, forgive my ignorance.”

Evalin flicked her ear.

“Ow! Anneith’s bosom, Eva, I have need of that.”

“Then don’t call me Nan.”

She’d still snuck a tart regardless of Evalin’s lecturing after they’d taken an early lunch, nibbling on the edge of the pastry as they strode through the extensive gardens. Many of the flowers were dormant with autumn beginning to take hold over the earth, but the gourds and changing leaves provided an easel of color for their enjoyment.

Eleanor sincerely hoped the winter might bring a rare ice storm, though with the temperate climate it was highly unlikely. It did not stop her from wishing for it though. She’d always had a love for the cold, for the scent of pine and snow she’d had the pleasure of experiencing once on a trip to one of the mountain estates that their family owned.

She’d always wished to live in it, to enjoy the brisk chill and warm herself by the hearth. Not the continuous drone of heat and humidity that Wendlyn provided. And perhaps she’d get the chance, if she chose to follow Evalin. Gods knew she’d been getting her fill of snow when she went north to Terrasen.

“You’re going to become a queen of ice,” Eleanor murmured as she strolled lazily down the path next to Evalin, “encrusted in snow and holly. We should add more fur to your wardrobe.” Evalin gave a small laugh, her slim shoulders shaking. “You do know there are summers in Terrasen, yes? It was quite lovely during my visit.”

“Oh yes, they brought you there to give you the impression of how lovely it is before it’s buried beneath heaps of frozen ice crystals,” Eleanor put a hand to her mouth, Ashryver eyes twinkling, “I do hope that Prince of yours will be enough to keep you thawed in the dark, frozen nights. I have heard he is quite . . . delicate.”

A lie. Eleanor knew just how athletic and strong the young Prince of Terrasen was, but what fun was acknowledging that when it came to teasing Eva?

“He . . . he’s just yet to grow into himself,” Evalin griped indignantly, giving a rare flush as she defended her husband. “He’s very lean, mind you, and fast as an adder.” “Mm, excellent in a battle but agility will do little when you are turning into an icicle,” she finished off her pastry and dusted the powdery sugar off her fingers. “You will be queen; however, you can always hold a tourney to acquire yourself a bed warmer. Or two.”

“I refuse to be as uncouth as my dear aunt,” Evalin’s lips downturned, her features pinching. “I have no intention of keeping men as pets for my own pleasures.” “Really? That’s the one thing I think that queen got right, I’d be quite content with a palace full of lovely, pretty men to do my bidding.” “Funny, considering you won’t even talk to one of those pretty males.” “Note the difference there, dear cousin, males not man. I prefer mine mortal and capable of death. What point would there be if I couldn’t become a widow if the need were to arise?” Evalin stopped, looking incredulously at Eleanor. “You jest.” Eleanor kept her face neutral, willing seriousness to her features even as she felt a smile creeping onto her face. Evalin merely sighed and shook her head.

“Well, at least I shall never have to fear for your wellbeing. I’m starting to think I should be more concerned for your future love, however.” “That would be the wisest course of action.” She winked at her cousin, who gave a breathy laugh in reply.

“Nonsense. You speak nothing but nonsense.”

“Not nearly as much as the rest of the stuffy airheads in court,” Eleanor barely realized they’d wrapped around to the gardens in front of the palace, the training grounds stretching out before them where the palace guard sparred, the sound of practice swords clashing echoing across the grounds. “Have you heard the newest deliberations? Apparently, the latest argument is over whether the minstrels for the spring ball will wear blue or teal. It’s preposterous.” “I’m not even certain Glaston could tell the difference between those colors,” Evalin mused, stepping over a loose stone on the path. “He’s likely letting them bicker amongst themselves to buy himself a moment’s peace.” “Not a bad strategy, honestly,” Eleanor turned her attention towards the training grounds, hoping to spy some of the young and shirtless recruits training. “It’s the sole bit of proof that we’re related to soulless husk he’s become.” “He has changed in recent years,” Evalin agreed, longing entering her eyes as she no doubt reflected back on her brother’s youth when he’d been nearly as fierce as the two princesses in the garden. “Ruling has done him no favors.” Her voice trailed as though she thought to say more.

Eleanor took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. A decision had formed in her mind as she spoke, one she’d been mulling over for the last few days when she’d confined herself to her room to wait out the rumor mill.

What better time to tell her than now?

“I assure you will never become so unbearably stuffy, it’s not in your nature. Besides I will be there to shake sense into you if you ever start acting so foolishly.” She squeezed her hand once more, hoping to the gods her cousin understood.

Evalin wheeled on her, blue eyes sparkling at the implication. “You intend to come?”

Eleanor shrugged noncommittally, “I suppose Terrasen couldn’t be too dreadful,” she nudged Evalin gently, “especially if the men are lovely enough to enrapture someone as levelheaded as you are.”

Evalin took both of Eleanor’s hands in her own, true joy sparking across her lovely features. “Swear it to me, swear you’ll come, and we’ll never have to be apart.” Eleanor rolled her eyes before conceding. “I swear it, Eva, I’ll join you in your little castle of ice.” Evalin swept her into a hug that nearly squeezed the air from her, her cousin’s grip tighter than any vice.

“You have no idea what joy hearing that brings me,” Evalin stepped back, relief glazing her features, “to know you will be by my side. I could ask for no better news.” “Don’t forget, Eva we’ll still have to break it to Glaston.” Eleanor wasn’t exactly keen on telling her cousin and family that she’d be flitting off to a foreign land on a whim, especially when she hadn’t so much as asked their approval to do so. “We might want to serve him several decanters of wine before we broach the subject.”

“We’ll make it work, I swear it.”

“I’m certain, but in the meantime,” she nodded toward the training field, “I would like to continue our walk and enjoying the view.”

Evalin gave a high laugh before linking arms with her cousin. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your afternoon’s entertainment,” her voice dropped down to a conspiratorial whisper, “perhaps they’ll take off their shirts off if we’re lucky.” “That is the hope.” Eleanor murmured back just as quietly, her spirit lighter than it had been since Evalin’s engagement. “If needed I can throw a bucket or two of piss on them to encourage it.”

Evalin snickered.

They quickened their pace as they trailed down the stone path, keeping quiet as they approached on silent feet. The sound of swords clashing, and shouting grew louder as they approached, trying to keep their presences unknown. How many times had they made this very walk as teens, feigning interest in their training when all they cared for were the bodies doing the training.

“Oh look, Captain Liam’s even joined the fray,” Evalin’s eyes were fixed on the man she’d held unrequited love for the better part of her teen years, a fleeting infatuation that had crumbled when Evalin came to the harrowing realization that said captain had a wife and a child nearly her own age. “Must be someone keeping him on his toes if he’s getting involved.” Eleanor rose slightly on her tiptoes, trying to see past the dark-haired Captain’s heaving back as he circled his opponent, the sword in his hand held tight, his movements calculated. It must have been some new recruit with exceptional skill, she’d never seen the man so much as winded when he trained.

She leaned closer, willing Liam to move more quickly so she could get a peek at just who was giving him a run for his money—

She sucked a in breath of disbelief, her eyes glazing as she caught sight of Gavriel circling on the other side of the captain, looking all the world like a storm of seduction that had her clamping her knees together. She hissed. What god deemed it appropriate to give him a torso like that, rippling with lean muscle? Even in his thin shirt she could see the panes of his taut stomach, smooth and no doubt glistening with sweat.

And his hair, pulled up in that half ponytail showing off that elegant jaw--

Were all the fae this forsakenly beautiful?

It was a sin for someone to be that damned attractive. Tawny eyes flickered briefly towards her before focusing back on his opponent as the captain rushed him in his moment of distraction.

“By the gods, Eva,” she wheezed, her eyes trailing over the thin shirt that clung to his torso, “look at him.” She missed the look of amusement that overtook her cousin’s features, even as her own eyes kept trailing toward the training warrior. “He’s not real, I swear it to all the gods.”

She watched, transfixed, as he easily sidestepped Liam’s blow and matched it with one of his own, sending the Captain of the Guard flying. Liam hit the ground with a resounding thump and let out a groan of pain. Gavriel immediately sheathed his training blade ad strode forward to offer a hand to the grounded captain, easily lifting him to his feet.

Evalin clicked her tongue. “He’s a bit broad for my taste.”

Eleanor’s dress suddenly felt too warm, too tight and chaffing, the words mindlessly tumbling out of her slack jaw as she murmured, “I wouldn’t mind if he walloped me like that.”

“Excuse me?” Evalin inquired, laughter coating her tone. Realizing she’d said the words aloud, Eleanor snapped her mouth shut, heat racing up her cheeks.

“I mean training, perhaps I should ask him to train me,” she finished weakly, her knees wobbling a bit beneath her dress. He was nothing but a menace in her life, a pest that needed to take its beautiful self back to Doranelle at the earliest convenience—

Gods, even the way he moved was enticing. She watched as he strode for the table set beside the training ring, his thighs and backside lovely in his tight breeches, and lifted a pitcher of water and promptly dumped it over his head before shaking the excess water free, sending glittering droplets dancing into the late afternoon sun. She nearly squealed. She needed to leave right that moment—

“Come on, Eva,” she started tugging at her cousin, willing her to move as she dug her feet into the stone path beneath her. “We should head back to the palace, go do some needlework or something, anything—”

“Why?” Evalin’s lips had quirked as she remained solidly rooted to the spot. “He’s headed this way to say hello, I think we should stay and greet him.” “Eva, please—”

“Your Highnesses.” Eleanor snapped her attention towards Gavriel as he approached, his tawny eyes alight with the rush from sparring, broad shoulders shifting beneath his now translucent shirt—had he no decency? “I am glad to see you are finally well enough to be up and about, Princess Eleanor.” He stopped opposite the path and inclined his head toward her. “I assume your shoulder is not giving you any trouble?” She swallowed, letting go of her hold on Evalin’s arm before turning to face him, scrambling for the words. “It’s . . . fine.”

How terrible would it look if she just bolted for the palace? She could claim she’d got a severe case of nausea, feign illness again--

“Good, I had hoped as much.”

“I see you’re training,” Evalin noted, nodding towards the training ring, something tightening in her voice, “I assume our training protocols are satisfactory to you. I know they are vastly different than what you are accustomed to in Doranelle.”

Eleanor hadn’t expected the bite that came with the question, the way Evalin had straightened her shoulders as she stared him down. It took her a moment to realize the reason for Evalin’s discomfort—she feared he was gleaning tactical information, noting their forces and their abilities.

Understanding filled Gavriel’s tawny eyes.

“Ah, you’re correct, Highness,” he nodded over a shoulder, looking almost sheepish as though he hadn’t thought about what he was doing. “Some of the men asked if I’d be willing to show them a few of our maneuvers during my stay, I’d hoped to help them, and as I’ve had a large amount of free time . . .”

Even though it shouldn’t have, hearing the words from him gave Eleanor comfort, his tone lacking the manipulation and hatred she’d expected of one of Maeve’s personal soldiers. It seemed Evalin felt the same as the tension fled her shoulders, her tone softening. “Then please continue, do not let our presence hinder your drilling. I imagine the men are grateful for any instruction you have to offer them.”

“I’m happy to teach what I know.” He gave a polite smile, “It was a pleasure to see you both.”

“Likewise, my lord,” Evalin said with a curtsey, something like shame flitting over her features. From the way Gavriel bowed graciously in return, Eleanor got the feeling he did not blame her for the suspicion.

Which was such foolishness, given that he was one of Maeve’s personal guard.

“And, my Lady Eleanor,” a nod to her, “might I expect to see you tomorrow for our early morning ride?”

Eleanor went rigid. “Err, I suppose so.”

“Then I shall meet you in the stables at sunrise.” Another smile brightened by golden sunlight. “Hopefully we can avoid any wild boars this time.”

@seekingformangoes

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crowsvalentine · 5 years

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One Hundred and Ten Years

Mates were sacred to the fae, but some weren’t as lucky as others to live the lives they were born to have together.

Fenrys x OC (but mostly just Fenrys x friendship court stuff)

Words: 5029

Warnings: None

a/n: I literally wrote this from 6:00 pm to 3:30 am and it’s my first real fic for the tog fandom so I hope you guys like it. I fell in love with Fenrys and have so many headcanons about him floating around in my head and this is one that I reall seemed to stick to. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

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He'd taken an arrow to his shoulder the first time he saw her. A Lady, a true lady in every sense of the title. She walked as if she were floating on air, smiled as if she were charming even the trees, she was in the Doranelle war training camps, but it was clear she'd gone through training of her own. Males, and females, couldn't seen to keep their eyes off her as she walked, an enchantress, he decided, that's what she was. She'd put a spell on her father's camp. However, the moment the arrow struck, her eyes flashed to him. No one seemed to notice the way her own hand rose to her shoulder, as if she could feel the impact of it as well. But he noticed, and despite the pain that now flared over his arm and chest, he smiled. When he woke up hours later, she was sitting there, eyes not leaving him even as he looked up at her. She raised a cup to his mouth, and laughed when he spit out the alcohol that was inside. He'd never heard a more beautiful sound, he'd drink from the cup a million times just to hear it again and again.

They'd talked for hours as he healed, talked as if they'd been friends, partners, for their entire lives. No one bothered them in his shared room, as if they too knew what was transpiring behind the closed door. Mates were sacred to the fae, they wouldn't compromise the mating of any of their people. Especially when they found their mates this young, not even half a century old and there they were. She took his hand in between her own, and he could only watch as she brought it up to her lips.

"I'll convince my mother to let me come back tomorrow," she promised. But just as she started to pull away, he sat up, ignoring the sting in his shoulder as he pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes were still closed as he pulled away, and he heard her beautiful laugh again when he pecked her cheek.

"Tomorrow, then."

She'd come back, and then again, the day after that, spending as much time as she was allowed with him despite the impropriety of a Lady spending so much time in a training camp. Others in the camp always watched the two of them with amusement, sometimes they just walked about the camp talking, other times they were in their animal forms and they would play. However, even with the time they were granted alone together, they never went further with their mating. She always stopped him when he tried.

She'd known, somehow, known that he would be called to battle, had known that she wouldn't see him again for a long time.

When Fenrys woke up that morning, the last thing he wanted to see was Rowan. He pushed the prince away, grumbling about needing breakfast before he saw his ghastly face. Rowan only laughed and informed him about Aelin requesting his presence before he left the room. Only in their court would the Queen's consort act as messenger. Fenrys scoffed and sat up, not bothering to slip on any clothes as he moved to his adjoining bathing room. Washing the sleep from his eyes and face, he ran his still wet hands through his hair. A bath could wait, Rowan would probably drag him out still wet and naked and dump him in front of Aelin if he was late. He stared at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, taking in the scars that now crossed his face, he'd refused to let them heal when someone offered to do it for him. He liked the change. Spitting into the sink, he absently rubbed at his shoulder as he left the room, sighing when he found a servant waiting for him with court appropriate attire instead of his usual clothes.

Five months. It had been five months since they'd won and already Orynth Castle seemed to be alive just as Fenrys imagined it had been a decade ago. Servants ran about and courtiers who Fenrys never bothered to acquaint himself with nodded their heads as he passed, the castle was alive with something that Fenrys had to wait to figure out. One servant walked carefully around him, holding a tray of tarts that she tried not to drop as she tried to walk as fast as she could, Fenrys smiled at her and bowed his head before taking one.

"Little early for sweets, no?"

"If you're visiting then something special has to be happening."

Elide grinned up at him as he pulled her into a one armed hug, not caring that Lorcan stood only a few feet away. He threw a wink over his shoulder at his friend, keeping his arm wrapped around Elide's shoulders as he led her towards the throne room. She shook her head when he offered her a bite, and he shrugged, stuffing the rest of it into his own mouth. He couldn't help but wish he'd stolen another.

It was a short walk to the throne room and Elide bid her thanks to the guards who opened the large doors for them. Before Fenrys could blink, Elide was already gone from his side, running towards the throne not bothering with formalities as she pulled Aelin into a hug. They hadn't seen each other since the Lady of Perranth had visited a few months ago, Aelin even offered Lorcan a nod over Elide's shoulder. She hadn't called on his blood oath, and wasn't planning to, so not even Lorcan spent a lot of time in the castle. From the scent of them, Fenrys could guess what the the two of them had been up to since they'd last visited three months ago. He frowned when he looked over at Lorcan, but quickly shook the thought from his head. Instead, he focused on the others in the room, the space was filled with the Lords, and Ladies, of Terrasen. They all stood around the large table in the centre of the room, talking and seemingly just as confused as he was about what was happening. He took his place next to Aedion, offering him a smile that he returned.

"What's going on?"

"Aelin has an announcement."

"Is she-"

Aedion laughed, shaking his head. "No."

Aelin took her seat again, and just as she sat the room seemed to quiet, everyone else taking their seats around the table as well. Even without wearing her crown, she still looked like a queen, exuded the powerful energy that Fenrys had felt the first day he'd seen her. The two of them stayed standing, however, just moving to stand on either side of their queen as she cleared her throat.

"I'm going to Wendlyn."

Everyone save for Rowan looked at her as if she'd grown another head. Three months, three months and she was already planning on leaving her kingdom. But in true Aelin fashion, she just smiled at her court, propping her elbows up on the table as she waited for them all to calm down. Fenrys only spared a glance at Rowan, who was smiling at Aelin. It was rare that Rowan ever smiled, he seemed to only save it for his mate, or Evangeline when she visited with Lysandra. Rowan's eyes flashed up to him, raising his eyebrows as his smile dropped. Fenrys just shrugged.

"I'm going to Wendlyn," Aelin repeated, "because I made a promise to Glaston Ashryver that I would visit, and he made his own promise to invade if I don't attend their annual masquerade ball."

"But who will run things while you are away?" She motioned around the table, as if the answer was obvious.

"All decisions for the next few months have been made and Terrasen is in a good enough place for me to start strengthening relations with other Kingdoms. The Ashryvers are strong allies and if I have even one of them pissed off at me then there goes any chance of that alliance holding." There were a few nervous chuckles that chorused over the table, but Fenrys smirked. "Aedion and Lysandra have agreed to stay back and oversee everything while we are away." The two of them nodded, and Fenrys didn't miss the knowing look Elide of all people sent to Lysandra who sat across from her. He snorted, those two with the entire castle to themselves, he was scared to see what they would do.

"Any of you who want to attend with us are welcome," Rowan added, "we set sail for the continent in three weeks."

The room emptied quickly after that, everyone going back to talking among themselves about their plans on staying or going with their queen. They were the only ones left in the room, and with a wave and Aelin's hand the guards closed the door. The moment the noise from outside was cut off, everyone turned back to Aelin, wondering why they weren't informed of this before. Elide bounced on her chair, excitement clearly visible on her face. She hadn't been to a ball since she was a girl, anyone in her position would be excited about this news. Aelin smiled at her friend, the two of them continuing their own conversation about what was going to happen when they arrive across the sea. To his surprise, Lorcan moved to stand next to Fenrys, arms crossed over his chest but his eyes still stayed on Elide, they always seemed to stay on her now.

"Are you planning on coming with us?" Fenrys raised his eyebrows at him, surprised that even he was fine with going. "Elide wants me to go."

"Can't say no?" Lorcan rolled his eyes and Fenrys just grinned. Of all the people that could control Lorcan with nothing more than a look and a smile, Elide was doing a pretty good job. "No, I'm not going."

"What?" Aelin's head snapped up to him, her eyes narrowed and Fenrys swore. "What do you mean you're not going?"

"I'm busy."

"You literally work for me, what are you busy doing?" He shrugged, and with all attention on him, Aelin blinked, three times. He didn't answer. "Fen-"

"I'll think about it." Everyone shifted when he walked out of the room, looking between themselves, wondering where their usual joyous and joking friend had gone.

He was training when Rowan joined him. Fenrys barely acknowledged him, just continued firing arrow after arrow at a target too far for even Rowan to see. A servant stood close by, holding a tray of breakfast foods that Fenrys had failed to show up to eat. Rowan nodded to the poor man, silently dismissing him since Fenrys didn't seem to care to.

"Are you going to tell me what that was all about or continue shooting at squirrels and act like a brooding teenager?"

"In terms of life span I think I still qualify as one," he shot another arrow, "but I'm not brooding."

Rowan crossed his arms over his chest, just watching him shoot a couple more before he finally put down is bow. Rowan himself had given it to him, and when he took it from the other male's hand, he examined it, noting the once perfect wood was now covered in dents and scratches. His thumb grazed over what looked like a row of letters but Fenrys snatched it back before he could read what was etched into the curve.

"What's wrong with you today?"

"Nothing." Everything, he seemed to want to say. "I do recall being woken up by a piece of shit though." Fenrys finally let out a laugh when he ducked from Rowan's swing. This was something Fenrys was good at, avoiding, steering conversations. Keeping the masks that he wore when he was around the people who'd become his friends. Fenrys grinned at Rowan, and pulled out his sword in a challenge, and Rowan bowed, bringing his own weapon out with him when he straightened.

Fenrys hadn't showed up to dinner that evening, asking to have it in his room rather than with the crowd Aelin had brought into the castle. But to his surprise, his chamber door opened and Elide stood in question, waiting for him to invite her in before she took a seat. He moved at the sight of her, bringing his feet back down from the table top and bringing the last two legs of his chair back onto the ground as well. Elide took it as his answer and brought her tray to set onto the table across from him, and said nothing when she sat down and dug into her food.

"Is there a reason I've been blessed with your company, Lady Elide?"

"I didn't think you should be alone." She smiled at him, and Fenrys had a theory that it was because of her smile that he didn't turn her away like he would have done with anyone else. Since meeting her, he'd come to think of Elide as a little sister, one that he would never mind the company of. They sat in silence as they ate, Elide would never ask him about what happened today, not until he brought it up first.

"What does your mate think about you having dinner with me?"

"He can think whatever he wants." Fenrys smiled, his assumption from earlier being proven right. Elide's eyes widened, her cheeks tinting a bright pink at what she just revealed. The rest of them had already known of course, Lorcan not being very good at hiding real feelings and Elide's scent practically altered permanently when they'd first come back after leaving for Perranth. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything." He laughed, a real one this time, when she threw a piece of bread at him. "I'm happy for you, for him, the gods knew Lorcan needed someone in his life who didn't feel like killing him every hour of the day."

"Oh trust me, he makes it real hard not to." She put another spoonful in her mouth, smiling around her full mouth as she threw another piece of bread. He caught it in his mouth, opening for another instantly. "You have your own dinner, Moonbeam."

He could feel her eyes on him as he ate, still chewing on her spoonful as he ate four of his own. There were questions she wanted to ask, but she would never say them out loud. A month ago he'd visited her and Lorcan in Perranth, had dinner like this with her one night and he'd told her all about his brother. She hadn't said a word the entire time he spoke, knowing he needed someone to let it all out to. Elide was good with that, talking to without wanting anything in return. She just listened, never judged, never questioned, and never brought up ever, ever again. Putting his spoon down, Fenrys finally sat back in his chair, sighing at the ceiling.

"It has been exactly one hundred and ten years since I the last time saw my mate." And Elide Salvaterre Lochan, Lady of Perranth, choked.

It took three weeks, three weeks of arguments and all of his belongings being packed into trunks for him to be convinced to finally say yes to going to Wendlyn with the rest of their court. It was Elide, in the end, who'd finally done it. Telling her about his mate was a choice he did not regret. He'd pushed and pushed the memory of her from his mind, so far that Maeve and the blood oath could not get their grasp on it. Telling Elide was a relief, hadn't spoken the words he'd said the her that night over dinner to anyone in over a century. His mate was a secret even his own brother did not know, if he had then Maeve would have used it as another way to get Fenrys to swear the oath to her. Rowan's fake mate was killed by the dark queen, Fenrys didn't know if he would survive if she'd done the same to his real one. It killed him everyday not to even think about the female, and even the last five months he'd hardly allowed himself to even whisper her name. Putting the flaming sword through Maeve was not only for his twin brother, but it was for her, the female he loved, his other half, the one he was created for and was created for him. Five months didn't seem like enough time for it to be safe to go back to her, he hadn't even wanted to step back on the continent where she was until he knew for sure she was out of harms way. But Elide assured him that it would be a miracle if anyone from Doranelle ever came to the king's ball. She wouldn't be there.

Aelin hugged him when he showed up at the docks, telling him she was glad he decided to come. Almost all of the other lords and ladies decided to stay back, wanting to stay with their people instead of going all the way across the sea. Aelin seemed to be glad for it, as if she would need to be on her best behavior if they were all there to watch her. Fenrys was glad for it too, he wouldn't know what to do being stuck on a ship with a majority of them for the entire journey.

Fenrys stayed on the deck through most of it, not even going in to sleep, opting to curl up in his wolf form in the small area that was hidden form the sun. In fact, he stayed in his wolf form a lot of the time. There was something about it that calmed him down the closer they got to the continent. His hearing was also a bit less sensitive when he was a wolf, the couples on the ship not understanding that everyone aboard, save for Elide, had the ability to hear through the walls and floors. Elide sat with him sometimes, watching Rowan and Aelin spend time training with each other on the deck. Lorcan was watching too, but his eyes stayed on his own mate, not in anyway that was threatening to Fenrys, but just looking like he was enjoying the sight of her out in the sun and smiling. He wondered if he would look at her that way if his own mate was here, he had no idea what it would have been like. He wasn't even mated yet when he left.

Most would consider him strong for being away from his mate for so long, most fell ill after just a few months apart. His mate had a gift for knowing when things were about to happen, and she knew he wouldn't have survived if she'd gone through with the mating bond. She wouldn't have survived if she'd gone through with it either. Fenrys watched Aelin and Rowan, they had been mated without even realizing, and being apart for only a few months had nearly killed them. Fenrys went over a century away from his, he should have been dead somewhere.

"We will be arrive by nightfall, your majesty," the captain called. Fenrys finally changed back to his fae form, smiling at Elide as she quickly removed her hand from his arm. "You should all get some rest and start getting ready to disembark!"

True to his word, they'd docked just as the sun was setting over the horizon. And for the first time in a century, Fenrys was happy to set foot on the continent.

They'd spent two days in the capital city, just wandering the streets and taking in all the sights. Fenrys stayed behind his friends, hands deep in his pockets just looking up at the small shops and stands they passed as they walked. But a few feet behind them, Fenrys couldn't help but pause at one of the stalls, smiling down at the candles that lined the table. He lifted one up to his nose, he'd stopped because this scent seemed to stick out more than the rest. He'd always been drawn to it, and always would be.

"Fen! Hurry up!" Aelin called, waving at him from the end of the alley. Dropping a few coins in front of the woman, he pocketed the small candle, thanking her before walking over to where Aelin waited.

He stared at the lit candle that night, the smell barely filling the space in the large room he'd been given in the castle. It was the only light in the room, the flame swaying with every breath Fenrys let out. He was brought back to those days that seemed so long ago, the days where this scent filled his nose, filled every part of him. It smelled just like her, and when he closed his eyes, it was like she was there with him.

He dreamed of her. Brown hair, brown hair the colour of the trees that had filled the woods they'd sometimes sneak off to when she visited him. Hair so curly it was mesmerizing to watch as she threw her head back and laughed, the ringlets bouncing with every sound she let out. Eyes, her eyes were like nothing he'd ever seen before. Large, so large, the colour of dark chocolate when it was melted over berries. She told him how much she hated her eyes once, wanting the bright colours all other fae seemed to possess, but he'd assured her every second that he could that her eyes were the most beautiful ones created by the gods themselves. He dreamed of her laugh, her smile, everything from her nose to the dimple that appeared in her cheek whenever he was the cause of her happiness. He let himself dream of her, something he hadn't done in a hundred and ten years.

He'd woken up with a smile on his face, had breakfast with it never leaving his lips, and went through the day feeling as if he was floating on air. It was freeing, letting himself think of her. His friends stared at him, wondering where he'd gone and come back from after his behaviour from the last few weeks. But he assured them that he was alright, that he would be alright. The evening didn't come soon enough, and Fenrys stared at himself in the mirror. A white wolf mask and a white jacket to match, Aelin had packed the outfit for him, saying she'd gotten it fitted perfectly to his size and shape. He let himself appreciate it in the full-length mirror before strapping on the knives that Aelin promised weren't necessary, but Rowan threatened to use on him if he didn't arm himself with them first.

The ball was already in full swing when they entered, and Aelin was instantly pulling Rowan towards the dancing couples in the center of the giant ballroom. Fenrys caught the look in Elide's eyes as they went and laughed when Lorcan gave in and lead her out after them. The rest of their company had also vanished at some point, leaving Fenrys standing alone at the bottom of the stairs. Thankfully, a servant walked past, and Fenrys grabbed a glass and drank the entire thing in one swig.

Finding a woman to dance with was easy, he'd taken the first one who offered her hand and whisked her onto the dance floor. This part was easy, using others to forget about the one he really wanted to have in his arms. He spun the woman around and around, letting himself enjoy the music and her company. He went through partner after partner, drink after drink, and as the king made his speech about welcoming his guests and thanking them all for coming, Fenrys found himself walking towards the large balcony that was open for guests to get a bit of fresh air. It was Lorcan this time who joined him, and under his crow feather mask, Fenrys could see the slight flush that covered his cheeks.

"Elide tiring you?"

"No, she just told me some news and I needed a second to process it." He didn't ask any further, if he did he was afraid Lorcan would just throw him over the rail. "The females tend to enjoy your company, getting tired of them all because I think you still have a line up in there." It was a joke even if Lorcan didn't make it sound like one. Fenrys smirks and shrugged.

"Hadn't noticed." They both looked over the garden, neither of them saying another word as they took in the sight. But Fenrys felt Lorcan shift to he was standing a bit closer, his forearms resting on the short rail he pretended to still look at the rare flowers that bloomed just below them.

"I heard Lady Zinnia Redwood is here tonight."

A hundred and ten years. He hadn't heard, said or read her name in a hundred and ten years. He wanted to drop to his knees at the sound of it, even if it came from Lorcan's mouth and was spoken in his harsh tone. Fenrys gripped the railing, turning his knuckles white, wanting to both hug Lorcan and pummel him for even mentioning her.

"How? How did you know? I didn't even give Elide a name-"

"I've known the entire time, Fen, I'm much older and smarter than you, and I knew where to ask when I was recruiting for the bitch."

His grip didn't loosen, but he nodded, refusing to look up at the male standing next to him in fear of throwing up everything he'd drank since arriving. All he could think about was that she was somewhere in the castle, if Lorcan was correct. It could explain why the scent of the candle was so strong, why his mood had shifted so easily when they'd arrived in the city. Her just being in the city meant they were closer than they'd been in over a century. Had she felt the changes as well? Had she known that he was here too?

But he ignored it, just pushed off the rail and headed back inside, deciding that Lorcan was the last person he should be trusting in matters such as this.

He continued with the charade, but some part of him still searched all over the room for any trace of her. As he danced with a female, his eyes roamed the other eyes on the dance floor, knowing that if he couldn't sense her he would recognize her just by sight alone. But then he felt a tug. Not from the woman in his arms, not in her direction at all, but behind him. He froze, earning himself an annoyed huff from the woman but he couldn't care. He stood there, not moving in the middle of the dance floor. Eyes shut tight, knowing Elide was watching him from somewhere beyond the edges of the dancing people and faeries. He could sense Aelin finding him aswell, and Rowan and the rest of their court following soon after. He wasn't the only one who had frozen as if time had stopped.

A female wearing the mask of a jackal, standing up on the steps of the ballroom entrance. He could feel her presence alone, from the tips of his fingers to the center of his chest, he knew it was her. He couldn't stop himself as he fell to his knees, paid no attention as the crowd behind him widened their berth around him, even creating a gap into the circle their created. Music continued playing from the unseen orchestra, but the people whispered to each other, wondering what was going on. A hand rested on his shoulder, but it belonged to his queen, and he had to thank her for the blood oath command to stand up and turn around. He wouldn't have had the strength to do it himself. The jackal masked female still hadn't moved from her place at the steps, and when Fenrys turned, he could see she too was down on her knees, a hand covering her mouth as she shook.

"Go to her. Go to your mate."

Two steps, three, he was running to get to her and she was halfway to standing when his body slammed into hers. The scent, it had never been the perfect candle, it was her the entire time, the scent he'd loved with every fiber of his being was from his mate. She'd been there the entire time. She was the reason his mood and turned the moment he'd stepped into the city. It was because she was there, she was always there. They both dropped to their knees still holding onto each other, tears flowing down both of their cheeks. With shaking hands, he untied his mask, and she gasped at the sight of him. Nothing but the scars had changed since she last saw him, and when her own hands, trembling hands, reached up to cup his cheeks, he untied her mask as well.

"Fenrys," she whispered, so quiet that he should not have been able to hear her. He nodded and let out his own shaky breath when she was revealed to him as well. As beautiful as the day he'd had to leave her, nothing had changed at all. "Fenrys," she repeated, "this is real, you're real." With her forehead pressed against his own, her eyes, her big brown eyes stared into his, as if she could look into him and find everything that they had missed in the last hundred and ten years inside of them.

Without a care for who watched, without even looking back at the crowd that stared with wide eyes and confused glances, Fenrys stood from the carpeted steps and lifted his mate into his arms. And as he walked out of the ballroom, cheers erupted from his friends who had no idea how long he had been waiting for this moment.

#i write for tog #fenrys moonbeam #tog #throne of glass #crown of midnight #heir of fire #queen of shadows #empire of storms #tower of dawn #kingdom of ash #fenrys tog #fenrys moonbeam x oc #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #rowan whitethorn #elorcan #rowaelin

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vegabookishpoetry · 5 years

Text

The Star and the Lion -II

“She was a bright star in centuries of darkness. I would have followed that star to the ends of the earth, if she had let me.”

The Star, Atarah Ashryver, was gentle and good. Atarah’s light could be seen from even the darkest caverns in Wendlyn. She was held in high esteem by her Uncle, the king of Wendlyn, and was seen throughout the kingdom as light incarcerate, simple and pure.

The Lion was trapped. Tied to the Queen of the Fae, Maeve, through a treacherous blood oath, the Lion was kept in the darkness. Darkness, until he was sent to the nearby kingdom of Wendlyn to solve a dispute between the Fae Queen and mercenaries residing in the kingdom.

Blinded by Atarah’s light, Gavriel finds himself in a dangerous game between his blood and his heart.

Unbeknownst to the Fae Queen, her Lion is escaping, and will do anything to be with his Star, if only for short while.

The Star and The Lion Masterlist

That’s when I met your mother, the girl of my dreams

The most beautiful women that’d I’ve ever seen.

————

It had been two weeks. Two weeks, and somehow, the Cadre, the most elite warriors in Erlia, had not captured the mercenaries that their queen sent them after.

They had gotten close, two weeks ago, when Rowan had picked up on a scent in the markets of Varese. Even cornered one.

Then she came.

Lorcan still blamed him for it. Gavriel hadn’t said anything to the warrior since their argument after the alley way.

Something about the girl caught him off guard. Maybe it was the fury in her eyes, or the anger laced with fear in her scent.

He couldn’t hurt the man, not in front of her. So he healed him, let him go. Then fled before she had a chance to ask about it.

Two weeks had passed, and yet the girl with starry eyes hadn’t left his mind.

——

Atarah smiled softly as she gazed at herself in the mirror. The seamstress she’d hired had truly outdone herself.

She wore a flowing gown, a white under layer with silver flowers sewn on, and a dusty pink over layer that was cinched at the waist with a belt made of silver. The gown had silver plates on the shoulders and at the top of the torso, attached were flowing pink sleeves that fluttered behind her when she walked.

“Wow,” a voice behind her breathed. “All eyes will be on you, Ata.”

Atarah turned and grinned at her cousin Glaston as he entered her chambers. “Thank you,” she flushed.

Glaston chuckled at her embarrassment, “Although I should warn you, Evalin is going to be jealous that you’re stealing her night.”

“I’d never,” Atarah laughed, picking up her white mask, “Help me?”

Glaston smiled as he took her mask and tied it with a string of silk behind her head. “There, now Eva can’t blame you for stealing the show, seeing as she won’t recognize you.”

Atarah laughed as she took herself in. Per Evalin’s request, this years summer solstice ball was a masquerade.

Oh please,” Atarah laughed, “Our blasted eyes are a dead giveaway.”

Ashryver eyes. The brightest blue, ringed with gold. Though Atarah was only a distant relative of the royals, she couldn’t escape having the same eyes as them. Eyes that made each of them very recognizable…

Did the fae male in the alleyway recognize her eyes? It had been two weeks since the incident, and she hadn’t told anybody about the fae she saw, not even Evalin.

The fae wanted to hurt a man, would they wish to hurt her for interfering? No, the golden male healed the man, he wouldn’t hurt her…

“Ata?” Her cousins voice brought her back to reality, “Are you alright?”

She swallowed deeply before turning to face him, “Yes, just lost in thought.”

“I see,” he held out his arm, “Shall we go to the ball, milady?”

Atarah looped her arm through his and giggled, “Yes, we shall!”

——

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the festivities were finally beginning. Atarah found it somewhat ironic that although it was the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, the ball was held at nighttime.

Summer solstice is always a time of celebration in Wendlyn, but this year had an even bigger meaning. It was also the celebration of Evalin’s engagement to Rhoe of Terresan, and a celebration of the union of the two kingdoms.

As Atarah predicted, her cousin found her almost immediately.

“Oh Ata!” She called, abandoning Rhoe where they stood and running over to her.

“Hello Eva,” Atarah smiled, hugging her cousin, “You look lovely.”

“I know,” Evalin waved her hand in dismissal, “You too. All we ever talk about is looks.”

Atarah raised a brow, “Then what do you propose we talk about?”

“Nothing!” Evalin smiled, “Let’s dance!”

Atarah giggled as her cousin pulled her to the dance floor.

The music was traditional Wendlyn, played live for the ball. Atarah and Evalin danced and danced until Evalin realized she had completely abandoned Rhoe, and scurried off to find him. The music shifted to a slower tune, and guests everywhere pulled their lover’s onto the dance floor.

Atarah however, took it as her cue to step away, and left in search of refreshments. She weaved her way through the various guests, all in masks, and neared the refreshments when she tripped.

A strong arm wrapped around her waist before she could hit the ground. Atarah blushed as she turned to thank her rescuer.

And gasped as she stared into a familiar set of tawny eyes.

—————

Part Three

Hey! A shorter chapter, but it needed to happen to set up for the next one, which I am super excited to write!

I will be traveling abroad for the month of June, and I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to write. That being said, I apologize if I don’t upload until sometime in July, I’m so excited to continue this story and I’ll try to write as much as I can during my downtime between travels.

Thanks loves! - Nepenthe <3

Taglist (Open until the end!): @snaps7 @alsornaaredhel @nightcourteternal

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pitterpatterpot · 5 years

Text

Lion’s Pride: Chapter 8

10.

Aedion shifts away from where a man throws his guts up over the side of the deck, wincing as the smell hits his fae senses. It’s a side effect that comes with travelling on a common boat. They could have taken a ship from the Terrasen fleet, a private ship just for Aedion and Gavriel to travel on, but that would have caused to much suspicion as to where they were going. And using a private ship for such a personal matter seemed like a misuse of the countries resources. However, it doesn’t change the fact that travelling with a few strangers is unpleasant. Instead of sleeping in the hull Gavriel and Aedion have taken to sleeping up on deck under the stars, both under the pretence of ‘guarding’ the ship and needing their space. The humans don’t seem to mind, eyeing the two large fae males with apprehension whenever they draw near. But the seasickness is overwhelming. Trying to flee the smell, Aedion joins Gavriel where he stares over the side of the ship, admiring the rolling, blue mass of flesh that stretches out in front of them.

“How are you feeling?” Gavriel asks, using a smile to cover his grimace at the man retching behind them.

“Fine,” Aedion leans against the railing, trying to move away from the smell.

Placing a hand on his son’s chest, Gavriel gently pushes him off the creaking wood. “Careful, the last thing we need is for you to tip overboard.”

“I can swim,” Aedion throws a rakish grin.

“I have no doubt of that,” Gavriel rolls his eyes, turning away. “How have you been lately?”

“I’m fine.”

“Every time you say ‘I’m fine’ I get the urge to jump off this ship,” Gavriel raises a brow. “And throw you in as well.”

Aedion chokes on a laugh. “That’s dramatic.”

“You don’t just get it from your mother,” Gavriel smiles, yet it slowly melts off his lips.

Aedion’s mother. The reason they’re going to Wendlyn in the first place. It had been difficult, to make the decision to visit her grave. It was a moment of swallowing feelings as they planned the trip, as Aedion sent the letter to Galan, asking if they could stay the night in Varese before heading to the small, sea side town where she had raised Aedion for the first five years of his life. In a small house, set just a little aside from the town along the beach.

“We have plenty of money to find other accomodation if you don’t feel comfortable staying at the castle,” Gavriel offers, staring out at the horizon.

Aedion sucks in a deep breath, shaking his head. “No. We’ll arrive late and leave early, so it’s unlikely we’ll run into many people.”

~~~

In the end, they stride through the castle gates after the sun sets. Aedion strolls through the hallways with his signature grin. Rumours are nothing Aedion doesn’t know, hearing the whispers that trail after them as they walk through the halls. He’s had many words whispered in his presence, encompassing him in a whirlwind of secrets and insults. These are whispers of awe. And he relishes in them. Gavriel keeps a step behind his son, watching his aura swell to fill the space, overwhelming in its intensity. It’s the aura of a warrior, of the wolf of the north, that encompasses everyone that Aedion passes. His smirk, his strong stance, is one of a challenge and a victory.

The last time he was in this country, the last time he walked across these beautiful carpets and soaked in the warm, humid air, he was a bastard child that they were more then ready to expose of. Someone who they were fully prepared to send overseas, to rid themselves of. He was the bastard child of the woman who was like a sister to their king and his sister, Evalin. Their cousin who was so close to the two that they may as well have been three siblings instead of a brother, sister and cousin. But now he’s back.

A warrior in his own right, a self-made general, the youngest general in Erilea’s history to be appointed at nine-teen years old, a blood-sworn member of the court of one of the most renown queens in the world. A male that’s fought against demons besides kings, queens, princes and princesses. He is so much more then what they thought he was. He made himself something, and now he’s ready to let all those bastards know it. The smirk widens as Galan strides towards them, the crown heir of the country spreading his arms in welcome.  “Aedion, Gavriel,” Galan smiles at the two of them, clasping arms with Aedion. “It’s good to see you two again.”

“And you,” Aedion grins, gripping his arm and bumping shoulders in return.

They became close, thanks to the battle. Two young demi-fae princes, kin by blood, working side by side to amass their forces and push back the foe. Going through something such as war can bind two people, especially those as young and bound by past like Aedion and Galan. Not only that, but during his stay in Terrasen the young price, Galan, apologised for the treatment of Aedion’s mother. He’ so far the only member of the Ashryver family to do so.

“You missed dinner, but I’m sure we could scrounge up something from the kitchens for you,” Galan offers, casually smiling at the two of them, Aedion smirking back and Gavriel smiling easily.

“That would be appreciated,” Gavriel dips his head.

They head down the hallway, turning the corner. And right there is the king, his hands clasped behind his back as he admires a painting on the wall, tanned skin lined and black hair beginning to gray, an older image of Galan. King Glaston. Evalin’s brother, and cousin to Aedion’s mother. Or more like a brother, depending on who you ask. All three of them stop, looking at the king. King Glaston turns to them, freezing as his gaze settles on Aedion.

“Aedion,” he murmurs, much like his son once did, with wonder in his voice as if he is a creature that has been magically summoned.

Aedion sneaks a glance at the painting. Three young figures smile back. King Glaston in the centre, his sister Evalin to the left, and Aedion’s mother, their cousin, on the right.

The young king stares straight at the painter, a spitting image of his son with his raven black hair and Ashryver eyes, back straight and shoulders pushed back. Clad in black and blue attire he symbolises Wendlyn, yet a small smile tugs at his mouth. It’s obvious from the spark in his eyes and that small tug of the lips that his attention isn’t on the painter whom he looks at, but rather on the females at either side of him. Such a regal position, yet the youth and joy in his face shines through.

Evalin herself sits on a chair to her brother’s left. Her bland hair is a spark of colour, pulled back from her face by two little braids then falling in a neat waterfall. Her hands are folded over her lap, her shoulders and back also straight, yet a wider smile adorns her features as she leans towards Glaston and Aedion’s mother. It’s obvious that like her brother her attention is diverted, caught in the moment occurring with two of the people she is closest with. The stubbornness lining her muscles, her frame, are startlingly similar to the same ferocious features that create Aelin. It’s so easy to forget how similar the two are, in both spirit and physical appearances.

Aedion’s eyes drift to the right, and land on his mother. She leans back against a piano, looking to the painter yet her body is leaning forward slightly, a clear sign that she was speaking to Glaston and Evalin. Her blond hair, much like in the sketch that Gavriel gave to Aedion, is a short golden mane that brushes her shoulders. Her Ashryver eyes spark with interest her mouth tugged up into a smile. Her clothes are still formal, wearing a black and blue dress that laces at the front, yet the skirt is shorter and her arms are bare. It’s obvious a garment that allows for free movements, her tanned skin shining golden. But it’s the lines she drawn in that causes her to stand out. Yes, the artist has painted her the same way he painted the others, yet just as she was in the sketch her personality, her very self, seems to be defined in broad, strong strokes. The lines that define her and strong, stubborn, shown in the broad straightness of her broad shoulders, of the way she seems fully at peace and confident where she’s positioned. Not standing to attention or sitting formally, but rather in her own relaxed position that her family no doubt attempted to remove her from.

But they couldn’t. Because, just like her son, she is drawn and defined by steel lines that never break. It becomes clear who Aedion gained his unbreakable will from. This female, this strong, formidable female, who stood against her entire royal family and every bit of shame they threw at her. Who fought her battle to protect her son until her last breath. There’s so much of Aedion in her that it shocks him, to look at his mother and see the same message painted across her skin that he wears like a brand. You can’t break or own me. I belong to no one but myself.

“You look,” King Glaston clears his throat, snapping Aedion to attention, “very much like your mother.”

A near mirror, to what Gavriel had once said to him. It’s become so clear now, however, that they both mean it on multiple levels. Gavriel stays a step behind Aedion, yet monitors him. Glaston and Galan may not be able to hear, but it’s clear to his fae hearing that his son’s heart is beating just a little faster then normal.

“King Glaston,” Aedion lowers his head, bending at the waist slightly.

Galan and Gavriel both copy his movements, the king watching. It’s strange, to look at what Galan may age to be. He’s clearly the spitting image of his father, yet the king himself has lines beginning to groove his deeply-tanned skin, his hair greying at the edges.

He holds his hands out in front of him, taking a hesitant step towards Aedion. The wolf of the north swallows, throat bobbing, as he takes in the male that is the brother to the woman that raised him, the uncle to the female who is basically Aedion’s sister, the man that was like a brother to Aedion’s mother. Gavriel resists the urge to step forward at the way Aedion’s heartbeat picks up once again as the man who should have been like an uncle to him instead of a hated stranger takes another step forward.

King Glaston’s hands hover in the air, as if uncertain to land on Aedion’s shoulders or to cup his face, his expression pained with longing and grief. Aedion can’t help but wonder if it’s his mother who the king is seeing. Glaston still seems uncertain as to what to do, teetering between moving forward and back. Aedion makes the decision for him, stepping back, hands flexing at his sides.

Dropping his hands Glaston takes his own step back, blinking. “How long have you been in the city? Are you staying with us?”

It becomes clear to Aedion all of the sudden that the king had no idea of their arrival or visit. “We’re just staying the night.”

Is it rude to drop in for only a few hours? Galan had no qualms about it, but then again to come late in the night with plans to leave early…

“Right,” King Glaston nods, still in a daze. “Are you here with news from your cousin?”

Gavriel watches closely as Aedion’s hands curl into fists at his side.

“No,” Aedion keeps his voice bland. “We’re visiting my mothers grave seeing as how I wasn’t permitted to be there for her ceremony.”

Not when they rushed him out of the country, barely giving an explanation before shoving him onto a boat to take him to the only family members that cared about what happened to him.

“Right,” King Glaston looks away, similar to his son. “I assume rooms have been set aside for you?”

“They wished to just stay the night, so two simple rooms have been allocated,” Galan steps in.

As per Gavriel and Aedion’s request. There’s no point in having rooms set up for them when their plan was to only stay for a few hours to gain some sleep before setting off to the small town on the coast, not too far away, where Aedion’s mother raised him. Where, for the first five years of his life, he lived in a house he can’t remember with her, yet can recall that it was on the beach, a little ways seperate from the town. They’ll find it. They’ll look.

“Nonsense,” King Glaston waves a hand, his kingly presence returning. “Take them to the guest rooms; they should be comfortable for the night.”

Aedion appraises the king who was known for fighting besides his men, just as Galan now does. Surely the man knows what it is like to sleep in trenches, sometimes without a tent, curling under your clothes as your only means of protection against the harsh elements. Perhaps by giving them rooms, accommodation with comfortable suitings, it’s the kings way of trying to find some compensation towards Aedion. If only he could mention to the king that soft surfaces, after years on the hard ground and bed rolls, are too soft and cause him to feel as though he is being swallowed. Of course he puts up with the lavish bed back at home for Lysandra’s sake (though it is much easier to sleep and enjoy it with her next to him. Not that he will admit that).

“I would also,” the king clears is throat, drawing attention once again, “like for you to join me for breakfast in the morning. I’d like to know what you’ve been doing.”

Aedion blinks slowly. “Well,” he drawls, “there was the war.”

The king’s wince is almost visible, same as Gavriel’s, even if Galan simply turns away with a hand over his mouth and mirth in his eyes.

“Yes,” the king looks away, still holding back a wince. “I look forward to talking in the morning.”

With that the king turns, and walks away. After a moments pause the three of them continue walking, Gavriel lagging two steps behind Galan and Aedion. Silence stretches between them as they slowly walks up a staircase, everyone processing their meeting with the king.

“You didn’t tell your father we were coming?” Aedion finally breaks the silence.

Galan throws his hands up. “You were only staying for a few hours so I didn’t think you’d run into him!”

“Like hell we wouldn’t!”

Gavriel casually admires the paintings as they walk.

“You could have told me your reason for coming!” Galan hisses, leaning towards him. “I thought you were here for a different reason!”

“It was a private reason!” Aedion growls back. “I wasn’t exactly going to go screaming it from the rooftops! And what did you think we were here for?”

“I don’t know! Murder?”

Aedion jerks, turning his head to stare at his cousin, aghast. “Why would you let us come if you thought we were going to commit murder? And why murder!”

“It was a guess!” Galan throws his hands in the air, scowling. “Look at your personal histories! And it was only a slight hunch!”

Gavriel sighs, smiling and reminiscing as he stares out the windows to briefly catch the sunset. The view over the city is phenomenal, the buildings and ocean reflecting the golden hues.

“You shouldn’t have invited us even if it was just a hunch!” Aedion hisses.

“Would that have stopped you from coming?” Galan snaps, stopping between two doors opposite each other. “Well here are your rooms! See you at breakfast!”

“Like hell I’m going to that!” Aedion hollers after his retreating figure.

“You can’t say no to royalty!”

“I say no to Aelin all the damn time and I’ll say it to you as well!”

Gavriel knows that’s a lie. At best Aedion just adds fuel to the mischievous fire. And then laughs at the havoc that commences. Almost like a demon.

“Well,” Aedion growls, “goodnight.”

Gavriel realises as his son opens his door that Aedion’s heart is still beating faster than normal, his knuckles white as he grips the doorknob. He follows his son through the door. The room is lavish, most likely a room used for when fellow royalty visits. It’s of a more western design then the rooms at Terrasen, the walls a gentle golden colour that catch the sun thanks to the giant windows lining one wall. A bed sits to the side, other pieces of furniture peppering the large space. A door stands opposite the bed, across the room, most likely leading to the bathroom. A long, cushioned window seat spreads beneath the large windows. Aedion stops in the middle of the room, spends a second to take it in, then places his head in his hands. Staring at his son, head in hands and shoulders slumped in such a beautiful space fin for a royal, Gavriel is struck with the sudden comparison of staring at a wild, free creature trapped in a stunning cage.

Beautiful, but still imprisonment. Perhaps that’s what his son’s title as a royal, as a disowned member of the Ashryver bloodline, has always been. Gavriel crosses the room, placing a hand on Aedion’s shoulder to comfort him. His son turns, and at his bewildered expression Gavriel pulls his son into his arms, holding him firmly.

It will take time. Time, to quell the urge to hunt down every fucking Ashryver That dared look at his son in distain. For now Gavriel and only comfort his son when he tired of standing tall. And act that gives him great honour. It’s worth it every time.

~~~

Sunshine is what wakes Aedion, his eyes peeling open as he turns his head to stare out the window, the ocean shimmering past the city. The window seat. A much better option to sleep on besides the bed, where he could easily stare out at the night time city or simply look up at the stars. Better then feeling trapped under a roof while being swallowed whole by soft blankets that grate against his coarse skin, reminding him of a time where a bed was as much of an imprisonment as a cage. The look up at the sky gives a sense of freedom in this palace that itches at the corners of his memories, thank the gods. No, fuck the gods after the hell those monsters put them through.

Sighing, Aedion slowly rolls off the seat to stand, stretching his arms easily above his head. He strolls over to the bathroom, wiping sleep from his eyes as he opens the door. And is met by a large, extravagant bathroom. The shelves are carved into the walls instead of jutting our, a large mirror and bench against one wall. The bath sunken into the round resembles a small pool more then anything, the water already steaming. He shuts the door and turns around.

Only to step outside of the room to be met by Gavriel, who shakes the last few drops of water form his hair, cleaning dressed and presented. Aedion blinks at his father, and Gavriel blinks back, as immaculate as ever.

“Gods damn it,” Aedion growls, and storms back into his room.

~~~

“You didn’t need to bathe just because I did,” Gavriel grins, watching his son button up his colour, leaving two undone.

“Yes,” Aedion glowers, “I did. Let’s get this over with.”

“Aedion, it’s breakfast.”

“Don’t use food to try to make this better.”

~~~

The clock ticks. Loud and clear, the hands move with the passage of time. The large dining room is empty, besides the four males that sit at the table. King Glaston sits at the head, with Galan to his side. the chair opposite Galan is empty, his mother preoccupied. Aedion sits next to the empty chair, Gavriel next to him. A wonderful spread of food has been laid out. Hot, flat morning cakes presented, bowls of fruit, fresh water with ice in large pitchers. Assortments of honey and jams sit, sprawled between the dishes and males. Aedion, having almost no appetite, simply moves the food around on the plate, staring at the little arrangements he makes. Galan for the most part tries his best, picking at pieces of food, eating as he stares out the window. King Glaston himself shows discomfort, steadily eating the food, yet more robotically, as though going by muscle memory more then anything. Gavriel as always sits upright and proper, yet like his son focused on his plate as he uses a knife and fork to cut up his food, golden eyes absent from the present.

“So, Aedion.”

Galan inhales sharply, immediately bending over to hack up a grape. Aedion slips forward, his fork screeching on the plate as his head snaps up to stare wide-eyed at the king. Even Gavriel straightens, slapping a hand on the table while blinking, looking around the room before relaxing again. King Glaston winces at the visible shock his words caused in the midst of the silence.

“I- yes?” Aedion clears his throat, placing the fork down flat and sitting straighter.

“Well,” the king hesitated, clearly searching for words. “How is Aelin?”

“She’s well,” Aedion’s eyes dart away, and Gavriel winces at the rise in his sons heartbeat.

“Good,” King Glaston nods, eyes also sliding away. “We were worried about her state. The way must have been hard on her.”

Gavriel doesn’t miss the way Aedion’s hand curls by his side.

“The war was hard on all of us,” Aedion smoothly answers, voice in control.

The voice of the liar, trickster, deceiver. The voice used to hide all emotions, to conceal hidden plans. A voice that was once used for a different king.

“I’m sure it was,” the king softly amends, looking at the table.

No, not at the table. At the hand Aedion still has spread over his fork, his fingers appearing fine despite the fact that they are crooked in some places. From a distance, they look fine. Up close, they are obviously healed from breaks.

Noticing the stare, Aedion clenches and unclenches his fist, smirking down at the digits. “Each one was broken in two places.”

Almost everyone winces.

“That must have been painful,” the king clears his throat.

It’s too good of an opening to pass out on. “It was, but it isn’t the worst thing I’ve had done to me.”

Gavriel has to hold back from quickly sucking a breath deep down his throat, his heart jolting at the words. It will be a while before the remembrance of how his son suffered as a child will stop stuttering his heart. If it will ever stop.

“Right,” King Glaston swallows thickly. “I am sorry, Aedion, that you had to suffer through that.”

“So am I,” Aedion’s look turn unimpressed. “Especially since no aid was sent, and none of our lovely relatives thought to ask for me.”

Both Galan and the king tense, Galan’s eyes looking at Aedion with desperation, the king looking away. Gavriel’s spoken to Aedion of this. He doesn’t blame his cousin; not when Galan was as young as he was when the war broke out. Not when his cousin was also a child when Aedion was sent away. There was little he could have done, and when he was old enough to send aid he did. But the king, on the other hand. The king could have used his power to do something. Anything. Any of Aedion’s older relatives could have vouched for him to be removed from the war. It’s difficult for Gavriel to swallow down his own anger. Especially when he himself was absent, so far away on an opposite corner of the world that he had never even heard his son’s name.

“Thank you for the meal,” Aedion says after a few more minutes of silence, pushing his chair back.

“Aedion, wait,” the king also stands, Galan and Gavriel sharing concerned looks from where they are seated. “We should talk.”

Aedion rests his eyes upon the king, and waits.

“Alone,” King Glaston mutters.

Everyone can nearly see the bristles that rise on Aedion, yet he simply grins, that dangerous whirlwind aura of his swirling through the room. “Alright. That should be fun.”

King Glaston stands and leads the way, Aedion lazily following. The door clicks shut behind them.

“I really hope this doesn’t end in murder,” Galan mourns lowly, placing his head in his hands.

“If it helps, that wasn’t our original intention,” Gavriel shrugs helplessly. “Neither was this breakfast.”

“That doesn’t help. And you don’t need to try to use food to make this better.”

Gavriel sits back in his seat. Ashryver’s. The similarities can be startling.

~~~

“I really was surprised to see you here,” King Glaston leans against a desk, allowing Aedion to stand by the closed door of the office. “Especially with Gavriel. I see that the rumours are true.”

“Right,” Aedion crosses his arms, keeping his composure relaxed. “Did you have any idea that he was my father?”

King Glaston responds after a minute. “No. If I had, I would have…”

“What?” Aedion snorts. “Appraised my mother instead of kicking her out?”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” King Glaston very nearly growls, leaning forward. “I wasn’t happy with your mothers predicament, but it’s also something she had chosen for herself. She could have stayed.”

“And let me be sold to Meave?” Aedion levels a look, voice low. “And faced ridicule all throughout her pregnancy? Be shamed by her own family at every which turn?”

“It was never that simple!” King Glaston’s voice nearly takes on a begging tone. “What was everyone supposed to think when a princess of Wendlyn announces that she’s pregnant and won’t give a damn clue as to who the father was?”

“She told Evalin!”

“Only when she had to!” King Glaston snaps, standing straight. “She never told me!”

Aedion falls quiet, appraising the king. “Were you as close to her as Evalin was?”

“She was like a sister to me.”

“I see,” Aedion’s voice takes on a quiet, hushed tone. “But Evalin was your sister, and you never did a damn thing to help her country in a time of war. To help me.”

“Aedion, please,” Glaston’s voice weakens as he rubs at his eyes. “The politics were difficult. Terrasen had fallen, we believed Aelin to be dead, and by the time we were informed about you Adarlan had already started introducing you into their camps. What were supposed to do with a prince raised in a foreign county and captured by an enemy land?”

“Do you even understand,” a growl rises in Aedion’s voice, “how difficult it is to situate yourself in a country you are not native to? How many times I had to listen to the lords of both Terrasen and Adarlan sneer in my face that I was a foreigner unworthy of my titles because of it? And now you’re saying, what, that I will never have a cemented place in the country I am native to? That I am to be stuck, never belonging properly to a any country thanks to my childhood that was torn thanks to forces out of my control?”

“I’m sorry, Aedion,” King Glaston takes a remorseful approach, sagging against the desk. “It’s unfortunate, I know.”

“So many things in my life could have been avoided,” Aedion doesn’t bother keeping the tremble from his voice, unsure if it is from rage or sorrow, “if it wasn’t for the bastards that plagued me. That gripped my fate in their hands and chose my future without giving me a say. Maybe if you had all loved her, supported her and trusted her, had made her feel that you would have protected us from Meave, then none of it would have happened.”

Aedion stalks a few steps closer, staring the king in the eyes. “But it’s a damn good think it did, because Terrasen would have been fucked if it wasn’t for me, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to prove every single damn bastard wrong. To smash glass palaces form the inside, to rally armies and legions that had been slain in the snow, to stand while wrapped in chains. So you all just remember who’s son I am when they speak of me in legends. And I don’t just mean Gavriel’s.”

With that he turns, soundly closing the door behind him, leaving Glaston with his head in his hands.

~~~

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” Galan asks, blowing out a breath. “Even just in the city-“

“It was good to see you again,” Aedion smiles, clasping hands with his cousin, but we do need to go.”

“I understand,” Galan nods, the sun shining down from where they stand at the edge of the city.”

The farewells are sparse, Aedion and Gavriel setting off. The small town is just a little further down the coast. Gavriel keeps a close eye on Aedion for the most part. What kind of struggle must it have been to so bluntly speak with an unfamiliar family member? The very fact that Aedion has yet to utter a word of it is cause for concern. Where is the rage? The yelling? This silence doesn’t sit well. Not as they stroll down the road, Aedion throwing off his jacket to leave himself simply in his shirt, the first real thing he’s done since they’ve started. Would it be a good idea to push? Or should he simply wait for Aedion to release information on the ordeal himself? Most likely the later, considering past experiences. But things such as this can be difficult. So damn difficult. So Gavriel leaves it.

~~~

It takes another hour before Aedion freely talks once again, joy seeping into his tone as he takes in the humid air and admired the flora and fauna Gavriel points out. As he strolls along the sea side, glad for the costal trek they’ve chosen, even going as far as to take his shoes off to walk through the water. So much warmer compared to the waters of Terrasen, which can kill in an instant. Even if the Wendlyn locals keep insisting that it’s currently much more ‘cold’ then usual.

“How do you stand the humidity?” Audio nearly growls at one point, wiping sweat rom his brow.

“You get used to it,” Gavriel chuckles dryly. “At least you know now how different the temperature here is from Terrasen.”

“No wonder you old bastards get cold all the time,” Aedion seethes, popping free two more buttons of his shirt, resisting the urge to shield his eyes from the sun. “Gods, it’s late in the afternoon. How is the sun still this strong?”

“This is the most I’ve ever heard you complain about something,” Gavriel tries to fight back his smile, failing desperately.

“Because I hate this sun,” Aedion growls, eyes narrowed.

“Hate is such a strong word,” Gavriel shakes his head, feigning disappointment.

“It’s a giant flaming orb in the sky that burns my skin and eyes,” Aedion glares. “I’m allowed to say I hate it.”

“Fair enough,” Gavriel chuckles, then quietens. “We’ll reach the town in a few hours. Are you sure you would like to find the house right away? We could find a place to stay for the night and wait until the morning.”

Aedion looks down. “I want to see her as soon as possible.”

“I understand,” Gavriel nods.

“Did you ever visit her?” Aedion’s voice reaches a quiet point, turning husky as he looks away.

Gavriel tries to rein in the guilt rearing in his chest. “I never thought I had a right to. Not after she asked me to leave.”

“Right,” Aedion swallows, staring at the town that’s slowly coming into view. “I don’t...”

Gavriel stops, placing his hand on Aedion’s shoulder to urge him to do the same. “Aedion?”

“I don’t remember this place,” Aedion’s voice grated harshly, looking out at the water.

Something in Gavriel’s chest cleaves at the way guilt laces his son’s words, as if his forgetting is the gravest of crimes. cracks. As if he should be punished for not remembering a place he hasn’t visited in nineteen years, that he was ripped away from against his will. How much did his son cry, alone on that boat as a small child heading to Terrasen?

“Maybe you’ll remember some things once you return,” Gavriel resists wrapping his arm around Aedion’s shoulder, easily identifying the strain lining his body.

“Maybe,” Aedion stares along the shore. “It’s somewhere along here. It was so close to the city, to them, but they still never realised.”

“Sometimes it’s not the physical distance,” Gavriel’s voice drops, his baritone soft.

“Right,” Aedion keeps his gaze on the horizon. “Right.”

~~~

It’s a small square house, only one level, sitting right where the grass begins to grow in the sand. Its white walls are rimmed by the brown wood, a window next to the door looking out at the beach that’s only a few meters away, the waves serenading the area. Aedion and Gavriel stand just a meter away from the small house, looking at it with trepidation and awe as the sun begins to set. Gavriel looks over to his son, and is immediately startled by the clear terror written across Aedion’s face, his son’s complexion pale as he stares at the house.

“Aedion-“

“This is where she died. She’s buried in the garden at the back. I- I used to help pick the tomatoes we grew.”

Old memories, resurfacing like the tide washing over the sand. Gavriel watches as Aedion walks towards the house, steps robotic, and ducks inside. Sticking close to his son, Gavriel takes in the bare minimum of furniture in the room. Two dusty, deteriorating bed rolls pressed together, a paper divider separating it from the side of the room that contains a sink and toilet. A door leads out to the back garden.

Such a small space, but all that was needed for a mother and her small child hiding from a dark queen.

A quiet, peaceful place. Aedion stares at the bedroll, and ducks down, pushing the frayed pillow to the side. Underneath it a black cord sits, an obsidian stone with white dots attached to it. A snowflake obsidian, a necklace he suddenly vividly remembers sitting on his mother’s chest. Swallowing, Aedion fiddles with the small clasp, reaching behind his neck to adorn the simple piece of jewellery. The stone sits just below the hollow of his throat, able to be hidden by his shirt or jacket if needed.

Aedion leaves it viewable.

Gavriel doesn’t say a word, watching as his son aimlessly stands in the centre of the room, staring at everything with a glazed look. Gavriel notices that one of his hands is wrapped around the snowflake obsidian, dwarfing the small, smooth stone.

So much like the stones that were used to enslave thousands. Yet so different, with it’s white dots breaking apart the darkness. Gavriel can’t help but wonder if it’s the universes idea of a cruel joke, guiding his son towards the stone his mother owned. A stone that looks so much like a Valg stone, only to be broken by pin pricks of light. Much like his mother, who was chased by darkness yet made her own illumination.

“Aedion,” Gavriel says his son’s name, still standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t say it to catch his son’s attention. No, he says it to feel the name on his tongue, to clearly pronounce each letter. To exercise the beautiful gift that the woman who once lived in this house have him. He knows why she didn’t tell him. He knows that she may not have even known when she sent him away. He knows that everything she did in her short life was to keep their son alive, to give him a chance to bring new actions into this world. To affect it in the only way he can, to become a new variable created solely by them. And Aedion has done more and above. What would the Ashryver family had done if they knew that Gavriel’s son would be one to help defeat Valg kings and princes? To help end decade long wars?

“The garden,” Aedion jerks around to look at the back door, ambling through it.

Gavriel trails him without a second thought. There’s nothing else in the small space anyway.

It’s so heartbreakingly empty.

But there are signs the garden was once well cared for. Some spikes that were once driven into the ground still stand, crumbling under the weight of growing vines. Weeds spread along the ground, and it’s nearly impossible to tell where the patches of small crops once were if not for the filing apart pieces of wood. Nineteen years has let the garden overgrow in an explosion of green, engulfing the small garden patches into an overall sea of leaves.

“She,” Aedion laughs through his tears, choking for a moment, “I think she would have liked this. Would have liked the fact that it all kept growing.”

Gavriel nods, taking in the flourishing flora. “I think she would have to.”

“She’s up here,” Aedion’s voice is quiet in the dying sunlight.

Gavriel follows his son up the small sand dune, firm thanks to the grass and plants splitting through the groans of sand. It leads into the first behind the house, the trees thinned out and thickening the deeper they delve. Aedion stops, nearly causing Gavriel to walk into him, at the opening of a clearing.

They can so clearly hear the ocean behind them, and a stream off in the distance. With the sun finally setting the fireflies come out, dabbling across the sky in whizzing bursts. The headstone stands in the centre of the clearing, a few weeds and flowers growing around it thanks to being neglected.

Yet it is clean, no doubt checked on from the time to time. No doubt by Aedion’s other Ashryver relatives, who knew where she was.

Aedion doesn’t move, staring at the headstone, shoulders trembling with his tears as he jerks with every held back sob.

“It was all my fault,” Aedion whispers, staring at the grass. “If she never had me she could have gone to the healers. She wouldn’t have become so sick so fast.”

“Aedion,” Gavriel wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Aedion, it reads ‘loving mother.’ Even if she never had you she would have fallen ill, and the healers may have been able to do nothing. But she wouldn’t have that title if you never happened.”

He feels his son’s body shudder as he reads the words elegantly engraved in his mother’s stone, just below her name. They walk towards it, Aedion kneeling to speak.

He speaks of his life. Of the horrors and miracles, of the lovers and the haters, of all the times he has been marked a sinner and a saint. The words spill free from his lips as he buries his fingers into the grass, tugging gently as the words tumble forward as if to keep himself grounded. Gavriel kneels next to his son, listening to every word that Aedion unleashes.

They share their story together when they talk of their first meeting, both Aedion and Gavriel laughing slightly when the Lion admits to how utterly terrified he was. The last battle is hard to speak of, Aedion unable to say how Gavriel had nearly died, the words choking in his throat. So Gavriel does it for him.

They speak of their friends and allies, of Aelin, of Lysandra and Rowan and Evangeline and Kyllian and everyone else. So many years poured out towards the woman who have always been watching from the stars.

Gavriel takes Aedion back inside after their words have run out. He knows that they should find an inn, that they should walk into the town he can hear just a little further down the beach, but his son is utterly exhausted. Not physically, no, the journey was nothing to them. But speaking until the stars were spread above their head like a blanket, the sun far away from their side of the earth. Aedion doesn’t sleep near the bedrolls, looking near sick at the idea of resting in the place he once did as a child. Instead he curls up against the wall near the door to the gardens, his look making it clear he’d rather be sleeping under the sky, yet he relents.

“I think I used to have a toy lion,” Aedion mentions, voice thick with sleep, his head resting on his folded up jacket.

“Really?” Gavriel looks from where he leans against the wall, one leg propped up with his arm resting upon it.

“Yes,” Aedion’s eyes drift closed. “She gave it to me. Maybe as some kind of joke.”

“I don’t think it was a joke,” Gavriel says softly.

When receiving no reply he finally realises that his son is asleep. Standing, Gavriel silently exits to the garden, leaving the door open slightly to allow the fresh night air to seep in easier. The moon glows down as he walks back to the grave, kneeling in front of the woman he loved with his head bowed. Shame and love quarrel inside of him as he finally does what he has never been allowed to do before.

He thanks her. He thanks her for gifting him with something all fae struggle to have. The odds of Aedion being born of two people with fae blood, who spent so little time together in that sense, is miraculous. He thanks her for protecting him, for giving them time.

It will never be enough, not until he can sweep her into his arms and dance across the stars with her.

But for now it will have to do.

He’ll enjoy the gift he has been given, will enjoy every second of it, before moving on.

And he intends to make the most of it.

~~~~~~~~

People I finally understand how to tag: @ourbooksuniverse

#ourbooksuniverse #how do i tag this #aedion #Gavriel #tog #throneofglass

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snaps7 · 6 years

Text

Good Luck

Hello. This fic is about Gavriel and Aedion’s mom and was inspired by the part from HOF below. Warning: mention/brief visual of rape

“How old are you?“ he asked. “Nineteen.“ As they walked away, Gavriel murmured, “Good luck, Rowan.“

Eleanor Ashryver dismounted her horse as they reached the gates of Mistward. She and her cousin Evalin had arrived late last night and too tired from the ride, had retreated to the connecting rooms prepared for them by the staff in the castle. Evalin had walked into her room early this morning and stolen her covers, leaving her exposed to the more than chilly air in the room. It was the only way anyone knew to wake her up. She could go on without sleep for days, but once she fell asleep, it was easier to wake the dead than to make her give up the pillow.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” Evalin had chanted in her ear until she’d opened one eye to glare at her. “Good morning, sunshine. We’re going out for a ride,” her cousin had said cheerfully and Eleanor had groaned and turned over. The forces in the world that could stop Evalin from doing what she wanted could be counted on one hand, so she knew that it was a lost fight. Still, it didn’t stop Eleanor from taking twice as long as usual to get ready just so she could get back at her cousin for the rude wake up.

“What are we doing the rest of the day?” asked Evalin as the two girls led their horses inside the gate and towards the stables.

“Eat.”

“And after that?”

“Eat again.”

“And after that?”

“Eat. Don’t ask me about after that,” snapped Eleanor. “I plan to eat until I burst and splatter everyone around me with my insides. Or until I pass out. Whichever comes first.”

Evalin laughed. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

They headed to the kitchens where they were met with a greying demi-fae male with chestnut brown eyes and a kind face. He instantly bowed to them, dropping the chopping knife he was holding and brushing his hands in his apron. “Princesses.”

“Oh, there’s no need for the bowing! Please rise!” Eleanor was quick to say. As the daughter of the king of Wendlyn and second in line for the throne, after her older brother Glaston, she was sick of people bowing to her every two steps. It didn’t help that she looked like the embodiment of the Ashryver stereotype. The golden hair and ‘fairest eyes from legends old’ were a constant traitor. Her cousin Evalin could pass for her twin, and when they were together – which was practically all the time – there was no mistaking them. Especially with Evalin’s elaborate dresses and taste for the expensive. Not that Eleanor didn’t enjoy it, she most certainly did, but she often chose comfort over heart-stopping looks.

“We’re not here as princesses,” said her cousin. “We’re here to protest against our aunt’s unfair attitude towards our kind. Call me Evalin.”

“And I’m Eleanor.”

“Emrys,” said the small man and shook their hands, still bowing his head a little, but Eleanor guessed it was out of respect more than it was of protocol. “And how can I help you two? You must be starved! I heard you went straight to your beds last night without grabbing anything to eat.”

“Oh, they didn’t let us leave Varese without a month’s provision. We were fine,” the truth was, without their mothers around scolding them to watch what they eat until they find husbands, the two girls had gone through the reserves the way starved beasts would. And they had stopped at every shop that had chocolate. When she thought about it, Eleanor’s riding trousers felt a little tight at the belly.

“But everything smells so delicious here!” exclaimed Evalin, looking at the surfaces in the kitchen. “And it looks a little bit like a mess. Is there no one helping you?”

“There is, usually,” Emrys said with a smile. “Two boys and a girl. Two of them haven’t been around much since they became a couple, and the third one was allowed to go to Doranelle.”

“Gossip!” said Eleanor. “I love gossip.”

“She also loves food, and so do I. Do you mind if we stick around and help you?”

“Oh, no. I could use the help but change in the way Queen Meave thinks of us is much too important to keep you from it.”

“True, but food is a more time-sensitive matter. Besides,” shrugged Eleanor, “we haven’t gotten a reply to any of our letters to our aunt in months.”

“True,” Evalin nodded. “It’s why we decided to come here, in hopes to speak with her privately.”

“But until we get a meeting, we’re free as birds.”

“Not birds like our distant cousins from the Whitethorn house.”

“Yeah, they’re too involved and dependent on Meave to be free as birds.”

“Such a shame, too. They’d make much fairer rulers if they decide to take more control.”

“Oh, they’d never turn on her!” said Evalin. “Remember when we tried approaching them? They told us that our intentions were good and that our cause is a noble fight, but they never did anything! They’re too afraid of her.”

“That was over letters! We’re much more convincing in person!”

“Yes, well, I don’t think our usual methods would work. We are related.”

“Distantly,” said Emrys and Eleanor and Evalin blushed. They had a habit of taking over conversations with their babbling and not letting anyone else have the word. Usually when that happened, they managed to get into several fights and make up by the time someone interrupted them.

“Point remains,” said Evalin. “We are completely free until our aunt agrees to meet with us.”

“I could use the help.”

“Great. What are we cooking?”

Gavriel waited for an answer on the other side of the door. It came almost instantly and he opened it, dropping to his knees the second he was inside.

After the centuries he’s spend in service to Meave, she didn’t require him to do more than a respectful bow of his head. In this situation, however, it was a gesture of kindness extended to the young male in his queen’s bed.

“Lion,” she greeted him, running her fingers over Fenrys’s exposed chest. “I expected you to arrive sooner.”

“Apologies, Majesty. The weather in the far north slowed me. I came when I could.” He didn’t exactly snap or show disrespect, and he certainly didn’t lie, but the reservation in his words was obvious to both him and his queen. She didn’t say anything, but the amused arched eyebrow spoke enough.

“Well, doesn’t matter now, does it?” He remained still, not raising from his knees. Meave had not told him to, and he wanted to give Fenrys as much space as he could in the situation. “My nieces from Wendlyn have arrived at Mistward last night. You were to be sent to Varese and make them reconsider their visit, but due to your late arrival, the plans have changed.”

“Apologies again, Majesty.”

Meave ran her perfectly shaped nails up and down Fenrys’s chest in slow, deliberate motions. The male did not flinch, but Gavriel caught on the new tension in his body from a distance. He himself had been in the situation enough times to know how his young brother felt, and yet, it was much more horrible to see it happen to someone else. Fenrys was a wild, unbroken spirit. Arrogant, insolent and annoying, but a brave boy with a good heart. Gavriel never wanted to see him, his brother or any of Meave’s elite warriors like that.

“The king of Wendlyn sent me a letter,” she said. “It’s on the nightstand.” The command to raise and take it roared in his veins and he did not fight it. He rose and walked to the side of the bed where Fenrys lied, his onyx eyes darker than usual. Empty.

He scanned the letter and waited for his next orders, but Meave was more interested in making Fenrys suffer more by exposing him to his superior officer than at giving Gavriel his commands.

“Do you feel familiar with the girls?” He nodded.

The letter hadn’t given him any information he didn’t already suspect. The two princesses were fighting against his queen’s mistreat of the demi-fae. The king wrote, in polite and subtle words, that they were stubborn and manipulative enough to cause trouble, and rebellious enough to disregard his direct orders to stay out of their aunt’s inner politics. He’d also talked about his son – Crown Prince Glaston, who, unlike his sister and cousin, was more cooperative and eager to work with Meave, and had just had a son whom he planned to raise with the same principles. He’d met enough Ashryvers over the years to form a clear picture of the girls in his head. The golden hair and unusual eyes had been preserved and passed down the line since its beginning. As were the arrogance, self-inclination, stubbornness, insolence, mischief, insubordination and otherwise slightly unpleasant qualities.

He was a centuries-old warrior, third in command of the immortal queen of the Fae. Why she had chosen him to deal with two girls, he had no idea. Perhaps she needed amusement, or to remind Gavriel that he was under her control. Not that he needed reminding. Serving Meave was his only mission in life. His life and his honor were fully devoted to her.

“Convince them to keep their thoughts to themselves. The half-breeds in Mistward are already raising complaints. If they think that they have my nieces on their side, they will cause more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Of course, Majesty.”

“You’ll be working alone at first, but when Lorcan comes back from him mission in the south I will send him to you.”

He nodded. Sending Lorcan, a demi-fae, to stop other demi-faes from fighting for their rights was beyond cruel, but extremely clever. If one demi-fae, especially as widely known and respected as Lorcan, didn’t think they deserved rightful treatment, why would full blooded faes? It would be seen as a futile, doomed cause.

“I don’t think I will need Lorcan’s help. Convincing two girls that you are not a force to be tried will not take long.”

“Ah, but see, that’s not what I want you to do. Don’t scare them into retreating. Convince them that this isn’t what they want to do. Show them my side of the equation and make them agree.”

“I will, Majesty.”

“I trust you, Lion. Leave for Mistward as soon as you can.”

Gavriel bowed his head, debating whether to communicate with Fenrys in the silent way they did, but he decided against it. Their queen was too close and he wasn’t sure Fenrys would even hear him.

He rubbed his face with his hands when he was out the door and heading towards his quarters. He’d kept the decorations of the room simple – bed, divan, wardrobe and a table covered with maps, letters and strategies for his Queen’s many causes. The walls were covered with weapons he often carried on his person. A very big part of Meave’s castle was dedicated to weapons for her blood-sworn only, but each of them preferred to have an elaborate collection in their own quarters for convenience and cases of emergencies. Fenrys often mocked him and Rowan for arming themselves as walls of steel for even the most casual occasions, like breakfast.

Gavriel packed clothes in less than 2 minutes, and since he was already armed head to toe, there was nothing to keep him from leaving for Mistward.

He went to the stables where a young Fae boy was brushing his horse’s mane. The boy bowed and Gavriel dismissed him, saddling Ehren and leading him out of the stables.

Fenrys was leaning against the door, life partly returned to his eyes and his arrogant smirk back in his place.

“Off to babysit so soon?” Gavriel said nothing. “You’re not really going to stop them.”

“I was given an order.”

Fenrys’s nostrils flared and he looked around. He brought his attention back to Gavriel when he was sure that there was no one who could hear them.

“I know you support the demi-fae. What are you going to do? You can’t let her bring Lorcan into this! That would be cruel even for that son of a bitch.”

“Your worry is touching as always, Fenrys,” said Gavriel and headed out with his horse. Fenrys followed.

“Gavriel,” he insisted.

He stopped and looked at his young brother. “She wouldn’t hurt the princesses, not directly. But if they riot Mistward, Meave won’t hesitate to bring the place to the ground.” The truth that she would make them bring the place to the ground was left unspoken. “I’ll try to keep the girls away from Meave’s ears and convince them that it would be in their best interests to return home.”

Fenrys nodded and turned to leave.

Gavriel watched him for a few moments, a part of him hoping that Fenrys understood why he would follow Meave’s orders.

Keep out of trouble, boyo, he said through their connection.

There was no answer from the other side and Gavriel mounted Ehren, riding out of the castle. He was barely out the gates when Fenrys’ voice sounded in his head.

Good luck, Gavriel.

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mayhemories · 7 years

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Braids & War Paint (Part 8)

Notes On: Part 1: / Part 2: / Part 3: / Part 4: / Part 5: / Part 6: / Part 7:

Rowan could taste the salt in the air when they landed in Varese, Wendlyn. From miles away his fae eyes could see a greeting party waiting for them. Though he did not expect this.

Lorcan Salvaterre, the commander of the Queen’s first-hands lead a small group of Wendlyn soldiers, as well as soldiers clad in the colours of Doneralle. Fenrys, one of the wolf twins was also present. Holding the reigns of two saddled horses.

Rowan’s right hand found it’s way to the braid in his hair, as he thought about which queen he’d rather serve.

Maeve was difficult at the best of times, she was cruel, cold and calculating. The rest of the first-hands had taken the blood oath: Lorcan, Fenrys, Connall, Vaughan and Gavriel. But Rowan hadn’t. He had been offered the oath but declined, something deep in his chest had told him not to. Rowan hoped it was Aelin subconsciously telling him that Maeve wasn’t his final move on the chess board of life. With Rowan’s deep unyielding power Maeve cold have him with his free will or not have him at all. She chose the former like the tactical empress she was.

Aelin.

His heartbeat echoed her name, even now, across the sea with the threat of silence and beasts of molten onyx. Rowan thought about what Aelin’s cause of action would be if she were in his position.

“You’ve missed a lot, boyo.” Fenrys said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“Did you receive my letters?” Rowan asked, quickly placing the few items he bought with him into the saddlebags of the new stallion. His question was aimed at both, Lorcan and Fenrys.

“The crown jewel, huh?” Fenrys said, just as Lorcan’s stern voice leeched into the atmosphere:

“We’ve had to stop intercontinental shipments, of all kinds.”

Rowan’s eye’s caught alight with realisation, something was bubbling here. It would have to be major to cause all Erilean and Southern Continent ships to stop trading. To stop simple letters, it would have to be a threat that Rowan was uncomfortable to inquire on with the Wendlyn soldiers.

It was only until he realised they were all, Wendlyn party included, were travelling to Doneralle. Just as Rowan thought he could ditch Galan.

He needed infomation, Rowan decided to hang to the back of the party, Fenrys trailing beside him, his stallion upset at such mundane speeds.

“What is going on?” Rowan hissed at Fenrys, his golden face becoming harsh and stern.

“Something magical has stirred. Creatures that Maeve fought alongside her sisters, alongside Brannon of the Wildfire and his kin.” Fenrys’ words caused Rowan’s hands to clench around his reigns, he hadn’t yet deigned to tell any of the first-hands about his Carranam bond, let alone who he shared the bond with. Rowan urged Fenrys for more information:

“The Valg. A black armada just appeared during the night. They just appeared.” Aelin. Rowan wondered if any Valg activity had occurred after he left. “We caught three, stabbed one in the chest and it survived. Like nothing had happened to it. We took the head off the next one, that worked but they’re fighters.” Rowan could tell there was more, Fenrys was keeping information from him.

“And the third Valg?” Fenrys shook his head at Rowan’s question before facing him, his dark eyes held an emotion in them that Rowan couldn’t name.

“After Lorcan’s power couldn’t kill it we called in Maeve.” Fenrys swallowed hard, lowering his voice to a low whisper. “She couldn’t kill it, even with all her power, it wasn’t being affected. Maeve bought a candle in and the thing, it started hissing like it was afraid of it.” Rowan’s eyes burned into the back of Galan’s head. “She set it alight and it turned to ash, there was nothing left, even with a petty candle.”

“How are we supposed to-“ Rowan started but was cut off by Galan’s voice, ringing out and asking all members of their travelling band.

“Where is my family?”

“King Glaston and Queen Rhoswen have been called to Doneralle, your Highness.” Fenrys called to him, Galan did not turn around but his shoulders coiled. “As well as the entirety of House Whitethorn.” Rowan had missed Endymion and Sellene, as well as his uncle. After seeing Aelin’s family, Rowan had missed his own.

It was a rarity if the Ashryvers and Maeve made contact. It was rarer that the Galathynius’ responded to either of them.

They held a fast pace to reach Doneralle by nightfall, the palace gates closing behind Rowan. The Oyrnth castle was an art piece compared to Maeve’s keep.

Maeve had requested to see both Rowan and Galan tomorrow. That was final. So they decided to seek lightheartedness elsewhere.

He sat, his neck craned back looking at the constellations and wondering if Aelin could see them too. They were in the courtyard, shearing beer like they usually did. Fenrys was the life of the party: his words ran together and his laugh bounced off the sandstone walls, Lorcan was brooding but listening all the same, Gavriel was considerate of Rowan’s wiriness, Connall never really talked, his twin did that for the both of them and Vaughan was on the receiving end of Fenrys’ shitty jokes.

“Where’d you get that?” Gavriel asked, pointing to where Rowan’s hand was playing with his braid.

“Terrasen custom.” Was Rowan’s only reply. Gavriel’s eye’s quirked and the rest of the ‘cadre’ as Aelin liked to call them, had a new found interest in Rowan.

“Aren’t you gonna tell us anything about your trip?” Vaughan asked, the Osprey cunning and quick.

“Not much to tell.” Not much to tell without mentioning his secret of Aelin.

“Galan didn’t mention his cousin once the whole ride here.” Lorcan said, leaning forward so his forearms were resting on his knees. Rowan shrugged.

“She didn’t spend much time with him, Galan followed the male Ashryver around.” Rowan tried to reason with himself; he should tell them now, better then them finding out later, he should be the one to tell them. But tell them what? That Aelin Ashryver Galathynius of the Wildfire, descendant of Mab, Mora and Maeve, blessed by Mala, the heir of fire and ash, was his carranam, was his… Truth be told, Rowan didn’t know.

“I’ve heard rumours of her beauty.” Connall said, referring to Aelin and Rowan compressed his snarl. They weren’t rumours, she was the most gorgeous being Rowan had ever seen.

“She was pleasant to look at.” Rowan said, his jaw tightening. He wanted to reverse this conversation.

“Did you take fondness to her?” Gavriel asked. This was what boys talked of, they were men. Men hundreds of years old, yet when Rowan tried to say that she was ‘platonically friendly’ his face grew hot.

“Stop bullshitting us, Rowan.” Lorcan said gruffly, looking somewhat disinterested.

“I became quite…close, with Aelin.” Rowan wasn’t expecting them to laugh, he wasn’t expecting Lorcan to roll his eyes.

“First name basis, boyo!” Fenrys said, leaning over and punching Rowan in his solid arm.

“Carranam.” Rowan spat the word before he had time to regret it.

“What did you just say?” Lorcan said so low he almost growled.

“Carranam. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius is my carranam, the bond is quite strong.”

As those words flew out of his mouth a cry sounded in the night. A white messenger hawk circled in the courtyard, silver and green ribbons were loosely tied around it’s neck. The Terrasen Messenger Hawk. It carried a letter in it’s talons which it dropped into Rowan’s lap. He laughed as the Hawk cried and flew off into the night.

Count on his Fireheart to deliver a letter into a closed border country.

“Speak of the devil, the Princess of the Flames must be able to hear us.” Fenrys laughed.

Rowan smiled down at the piece of parchment that was sealed with the Terrasen green, stamped into it was the stag.

Aelin tossed and turned, her silk sheets were too heavy, the room was suffocatingly cold. She couldn’t get warm, no matter what she did.

Aelin knew she was dreaming this darkness, the faces of fae she had never seen before flashed across her vision, hissing of daemons in the dark. The screams of innocents plagued her mind as wyrdmarks erupted, gates flew open, rips in the underworld let ships pour out, she saw a key, she saw the Endovier salt mine, she saw Sam and Rowan.

She saw battles enraging in lands that were foreign to her. She was burning armies, fleets, creatures that had only walked the earth according to legend.

It was the twelfth time she had experienced this dream, as soon as Rowan left they started. She wondered if it was a bond thing.

No more.

She sat upright in bed, Fleetfoot whimpering beside her.

Aelin only knew one person who understood dreams, she only knew one person that could explain it to her. Tomorrow, Aelin would leave for Eyllwe tomorrow. Nehemia would be the only living person in Erilea that could understand.

A:N/ HELLO! Little note, the Endovier Salt mine will be mentioned in the future, Aelin has not been there yet.

Wow, I’m four followers off 200 and I just can’t believe it, thank you so much.

As always this was written for: @2-bookmaster-2 @aelin-and-feyre @rowanismybae @sparkleywonderful @cassiancalore @igniscorde7112 @illyrian-high-lord @daughterxofxnight @bigsis227 @crazybookladythings @gcarroll @sugarcoated44 @wolffrising @notjustanyoldfangirl @bluephoenix222

If you have any requests, prompts, ideas, asks, questions or just want a bit of a chat my inbox is open and is a safe space.

Much love and many thanks for all the support.

-El.

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oikawas · 7 years

Photo

TOG Alphabet: A → Ashryvers

The House of Ashryver is the name of Wendlyn’s royal family. The current monarch of the kingdom is King Glaston, and his heir is Crown Prince Galan Ashryver. The family’s seat is in Varese, the capital city.

#togedit #yalitedit #throne of glass #sarah j maas #myedit #togalpha #tog!edit #hof #books #togalpha*#500 #750 #1k

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cleopatraas · 7 years

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Novellas

ones I need:

Brannon

Mala

Gavin

Queen Mab

Ashryvers

Galanthynius’s

the cadre being the cadre

Galan and Glaston

people of Wendlyn

Mistward

Nehemia

people of Melisandra, Fenharrow, and Eyllwe

young king of Adarlan being stupid and setting Erawan free

Erawan, in Hell, being a Demon King

RHOE GALATHYNIUS’S LOVE FOR EVALIN ASHRYVER

vice versa^

Orlon’s love for Darrow

even Elena and her siblings

Elena’s love for Gavin and vice versa

Mala falling in love and blessing a BASTARD born Brannon

the three Queens (ew Maeve too, I guess), because i will not never be confused about that

Manon’s parents falling in love

Manon’s half-sister

Asterin’s hunter and witchling

Lord Cal Lochan falling in love with the laundress Marion

the cadre’s parents !!!!!

the cadre as little babies

that elemental fae Emrys mentioned in Mistward

Emrys and Luca

Emrys and Malakai

Luca and his girl

Enda and his husband

the Whitethorns

Rowan’s backstory with his family and why he left

Rowan and Lyria (oh yeah, I want that)

Gavriel and Aedion’s mother

Fenrys and Connall and Maeve

Nesryn and her family

the Thirteen becoming the Thirteen

baby Abraxos

Abraxos and Asterin’s sky-blue female wyvern falling in love and having little wyvern babies

the curse the Crochan made and why

the Crochans (how are they doing? are they okay? i need to know)

the Ironteeth

SAM CORTLAND

ones I don’t need :

no offense but,

Chaol healing his legs, because we know they’re going to be healed anyway and he’ll come back with allies. We know this. I’m...not interested in how he did it?

Chaol falling in love with Nesryn, because it’s said that Nesryn has always been Chaol’s rebound and back up choice and I just think she deserves better.

don’t get me wrong I like Chaol, I just find everything I listed a lot more interesting.

#novellas #long list #none of them will happen #but the ones i don't want to happen #sarah please...write them

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fenrys-moonbae · 5 years

Text

A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness--Chapter 3

If there was one thing Eleanor abhorred more than playing royal escort it was rising before the sun, forcing her body into wakefulness when all she wanted to do was remain clasped in the blissful hold of dreams.

And this was the third day of rising at such an unholy hour.

She’d thrown a shoe at Evalin that morning when she’d come into her room, throwing the curtains wide and telling her to rise before she was late for her appointment. It hadn’t helped that her dear cousin had brought a chilled bucket of icy water up with her after Eleanor had refused to budge the second and third time.

A bucket she’d promptly dumped over her and her bedding, sending her into a screeching fury as she’d flown from the bed, furious.

At least you’re up, Evalin had tutted victoriously before pointing toward the wardrobe, her riding clothes having already been laid out for her.

She was going to put mouse droppings in her slippers.

Shivering against the chill morning air, she pulled her shearling-lined cloak closer about her, attempting to stave off some of the cold. Why Glaston had felt it essential that she show their visitor the grounds before the rise of the sun was beyond her.

She steered her pale mount over one of the rolling green hills following an eddying brook deep into the king’s territory, Gavriel keeping pace with her but at a healthy distance as he’d done the days before, his silence nearly suffocating.

She’d been pointing out various landmarks and their history as they’d strolled, feeling more like a tour guide than coveted company as each day passed.

Here was where my great-grandfather relieved himself and sipped from a flask when his duchess wife became overbearing, she thought sarcastically, looking over the field, and here is where I bury the bodies of those who threaten my family. No, not there, a little to the right. She’d half hoped she could lead him off a cliff and claim it an accident, though she highly doubted the male would fall for such a ploy.

Not with the way he moved, the way he took in his every surrounding, constantly evaluating and cataloging. Was it wise to show him their lands? Any defensive tactics they might have against Her Great Unholiness?

Not that it would matter much if all of Dornanelle’s warriors were built like that.

Their soldiers were toothpicks in comparisons, bones for them to snack on.

Something inside Eleanor knew that wasn’t his purpose here though, even if her logic screamed against it. After days of watching him she’d gotten the impression he wasn’t here for a military advantage but for something else.

She’d been sour with him when he’d offered a hand to her as she mounted her horse, Lady Cecilia as she affectionately called the golden mare, earlier, ever the gentleman . . . male? She’d almost slapped it away before clambering into the saddle on her own instead. She might be a princess but she was no invalid.

He’d bowed his head respectfully before swinging flawlessly into his own saddle, the muscles beneath his tunic rippling as he’d adjusted himself. Muscles that Eleanor’s gaze kept snagging on as they rode into the wood, shifting as he guided his horse.

She couldn’t help but note them more and more as they spent time together.

What did Maeve feed them?

Perhaps she’d find out and start slipping it into the food of the guards and perhaps some of the skin-and-bone nobles that had been pestering her about her future ‘endeavors’—also known as her bidding and the coveted offspring she was expected to bear. If she was going to have to tolerate one of them, he might at least be nice to look at and touch.

And as long as it wasn’t Lord Dennor clamoring for her . . .

The thought of flitting away to Terrasen clanged through her mind. Rumor was the Terrasen men were just as lovely, their fae heritage still thick in their blood, and if one had caught Evalin’s attention . . . she could surely find herself a nice warrior to keep her bed warmed at night.

One that would make Glaston’s hair stand on end.

She almost chuckled at the thought. She sent another sidelong glance at Gavriel, appreciating the tawny eyes and golden skin. Perhaps she could find one with such fine coloring. “Is there something you’d like to ask?” the warriors deep voice inquired, the accent rolling and rich as he caught her stare. A blush raced up her cheeks. She directed her attention elsewhere, ignoring the hammering of her heart in her chest.

“Just wondering how you eat without puncturing your own lip with those fangs,” a nod towards the canines that flashed when he spoke, “I imagine it makes for a difficult time, Sir Gavriel.”

A soft smile.

“You get used to them, especially when you’ve never known anything else, Milady.”

Did you get used to serving a bitch Queen as well, when you’d never known anything else? she mused internally but settled for replying with a small “Ah.” The male grew quiet again, contemplative as he watched the scenery pass by. “Your Kingdom is lovely.” “I’m sure it pales in comparison to Doranelle.” “Different,” he brushed a hand along the base of a pale aspen, his fingers gliding over the bark, “but just as beautiful.” Insufferably polite. She almost wondered if she could get a rise out of a that composed manner of his, make him show a little bit of the predator that was no doubt lurking beneath his skin.

Only one way to find out.

“And our Court? Does it hold any light when compared to the splendor of Dornanelle?”

“The same, different but just as splendid.”

Horse shit.

He was deflecting.

“Even with the array of conniving nobles vying for power and the throne?” Wendlyn had certainly seen its fair share of assassinations and coups. Not that anyone would dare try to usurp dear Maeve from her dark throne.

He quirked an elegant brow at her.

“Political intrigue is the same in all walks of life, and I have little taste for it. But . . . yes, there are similarities, though perhaps less frequent.”

Because you’re conniving old bastards that never die?

“I see.” She clicked her tongue, squinting at the sun as it slowly rose towards its apex in the sky. “And what of other things?” A nod to his clothes, a simple grey tunic that Eleanor was disappointed wasn’t stained green. “Your fashion, perhaps?”

“Also different. Less . . .” she could see he was searching for a word that she wouldn’t deem offensive, “cumbersome.” “Why, Sir Gavriel,” she mocked offense as she fanned herself with her hand, her lips tugging at the concern, “are you implying our human clothes with all our frills and laces aren’t practical?” She thought back on the spring fashion that had been presented to the royal family that winter, the petticoats and bodices made of taffeta and satin that took up an entire room.

She’d nearly passed out when they’d laced her in one of the gowns, almost tearing the damned thing when she tried to bend over to adjust her shoes. Evalin had made quiet quacking noises at her as she’d waddled about.

“I am a soldier and am not accustomed to such finery.” Eleanor ground her teeth as he continued in his pleasant tone, easily gaining his grip back on the conversation “Forgive me if I have given offense.”

“Oh, I’ve taken great offense,” she couldn’t keep the laughter from her voice as she thought on the gaudy clothes they’d tried to stuff her in, “such offense I might not recover.”

He sent her a questioning look, as though he wasn’t entirely certain if she were serious or not. She deadpanned at him.

“I only jest.” Some tension fled from his shoulders as he flashed her a small, wry smile, one that seemed less formal than the others he’d offered her that morning.

“I do see you have a preference for the color grey,” a nod to his tunic, “is there a reason you’ve chosen that particular color?” Other than to symbolize you’re a mindless, heartless soldier.

“It is the color of my cadre, we all wear it as a unit,” a small quirk of his full lips, “though I do find removing stains from it tends to be quite cumbersome.” He had not forgotten about her little incident then, choosing to address it with her without watching eyes. Eleanor retained her smile. If he wanted to play a game she was more than happy to partake.

“Any what of your décor? Do you keep up with the newest styles and furniture?”

“It is refined but traditional. We live with one foot in the wilderness,” a nod to the environment around him, “a taste for things a little less constrained and tame. Many of our decorations are valued items of history.” She gave him a once over, noting his dark blond locks as a question formed in her mind. “And your carpets? Do they match the drapes?” Gavriel wheeled on her, his eyes wide as he took her in, disbelief playing over his features. So, he was a traditionalist, not keen on the less savory aspects of humor. She filed the information away.

Sucking on a tooth she calmly added, “Forgive me, I mean your tapestries and rugs, are they matched in color or do you decorate based on the value of the item?” She tried not to look too triumphant as the male cast his glance away from her, as she swore a faint tinge of pink bloomed on those too-perfect cheekbones of his, as he curtly replied, “There is no specific means of decorating, it is as we see fit.”

She’d made him uncomfortable. How unfortunate. “Sir Gavriel, did you think I had inquired after something else? I am only interested in understanding your culture and ways, as I know far less than my dear Evalin.” She batted her eyelashes at him, willing innocence to her features.

A poised, calm Princess.

“Forgive me, Princess,” he replied, seeming to shake the shock from his features as they melded back into a neutral expression, his horse having drifted a distance from hers, “it seems my comrades and their . . . banter have put my mind in a less than ideal place.” Eleanor wondered which of his ‘comrades’ had a dirty mind and if they’d had a more elaborate sense of humor than the stoic male before her. Perhaps they were more attractive, though that would be difficult to achieve.

She’d opened her mouth to begin another tirade of inappropriate remarks when she heard distant shouting and a high, echoing scream that tore through the underbrush.

“What is that?” she inquired, swiveling her attention towards the commotion.

Before she knew what had happened, she felt her horse skitter beneath her, banking toward the tree in front of her as a large, feral boar tore free from the undergrowth, its tusks slashing as it bolted straight for her, blood gushing from its side.

Game that hunters had failed to fell. A poorly placed, shallow wound, just enough to enrage to beast.

She didn’t remember the moment Cecilia spooked or when she was bucked from the saddle, but she recalled tumbling to the soft grass, pain splintering through her shoulder and collarbone as the horse stomped down on her and she rolled, finding herself face to face with the charging creature.

Fear pierced her as she stared death rushing at her, unable to move as it rampaged towards her.

She braced for the impact, squeezing her eyes tightly and holding her breath, praying it would be swift.

The impact never came as a crack resounded throughout the space, the sound of a body collapsing and slumping harmlessly into the grass. The hot reek of blood assaulted Eleanor’s senses as she peeled an eye open, the open maw of the beast just before her, its eyes gazing unseeingly.

How? She sucked in a shuddering breath, shock racing through her. How?

Someone had a hand on her, was speaking her name, trying to get her attention—

“Your Highness! Are you alright?” It was Gavriel, kneeling close to her as he placed a hand on her uninjured shoulder, his tawny eyes assessing, scanning for injuries. “Where?” Reality reeled in as Eleanor looked between him and the beast.

He’d killed it instantly, snapped its neck with a golden shield he’d erected before her, its remnants still shimmering. The creature’s momentum had killed it instantly.

Something molten appeared in his eyes as he looked off towards the bushes, toward the sound of approaching horses and men.

She nodded numbly, trying to right herself.

Pain lanced through her shoulder and she couldn’t help the cry that escaped her as she felt bones shift. Hissing, she slumped back down, Gavriel’s hands still keeping her upright. She must have broken something, snapped it when the horse’s hoof had come down on her.

“Princess Eleanor!” It was a young tracker who came stumbling through the bushes, his grey eyes wide in fright as he took her in. “You’re injured—” true panic there, she tried to keep her annoyance to a minimum, “My Lord, the Princess!”

It would be the talk of the evening. Lovely Eleanor bucked from her loyal mount and nearly skewered by a boar all while in the company of one of Maeve’s soldiers. Wonderful.

Others materialized behind him, men dressed in Lord Dennor’s colors of rusty red and gold, their eyes growing wide as they took her in, laying there in the grass, the fae warrior kneeling over her. Of course it had to be him.

Where was Evalin when she needed her to be a voice of reason to these fools?

Panic wasn’t going to help anyone, especially not her.

And with the scene they’d stumbled upon, a felled boar and her collapsed like some tragic, helpless damsel in the warrior’s arms.

Oh yes, it was going to be the talk of the castle.

More pain sliced through her shoulder, causing her to cry out as she panted, trying to immobilize the joint. If these men were to carry her back, the jostling—

She’d rather remaining laying in the grass.

Gavriel had not moved, however, his pupils dilated as he watched Dennor fly into view, his mustache twitching as his mount pawed from its sudden stop. “My lady,” Dennor immediately slid from his horse, his gullet nearly catching on the side of his saddle as he made for her, his eyes wide in fright as he approached her. “The damned beast! We must get you to a healer immediately!” He made as though he would reach for her before Gavriel’s voice cut him off.

“Do not move her.” That was the voice of a soldier and of a commander, and the tone surprised Eleanor. She watched as he looked up at Dennor, something like reproach flickering in his gaze as he glanced toward the boar. “It will need to be patched here to prevent further injury.” “And I suppose you will be the one to do that?” Dennor sneered, making Eleanor want to reach up and strangle the man, even if the pain of moving would send her into unconsciousness. It might be worth it.

Black spots were beginning to bloom in her vision anyway, as the adrenaline wore off and the pain began to cascade in. She couldn’t the little yelp as she tried to take a deep breath and was met with a slashing pain.

Dennor shot his attention to her.

“You’re injuring the lady! Put her down this instant.”

“No.”

Oh wonderful, an argument, very productive to getting her patched up. Her vision was growing wavery as Dennor continued on, Gavriel’s hold on her tight as he watched the man spew, his face growing redder by the second. She hadn’t noticed quite how broad the warrior’s chest was until she was pressed against it, the coiled muscle somehow comforting.

How much had the adrenaline altered her brain?

Something giddy in Eleanor emerged as the thought of what Dennor must’ve seen when he’d ridden into that field, his lovely princess in the arms of a fae warrior. How his manhood must have shriveled.

She would have laughed had it not hurt so rutting much.

Her vision had nearly depleted when a sudden warmth, bright and luxurious, flooded her arm, before she slipped into unconsciousness, grateful that the pain was gone.

When Eleanor came to, confusion filled her as she found herself lying in her bed, mysteriously changed into a dressing gown, with the comforter tucked under her chin and the fading evening rays beginning to peak through her curtains.

How had she gotten here? Last she recalled she’d been heckling Gavriel, inquiring about his nether regions when—the boar.

The memories flooded her as movement flickered to the right of her bed.

“You’re awake,” Evalin’s relieved voice sounded as her soft, warm hands took her own, squeezing them tightly. “Are you all right? You scared the wits from all of us.” “Blame the horse,” Eleanor grumbled groggily, gently squeezing her cousin’s hand back reassuringly, “and the boar.” Evalin sighed as she sunk down into the chair she’d pulled beside the bed, the book she’d been reading hastily discarded.

“Is Cecillia all right?”

Evalin huffed a laugh.

“Yes, your precious mount was returned to the stables and thoroughly coddled after her daring rescue of you.”

“A boar was charging her, I really don’t blame her for fleeing. I would have too if I’d been able to get up.” She paused, thinking on Gavriel and Dennor, and their little argument. “What of Dennor? Please tell me Glaston reprimanded him—” Evalin’s face went taut. “The young tracker was punished, Dennor claimed it was his recklessness that caused it.” “Rutting bastard,” Eleanor groused, thinking on the poor boy who’d likely just lost his job because of the lord’s arrogance. She suddenly felt rather peaky. “I don’t know what Glaston sees in him.”

“Neither do I.”

“And Gavriel?”

“Well . . .” Eleanor narrowed her eyes, had Glaston sent Maeve’s flunky away as well? Blamed him for something that was clearly not his fault? He had been the one to save her after all. “He healed your shoulder, quite spectacularly I must say, better than our healers could.” Surprise filled her as she thought of the warmth that had encased her shoulder before she’d lost consciousness. Evalin fiddled with the corner of her book. “He checked you over to make certain you were all right.”

Heat blazed in Eleanor’s cheeks. Checked her over?

Evalin grew quiet, her eyes flickering to her book.

“Eva . . .”

“It was quite the sight, you know.” Evalin toyed with the sleeve of her gown, her voice growing almost . . tender, “Your tiny frame in his arms as he carried you back, looking rather dour as Dennor howled at him the entire way . . .” “No.” Eleanor gasped, heat flushing her cheeks as horror filled her. “Please tell me you’re kidding. Evalin!”

“Glaston was most impressed with his prompt attention, although not as much as the serving girls were, they were nearly swooning,” Evalin swiped a gold curl out of her face as Eleanor felt her stomach squeeze in embarrassment, “He’s being hailed as somewhat of a hero, if only for his ability to deal with Dennor alone.” Eleanor wanted to smoother herself, to crush the life out of her own chest so that she didn’t have to face the rumor mill that was clearly overflowing.

“He’s dropped by periodically to check on you.”

“I hope you told him I died!”

“Eleanor, he was only trying to help . . .”

“Oh, may the gods smite me,” Eleanor rubbed at her eyes, considering never leaving her room, hoping she’d at least never see the male again. The gods had something else in mind, however, as a knock sounded at the door and Eleanor shook her head violently at Evalin, willing her to lock it.

Evalin sent a look as though to ask her if she was truly going to be that callous.

She was indeed going to be.

Too late, the door swung open to reveal Gavriel, who bowed his head respectfully.

Eleanor wished the floor would swallow her whole.

@seekingformangoes (I wasn’t sure if you still want to be tagged so I did, please let me know if you’d like me to untag you)

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fenrys-moonbae · 5 years

Text

A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness--Chapter 2

Eleanor tugged roughly at the laces of Evalin’s dress, muttering her annoyance beneath her breath. “Of course we’re to host one of her lapdogs. I suppose we’re to lay out a fine bed for him and perhaps a golden water bowl as well—”

“Eleanor,” Evalin chided, glancing away from the mirror and back over her shoulder, “we are to act as accommodating hosts regardless of our personal feelings toward his Queen.”

Eleanor huffed, heat rushing through her cheeks.

Like hell she’d be an accommodating host, she thought drily, she’d rather run him out of the castle with a stick, send him back to his dark mistress in the fabled land beyond the mountains where he belonged.

Even if his strong jawline and tawny eyes had stirred something . . . more . . . in her.

She ignored the phantom flicker of enticement that zipped through her and she continued to lace up Evalin’s bodice.

“Perhaps Glaston will have him sent away after dinner.” She tied off the last of the ribbons crisscrossing the back of the azure gown before reaching for the neat pile of golden hairpins beside her, easing them into Evalin’s curls one by one. “And send along a sweet little note detailing our feelings regarding his visit: ‘Dear Maeve, thank you for making your threat more pronounced by sending one of your favored members of your harem to us immediately after returning my dear sister. In the future, kindly try to pretend to not be the heinous hag that you are and stay put in your drab city of stone. Sincerely, The King of Wendlyn.” She snorted. “A good start, no?”

“Eleanor,” Evalin’s voice was exasperated but Eleanor swore she heard the slightest hint of amusement and caught a glimpse of upturned lips in the mirror as she finished pinning her golden curls. “If you’re going to send such a letter, at least be sure you include her proper title: Queen Maeve.” “Hag Maeve.” “Mistress of Doranelle.” “Unholy Witch of the North.” “Her most illustrious Majesty.” “Spider of the Wood, best dealt with by using the bottom of a boot—” Evalin coughed, trying to cover her laugh, her turquoise eyes shimmering in amusement. Eleanor hummed her victory as she adjusted the last of Evalin’s curls and stepped back, admiring her handwork.

Where Maeve was an insufferable immortal cow, Evalin was a rare and coveted golden heron, proud and beautiful. Prince Rhoe had never stood a chance.

“Well, off with you,” Eleanor flicked a wrist over a shoulder towards the tall and intricately carved door that led out of Evalin’s chambers. “You wouldn’t want to keep his Majesty or his royal guest waiting. Do pour something foul in his wine for me, perhaps a pinch of mandrake—” “Oh no, don’t you even contemplate it,” Evalin quipped, her shoulders tightening as she looked Eleanor over, an aura of command slipping into place, the aura that would one day lend itself to her rule as Queen, “If you even consider the idea of not attending this dinner . . .”

“What? Glaston will have me contained to my chambers? Force me to--” she gasped mockingly, a hand fluttering to her mouth, “--drudgery duty? Oh no, what ever shall I do if I have to waulk more fabric?”

She waved a dismissive hand, let her cousin punish her as he saw fit.

What was the worst he could do?

Make her mop the floors? Sit through more nasally history lessons with her childhood tutor Randor?

No, she was quite content not facing one of the warriors that poised such a threat to her dearest friend, content to remain quietly in her room so that her damnable mouth didn’t instigate something more than Glaston’s irritation.

She suspected the warrior would be wearing gravy in addition to the piss and dye if she attended this dinner.

“Elle,” Evalin’s voice was laced with warning, a sound that Eleanor was certain her future children would become accustomed to very quickly, “dress now so we can go.”

Eleanor sniffed disdainfully, sidestepping Evalin as she made her way toward the large canopy bed and gracefully eased into a lounge across the delicately embroidered duvet. “Oh, I fear I’ve taken ill cousin, a right case of the pox. I regret to inform you I won’t be able to attend dinner tonight.” She rolled over onto her back, staring at the canopy above her. “Do send my best regards though.”

Yes, a cat nap and tea sounded rightly delightful, especially if she could manage to sneak a few sugar-dusted pastries from the kitchen.

Eleanor barely registered the movement beneath her before she found herself sliding off the bed as the covers beneath her fled. She plopped unceremoniously onto the floor with a yelp, scowling at the golden bedding in Evalin’s manicured hand.

“Get dressed, Elle.”

“I do not wish to,” she quipped in return, a streak of stubbornness washing through her, “and since I am a princess, I do as I please.”

The argument she had used time and time again since she was a child.

Most times it proved successful, even against her more formidable foes.

Evalin’s brows furrowed. Delicately, she dropped the fabric to the floor and planted her hands firmly on her slim hips before approaching Eleanor with a knowing look on her delicate features. “Get dressed or I will tell Glaston who, exactly, let that entire flock of geese into the spring masquerade two years ago. The one where Duke Marwick nearly lost an eye?”

Ouch.

Well, when she put it that way.

“Fine,” Eleanor rose, brushing bits of invisible dust off her gown, frowning at her still emerald-tinged nails. “But I will not be happy about it. Perhaps I’ll visit the apothecary and get a pinch of mandrake to poison his tea myself.”

--------

The water Gavriel dumped over his head was refreshingly cool in the stifling summer heat as it ran in long torrents down his bare neck and shoulders. Gingerly, he reached for one of the vials of soap a set of young female servants had brought him, giggling and fumbling as they’d stared at him before sloppily curtsying and rushing back down the hall.

He’d sighed in quiet exasperation.

Perhaps his Queen should have sent Vaughan or Lorcan in his place, both were better suited to deal with the affections and pining of young women. They enjoyed such attention.

Gavriel, however, would have much preferred a quiet retreat with no flirting women . . . and to not smell of . . . urine.

He sighed again.

Dumping the soap directly onto his wet hair he lathered it, relieved to find it did not smell of anything atrociously sweet. Pulling his hand away, he was amused to find the bubbles were a rich emerald.

The young woman’s aim had undoubtedly been remarkable.

He had expected some resistance with his arrival, at least an air of distrust from the Wendlyn nobles given the nature of his visit in regard to Evalin Ashryver. He hadn’t expected to be doused in a torrent of urine and dye, however. And by a petite blonde with the most striking features he’d ever seen, no less.

An Ashryver noble no doubt.

She had looked like Princess Evalin but sharper and wilder, her eyes a bit smaller and more angled and her lips a plump pink line that he imagined sat in a delicate pout when she wasn’t fuming.

He’d heard her furiously grousing about his Queen as he’d approached before she’d thrown the bucket and splashed him with its contents before he could react.

He’d only been able to stare at her in disbelief as she watched him with an expression caught somewhere between horror and fury before disappearing beyond the stone, Princess Evalin’s laugh resounding across the battlement.

Honestly, he’d half expected the girl to throw the bucket at him as well.

He had felt oddly sheepish approaching the soldiers at the gate smelling of piss and dyed the color of evergreens. The looks of disbelief and horror that had washed over their features had detracted from any of the fear that usually came with his arrival.

He’d only been relieved that Fenrys hadn’t been there to howl his amusement.

To his surprise, King Glaston had immediately welcomed him into the castle and had looked him over with quiet mortification before swearing he’d discover who had dumped refuse onto him. He’d then quietly offered him a room where he could freshen up and scrub the dye and . . . other substances from his person and clothes.

Glancing sidelong to the pile of clothing beside the wash bin Gavriel sighed, he was fairly certain his tunic would never be the same shade of grey it had been. Fortunately, Glaston had offered him clean garments for the dinner he was to attend and had said a servant would tend to the washing.

Not that he was sure he’d ever see his clothes again if either of those young servants were assigned to the task.

He dumped another pitcher full of water over his head and found that the rivulets of the water were still a vibrant emerald. He was going to need more soap.

-------

Of course, Glaston had found it imperative that he seat her right across from the broad-shouldered warrior, right in the bask of the candlelight too, giving her a detailed view of his too-pretty face, the sharp planes illuminated by the soft glow.

Eleanor didn’t fail to notice the remnants of green dye that still tinged the male’s golden locks however, even if he’d successfully washed the stench of piss away.

Small victories, she thought smugly as she took a sip from her elderberry wine, the vintage that Glaston only had brought out when the most notable of guests arrived.

Too bad Evalin hadn’t given her a chance to drop down into the kitchen to look for some type of herb that might loosen his stomach a bit.

She watched him sip from his cup, his tawny eyes respectfully averted from her, roaming aimlessly across the large dining hall. Perhaps if she bumped the table just so she might be able to send the decanter of wine spilling into his lap—

“What do you say, Eleanor?” She froze, having entirely tuned out the conversation as she glared daggers at the male before her. She quickly took a sip of wine before turning her attention to Glaston, fixing her cousin with an easy and polite smile as she felt Evalin stiffen beside her.

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”

Her cousin’s lips downturned disapprovingly, his turquoise eyes flickering with annoyance.

Glaston’s broad face had only grown harsher with each year of his rule, the handsome features slowly settling into a permanent scowl. Fortunately, his babe Galan had seemed to have taken after his olive-skinned mother, her beautiful features softening the harsh planes of his father.

“I was saying, Eleanor,” she hid the flinch from his tone well, “that it is most unfortunate that our guest Lord Gavriel,” A lord, of course, “was greeted in a such an unruly fashion upon his arrival. Lord Dennor was strolling near the palace when he saw the incidenct occur and mentioned that you might know who the culprit could be.”

Conniving pig. Of course Dennor had been present for the event, the ruddy lord with a hooked nose and pump middle who’d been furious with Eleanor ever since she declined his proposition of marriage. He’d fluctuated between making her life a living hell and showering her with trinkets to try and win her favor ever since.

Apparently, he was intent on having her hung this evening. Likely hoping that Glaston would finally have enough of her and dump her into his lap just to be rid of her.

She barely resisted the urge to turn and glare at the round little man who sat at opposite the end of the table, no doubt inflated with the pride that he’d caught her doing something wrong.

Well, two could play at that game.

Eleanor straightened her spine as the king continued.

“We have been unable to discover which servant girl was so careless as to pour refuse off the wrong side of the battlement,” she felt Evalin’s hand rest on her knee, a reassuring squeeze, “and I was curious as to inquire if you might know, given there was rumor of your waulking fabric this afternoon.”

Furious. Glaston was absolutely livid.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest clue, your Majesty,” she wiped delicately at her mouth with a pressed napkin, keeping her face neutral as she spoke in a light tone, “but I assume whoever did so was likely not aiming for our honored guest and must have lost their hold on the handle when they smelt the enrapturing aroma of our dear Lord Dennor coming up the path.” She felt Evalin cringe beside her and didn’t miss the spark that went through Glaston’s gaze or the baffled, offended shriek from the lord. She knew she’d be punished for it but the sound of the other courtiers snickering beneath their breath would be well worth it.

If she hadn’t known better she would have also thought she saw the slightest tilt of the warrior’s mouth, even as the rest of his face remained impassive, almost bored.

She sipped delicately at her wine.

If she was going to burn she was at least taking someone with her.

Gaston completely ignored the comment.

“Lord Gavriel,” the king addressed the warrior instead, the damning witness in this case. Eleanor swallowed hard as she watched him tilt his head politely in acknowledgement, the movement too smooth to be anything but predatory--and they’d given him dinner knives? Foolish. “Do you recall what the serving girl looked like? Perhaps we can identify her and see to it that she is punished accordingly.” Eleanor was certain the male – Gavriel - was just waiting to sell her out so she braced herself, prepared for the hell wind that would sweep down upon her once Glaston knew for certain it was her. Evalin’s hand dug harder into her knee.

“Your Majesty, I am a lord in title only and though I am honored that you address me as such, it is unnecessary. I am only a soldier.” He watched Eleanor curiously, his tawny eyes bright. “And as for the servant girl, I’m afraid I am uncertain what she looked like. Dark hair, perhaps? Olive skin? I cannot recall. However, I do not believe she meant any harm and it would bring me great relief if she were not punished for a simple mistake. I am here to build relations with your kingdom, not to incriminate your servants, your Majesty.”

Polite and succinct.

How many years had this male been waging wars not only on the battlefield but in the court as well? He seemed well acclimated to both.

Eleanor tried not to let the shock creep onto her face as she watched the fae warrior before her. He’d certainly known that it had been her who had dumped the bucket and had, for some gods forsaken reason, chosen to not acknowledge it.

She could hear Dennor’s flabbergasted muttering, no doubt furious she’d gotten away with it and still recovering from his wounded ego. She watched as the warrior dipped his chin respectfully to the king, briefly flickering his attention toward her before mildly returning to his meal.

“If you are certain, Lor—Sir Gavriel,” Glaston corrected himself, an air of confusion seeming to float about him, surprise almost. Evalin visibly deflated, “In any case, I would still like to remedy the unfortunate accident. I would like to offer you a host for the remainder of your time here, company if you will.” Well, at least Glaston was finally talking sense, Eleanor thought in relief. Having someone watch where the warrior prowled might make him less likely to do something foolish--

“—and I think our dear Eleanor would be ideal to escort you through our home. I’m certain my lovely cousin would be more than happy to entertain you through the duration of your stay.” It was like a bucket of ice had be dowsed down Eleanor’s back as she openly gaped at Glaston, all sense of refinement gone. Had he gone bloody mad? Evalin stomped gently on her foot, trying to get her to regain her composure.

“It would be the highest honor to have a Princess of Wendlyn as an escort,” Gavriel nodded respectfully towards Eleanor, something like amusement flicking through those golden eyes. “I thank you for your hospitality.” “It is no trouble, Sir Gavriel, we are honored to have you here.” Glaston looked a bit like the cat who had finally caught the canary, smug and content to glut himself on his kill. He cast her a pointed look. “She will meet you tomorrow morning at sunrise to explore the grounds and show you our noble kingdom.”

It took all of Eleanor’s control to not reach down the table and flip Glaston’s plate into his face.

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@seekingformangoes

#gavriel #Throne of glass #Aedion #aedion ashryver #kingdom of ash #The cadre #koa #aelin #aelin ashryver #evalin ashryver #fanfiction #pre-throne of glass #sarah j maas #glaston #galan #wendylyn #I'm still figuring out how to tag things

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acourtofabsandillyrians · 4 years

Text

Of Sun and Roses - Chapter One

Find the prologue here

Complete masterlist here

Without further ado, chapter one is live!

~~~

Elysa Ashryver didn’t think she was breathing as the music took over, her fingers flying across the keys. The piece she had chosen was one she hadn’t visited in awhile, which was why she was grateful for muscle memory. The way her foot pressed the pedal at just the right moment, or when she leaned into the keys to sound the crescendo...it was as if she had been practicing this piece for weeks. Elysa distantly heard applause as she played the final note, the sound muddled by the fog in her brain. It was common to loose her sense of self when playing, but it had been a long time since she had gotten this lost into the music.

Blinking, Elysa turned toward her sister, Evalin, who was lounging on the couch, romance novel in one hand and a chocolate croissant in the other. Elysa and Evalin were almost mirror images of themselves. If they weren’t princesses but instead simple commoners walking side by side through a market, most would probably think they were twins. But Elysa had softer features, full lips and a rounder face; unlike Evalin whose cheekbones could slice if she ever so desired. Which annoyed the hell out of Elysa because most nobility they conversed with at balls and galas thought seventeen year-old Evalin was the older one, no matter that Elysa was three years her elder.

“You could make it big with a performance like that,” Evalin said around a mouthful of croissant.

Elysa rolled her eyes as she turned around the bench to face her sister. “I already make it big as a princess.”

“Oh, please. You know that no one knows us or really cares about us. We’re the throwaways of the royal family.”

“Don’t say that,” Elysa said gently, fluffing her dress and sitting next to her sister. “What about mother and father?”

Evalin took another bite of her croissant. “Mother chastises me for breathing the wrong way, and father can’t even remember my birthday.”

“How can you breathe the wrong way?”

“Ask mother.”

Elysa covered her mouth as she giggled.

“See?” Evalin bursted out. “She’s gotten to you, too! We can’t even laugh openly.”

Elysa sighed. “Because it isn’t proper, Ev.”

“Proper, my ass,” Evalin muttered under her breath before taking a big swig of her tea.

“Evalin!” Elysa cried, hitting her sister’s shoulder. She mushed her lips together, trying not to laugh. Though they were similar in appearance, Evalin and Elysa couldn’t have been more different. They were polar opposites, but best friends all the same. Elysa needed Evalin to keep her from becoming rigid and uptight like their mother. Still, sometimes Elysa feared for her common sense every time she was with Evalin for too long.

Evalin, placing a dignified hand on her chest, gasped, “What, have I said something wrong, my princess? Well, let me say it again.” She cleared her throat. “Ass, ass, ass, ass—”

Elysa grabbed the last croissant off the plate and shoved it into her sister’s mouth before she could ruin her ears further.

“Evalin Marjorie Ashryver, you are going to get yourself stripped of your title as princess before nightfall if you continue like this.” Elysa tried to say all this with a straight face, but the words came out wobbly and high-pitched, which only made the two princesses collapse to the couch in a fit of giggles.

When they could finally breathe again, Evalin sat up, fanning herself. “In all seriousness, that piece you played…it was amazing.”

Elysa, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, bowed her head in thanks. “You really think so?”

“I know so. You could travel the world with talent like that, El.”

Elysa loosed a breath, fingering the ends of her waist-length blonde hair. If only she could. Had she not been born into royalty, she may have considered it. But being a princess complicated things. She wasn’t in line to get the throne, of course, because her older brother was the Crown Prince of Wendlyn, but she was still subject to this castle until her parents found a suitor to marry her off to, most likely a male, fat and twenty years older than her, to secure foreign alliances.

Princess or not, she wasn’t escaping these walls. There was no point in even imagining the what-ifs…it would only make it worse. Besides, though traveling sounded appealing, she wasn’t Evalin. She didn’t have the fiery adventurous streak her sister had, who wasn’t afraid to go off on her own, not knowing which direction she was heading or if she was dipping her toe into a puddle or an ocean.

Elysa opened her mouth to respond when the great wooden doors swung open. She flinched despite the fact it was standard protocol for someone to enter the sun parlor without knocking.

“His Highness Glaston Ashryver, Crown Prince of Wendlyn,” the two guards who opened the door announced.

“Yes, he’s our brother, we know who he is,” Evalin grumbled, though she got to her feet and brushed the crumbs off her dress. Elysa did the same.

The two guards stepped apart, revealing their brother. Glaston was five years older than Elysa, but he might have been their father’s age by the way he presented himself. His ash brown hair was slicked back, glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and despite it being their day off, he was in his full, princely attire, complete with a forest green cape.

His blue eyes, ringed with gold, stared back at Elysa’s and Evalin’s—the only feature they all had in common—waiting for them to act. Elysa bent down into a deep curtsy, tugging on her sister’s dress to do the same. Evalin grumbled but followed suit.

“Elysa, father requires your company,” Glaston announced, voice gruff.

Elysa’s breath caught in her throat. When was the last time her father acknowledged her presence, much less requested to speak with her?

“Is it urgent?” She asked, voice light.

“Yes. He asks that you meet him in his office immediately.” He looked her up and down, taking in her lavender silk dress that was little more than a slip and unbraided hair. “Though you may want to clean up your presentation first.”

“Excuse me?” Evalin demanded, but Elysa shushed her and bowed her head, muttering an “Of course.”

Whatever her father required her for, she needed the appearance of a beautiful princess. Someone yielding and ladylike. Even though she felt anything but.

~~~

Tagging: @yourlocalautisticoverlord

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I’m so in love with this story and these characters...I hope you will love Elysa as much as I do as the story progresses! Please reblog, comment, share, jump up and down, whatever floats your boat. Let me know what you think in the comments! Or, if you would liked to be tagged, comment or let me know in my askbox!

Find character breakdown here

Chapter Two

#gavriel #elysa #elysa ashryver #gavrysa #evalin ashryver #evalin ashryver galathynius #aedion ashryver #gavriel fanfiction #throne of glass fanfiction #throne of glass #crown of midnight #heir of fire #queen of shadows #empire of storms #tower of dawn #kingdom of ash #sarah j maas

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acourtofabsandillyrians · 4 years

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Of Sun and Roses - Chapter Three

Find the character breakdown here

Find the inspiration board here

Complete masterlist here

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two

*NOTE: Anslo’s name has been changed to Glaston Ashryver. Turns out he is a real character mentioned by SJM, so he isn’t totally made up by me anymore :)

~~~

“Elysa,” a voice said softly from behind her.

Elysa hopped to her feet, keeping her back to her brother. She swiped the tears from her face and brushed the dirt from her dress. “Yes, Your Highness?” Her voice quaked.

“What’s wrong?”

She rolled her eyes openly only because he couldn’t see her face. Didn’t he know? She knew father ran everything by his son, especially news of this kind.

“I know you know,” Elysa replied softly, closing her eyes against the setting sun.

“Look at me.” A command. She had no choice but to turn towards Glaston. He looked disgusted to be out in the gardens, standing on dirt. He must have been ordered by their father to come talk to her.

“Elysa,” Glaston said, coming closer. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, the perfect diplomatic prince. “You knew this would be a task placed on your shoulders one day. It is the least you could do as one of Wendlyn’s princesses.”

She flinched back, stung. “How can you say that? Marriage is not a chore, it is a life duty. You males think the only thing we’re good at is making babies and being something pretty to look at when you come home from work.”

Elysa couldn’t remember the last time she’d talk back to a figure of authority before. She would never even dare to speak this way to her father or mother. But what was she thinking? This was the Crown Prince of Wendlyn! She could be killed for speaking this way, related to him through royal blood or not. Still, if she could talk this way to him, she might have been able to muster the courage to speak to her parents one more time before being ordered to her death sentence.

Glaston shook his head, at a loss of words from her outburst. He wasn’t used to her speaking this much to him. “I…Elysa, this is what you must do.”

“But why so soon?” She breathed. She was staring through him now. He had no answers of importance to her. “I’m too young. I’m not ready.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

She shook her head.

Glaston went to go sit on a nearby stone bench. He patted the spot next to him for Elysa to sit. “There have been some…happenings around Wendlyn. Some sort of force is the only way to describe it. Murders at night, but in such a large quantity it has to be some group. That was all we knew until recently we found this being and captured it…One of the guards told me its eyes were black. All it had was a ring on its finger, and we think that’s their group’s insignia of some sort. Anyway, the person—creature—only gave us cryptic answers, but we’re pretty sure it was someone responsible. That was all we got from it before it…” He trailed off.

Elysa knew the rest that was left unsaid. Before it was tortured to death.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.

“The public is frustrated with the monarchy for not doing anything about it,” Glaston said, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“But we are, aren’t we? Doing something?”

“Yes!”

“But they don’t see it.”

“Exactly. They want to use your marriage as a distraction. To ease the public away from the crimes long enough for us to figure this out.” Glaston sighed. From beside him, Elysa could see the tension in his jaw, the stiffness to his posture. If this was taking this much of a toll on him, then what was it like for her mother? Her father?

Well, now she was stuck. Whatever hopes she had of approaching her parents to explore a different option were gone. Elysa took a deep breath, her lungs demanding it after she realized she’d been holding it. Again. “Okay,” she said, more to herself. “I’ll do it. Whatever it takes for you to figure out what is going on.”

She’d do whatever it took for her country, even if it killed her to think of binding her life to someone else. Glaston placed a hand on her shoulder, the farthest he’s ever gone to show any affection towards her. Too soon he drew back, stood up, and fixed his suit. Back to being the stiff Crown Prince.

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Elysa back to her blissful solitude.

She reached down and plucked a rose. Closing her eyes, she brought it to her nose.

~~~

The suitors all arrived within the week. As soon as the first one arrived, Elysa had hidden in her chambers and had her meals delivered to her rather than going down to the royal dining hall. She didn’t know if her suitors would be eating there with the royal family or not, but she didn’t want to take that risk. She resisted meeting them until her father or mother demanded that she do so. Though, for once, she was grateful to be a princess, if only because her chambers were large enough to house a small pianoforte. There were six public pianofortes scattered throughout the palace, and at least twelve rooms had their own personal ones. She was raised musically along with her siblings, always immersed in the sound of music. Once they reached sixteen, they weren’t required to practice an instrument anymore, but Elysa held on to her skill. She was by far the best out of her siblings at the pianoforte, and she enjoyed it the most, besides her mother who taught all of her children the skill.

A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie, and the piano made a hideous noise as Elysa’s fingers faltered.

“Come in,” she called.

Evalin came through the doorway, her expression unreadable. Her usually smirking face was grim, a sign of bad news.

“What’s wrong?”

Evalin looked down and wrung her hands. “Father wants you in the Great Hall. I believe all the suitors are down there to meet you, too.”

All the blood drained from Elysa’s face. “They’re all here?” she breathed lightly.

“Yes,” Evalin said, short and clipped, before turning back towards the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Elysa asked, hopping to her feet.

“I’m not allowed to come with.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t—I don’t know exactly. Mother just said she doesn’t want me to have influence over you.” Her hands were shaking, and Elysa grabbed them, flipping them over. They were bright red and burning.

“Ev! Did she hit you?”

She pulled her hands away. “No.”

Mother never hit Evalin, as far as Elysa knew. She was their mother’s favorite. The only reason Elysa was able to tolerate the hitting was because she knew it was happening to her and not her sister. But now…this? All because Mother didn’t want Evalin to have influence over her actions around her potential future husbands? This was all her fault. Evalin was beaten because of Elysa.

“Fuck,” Elysa murmured, running a hand through her hair.

The corners of Evalin’s mouth turned up into her signature smirk. “Are my ears broken or did you just curse?”

Elysa gave her sister a shy smile, glad to have upturn the mood. “…Maybe.”

“And that’s the worst one of all!”

“Oops.”

Elysa gave a tentative giggle before Evalin joined in with roaring laughter.

There were tears streaming down each other’s cheeks by the time they calmed down. Elysa grabbed Evalin’s shoulders. “Go grab a chocolate croissant from the kitchen. Or two. Or ten. You deserve it.”

Evalin nodded, pulling her sister into a hug. “Thank you for making me laugh.”

“Thank you for teaching me curse words,” Elysa whispered onto her shoulder.

“Go meet some cute boys,” Evalin said, wiping her eyes.

Elysa scoffed but didn’t comment further. She didn’t need Evalin worrying about her any more than she already was.

~~~

Her father was waiting for her at the Great Hall doors. She approached him slowly, warily, in case he still wasn’t done scolding her for coughing in his face.

She bowed low when she reached him. “Your Majesty.”

Instead of greeting her, he shoved a piece of paper in her hands. “Here is a list of all the gentlemen’s names. Start on the left and work your way around the room. The names go in order.”

She took in the first two names—Duke Carmine Glascow of Fenharrow and Prince Rhoe Galathynius of Terrasen—before her father placed a hand low on her back and shoved her through the doors.

There was an audible gasp from all the men as soon as Elysa entered. Everything was silent as her gaze went around the room, eyes falling on at least forty gentlemen from around the world. They were all dressed in their finest. Elysa wasn’t even wearing her tiara. She curtsied quickly to cover her stumble of an entrance into the room.

She squared her shoulders, cleared her throat, and said, “Hello, gentlemen.”

~~~

Chapter Four here

Tagging: @yourlocalautisticoverlord @goldbooksblack

A/N: Hope you enjoyed an early surprise Chapter Three! As always, let me know what you think and if you’d like to be tagged for future posts! Like, share, and reblog if you ever so desire :) xo, lovely day

#gavriel #elysa #elysa ashryver #gavrysa #evalin ashryver #evalin ashryver galathynius #aedion #aedion ashryver #aedion ashryver fanfiction #throne of glass fanfiction #throne of glass #queen of shadows #empire of storms #tower of dawn #kingdom of ash #sarah j maas #crown of midnight #heir of fire

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acourtofabsandillyrians · 4 years

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Of Sun and Roses - A Quick Character Breakdown

As I was writing chapter two, I realized it might not be so obvious which of these characters are SJM canon or made up by me. Below are a few quick character descriptions for your reading enjoyment :)

Elysa Ashryver ~ she is an OC (made by me) | sister to Evalin Ashryver* and Anslo Ashryver | Princess of Wendlyn | Aedion’s mother |

Evalin Ashryver ~ she is canon, a character made by Sarah J. Maas | sister to Elysa Ashryver* and Anslo Ashryver | Princess of Wendlyn | Aelin’s mother |

Glaston** Ashryver ~ he is canon | brother to Elysa and Evalin | Crown Prince of Wendlyn | father to Prince Galan Ashryver (canon) |

Gavriel ~ this should be obvious, but he is canon | member of Maeve’s cadre | in a romantic relationship with Elysa Ashryver | Aedion’s father |

* note: According to the Throne of Glass Fandom wiki, Aedion’s mother (Elysa) and Evalin are actually cousins, making Aelin and Aedion second cousins. I have decided to make Elysa and Evalin sisters because that is how I always thought they were related while reading TOG, and I felt that it would make more sense since it is canon that Aelin and Aedion look very much alike and call each other cousins.

**Recently changed from Anslo(OC) to Glaston(canon)

Find the prologue here

Find chapter one here

Tagging: @yourlocalautisticoverlord @goldbooksblack

#of sun and roses #throne of glass #crown of midnight #heir of fire #queen of shadows #empire of storms #tower of dawn #kingdom of ash #sarah j maas #gavriel #aedion ashryver #gavriel fanfiction #aedion fanfiction #gavrilysa #throne of glass fanfiction

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fenrys-moonbae · 5 years

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A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness--Chapter 1

Eleanor Ashryver, noble lady and Princess of Wendlyn, swore viciously as she looked over at Evalin and hissed "...Is he....singing?"

"I believe so, cousin." Evalin tried and failed to hide the smile spreading across her face, her eyes flicking over to the open window where a lovely tune waltzed, "it seems you've got yourself a tom cat yowling at your window."

Bloody gods.

----

A take on the story of Aedion's mother and Gavriel's meeting, relationship and eventual parting. Pre-Throne of Glass but follows all established canon points. Rating due to future sex scenes and some coarse language.

Hi All! This is a little short side project I decided to work on since I recently re-read Kingdom of Ash. Not much information is given on Aedion's mother in the canon or on what her relationship with Evalin and Rhoe was so I took creative liberty and established one.

The waulking song used for this chapter is located here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRcXCdwfM9k

Enjoy!

----

Shafts of warm sunlight slipped through the high arches of the servants’ quarters of the palace in Varese as they worked, swathing the room in a buttery golden hue. The sparkling rays danced across the fibers of the wool as it thumped rhythmically across the table, setting the threads shimmering like emeralds.

Each press of the freshly dyed fabric against the wood thrummed through the sun-warmed hall as it was passed from hand to hand, tugging and stretching. Beautiful, lithe voices raised in unison in time with its cadence.

He mo leannan,

Hó mo leannan,

‘S e mo leannan a’ fear ùr—

An old fae ditty, reserved for waulking--- and one of Princess Eleanor Ashryver’s favorite tunes to sing during one of her most beloved pastimes. She’d routinely sneak away from palace duties to participate in it, spending her time singing and sitting thigh to thigh and elbow to elbow with the servants, her friends, kneading and stretching the bolt.

With a twist of her hands, she worked the fabric beneath her palms, feet tapping in time as her voice rose and fell along, her nail beds already saturated with deep emerald. The wool in her hands was freshly woven cashmere soaked in Terrasen green, crafted specifically for its future princess, Evalin Ashryver, soon to be Galathynius.

The lovely lady whose intellect and grace could crack even the hardest of foes, who was renowned for carrying a presence of wisdom and strength.

That was, if you didn’t know of the bashful creature she could become behind closed doors, the bright flush that overtook her pale skin when flustered or the rare but clever curses that could slip through her delicate lips when no one was listening.

It was those parts of her cousin that Eleanor knew and loved the best, the parts she knew that Evalin’s future husband would grow to love as well. That was, if they could get the blushing bride to walk down the aisle without her turning the shade of a tomato or spluttering like a broken spigot.

Fortunately, the event was still months off.

Enough time for dear Evalin to pull herself together enough that she might string coherent sentences together before being bound to her handsome and daring Prince Rhoe, heir of Terrasen’s great throne.

Eleanor couldn’t help but grin, the lovesick expression of her cousin’s fair face still dancing through her mind.

She’d never let Evalin hear the end of it.

Not that the young prince had responded much better according to the gossip that flitted through the palace in the wake of her return. Apparently, King Orlon had had a jolly time teasing the lovebirds throughout Evalin’s stay and had laughed quite loudly and openly at his brother’s attempt at courtship upon the princess’s departure.

Two birds of a feather then, destined to rule a bright and glorious kingdom.

She could not find room for more joy in her heart at the prospect.

Even if part of her panged at the emptiness that would follow her cousin’s nuptials and inevitable departure. While born a princess, Eleanor’s right was only in name, not poised to inherit any power or lands, and her future had always been somehow . . . flat and vague.

And without Evalin’s constant presence and companionship…

She gripped the fabric tightly as the next length was passed to her, her mind willing the worm of sorrow away.

Now wasn’t the time for such idle thoughts. Even if the prospect had chased sleep from her in the previous weeks, leaving her mind to wander in the darkness of her chambers.

Even if Evalin had looked prime to invite her to go with her, to whisk her off to Terrasen so that they would never be apart . . .

She banished the thought.

No, she could not go. Wendlyn was her home and where she would stay. Even if her dearest cousin was to set sail for foreign lands.

Close in age, she and Evalin had been hand in hand since they were children, nearly identical in appearance and thick as thieves and twice as mischievous.

The palace staff had bemoaned their more . . . adventurous endeavors. Even as encroaching adulthood had slowly stripped them of the freedom they’d relished in their youth, they’d still found ways to entertain themselves and stir up trouble in the way that only two young princesses might.

Old Nan had still yet to forgive them for stealing Lord Edgar’s wig six summers before, their teenage curiosity getting the better of them. They’d merely wondered if the rumors of it being made of cat hair were true.

The rumors, much to her and Evalin’s eternal disappointment, had been false.

Lord Edgar’s fit of rage and spewing had not been, however, the lord having fled the castle in such a rage that he’d forgotten to dress himself properly and had loaded himself into his carriage in only his underthings.

He’d yet to visit the palace again much to her cousin, the crowned King Glaston’s, annoyance.

Eleanor had remained unruffled when confronted, justifying that the man was insufferable anyway, hardly fit for life as a human much less as a lord. Evalin, ever the pacifist, had supported her claim, albeit in far fewer, much less damning words.

They’d been sent to drudgery duty as punishment: Evalin to the kitchens and Eleanor to seamstresses, in hopes that separating the girls might dampen their exploits. Much to everyone’s disappointment, Eleanor had discovered a love of weaving and now made a habit of sneaking off to join the servants. Evalin, for her part, had taken an interest in the culture of the demi-fae staff she worked with, going so far as to visit a small demi-fae village called Mistward to better understand their plight.

The same place where Evalin returned from now, due back any moment.

Far too close to the border of Doranelle and that heinous Fae-Queen Maeve, Eleanor thought with irritation. Maeve’s unexpected fascination with Evalin had left everyone in the Ashryver estate unsettled, the ancient queen’s wickedness preceding her.

The sooner Evalin was home, the better.

Waving her hands, Eleanor flicked the excess bits of dye and diluted urine from her fingers before gripping the fabric taut again, brushing her leg against the woman next to her.

The tune they were singing came to a slow end, fading on both her tongue and those of the women around her. Shifting her gaze, her eyes landed on one of the younger servant girls at the end of the row who quickly selected another, slapping the fabric in time, and began to sing jovially, her broad smile contagious.

Eleanor almost snorted at the song the girl had selected, sung in the common tongue--a tale of a handsome fae lord who had come to town to woo the prettiest lady and sweep her away off to his fine kingdom.

Oh, he comes o’er hill and dale,

Sword strapped right,

Bonny and bright,

Come to bid his tale--

Gods help any woman foolish enough to run off with one of the fae males, she thought harshly, With their immortality and brute strength . . . even if they aren’t difficult on the eyes. Not that she and Evalin had taken a habit of watching the visiting emissaries ride in, speculating on what was beneath those fine tunics--

Even caught up in the song and her work Eleanor didn’t miss the servant’s door opening or the soft scrape of boots as Evalin peeked her head into the room, her turquoise eyes searching as she scanned the room.

Relief flooded her.

Home and safe.

Tossing up a hand she waved Evalin over, who must have just arrived as she was still clad in her traveling dress, a cloak wrapped about her slender shoulders.

Watching her cousin’s approach, Eleanor immediately noted that her normally slim, proud shoulders were tight and her lovely mouth seemed pinched, even as she smiled sincerely at her. Sensing something amiss, she rose from her seat, leaving her portion of the fabric on the table to be rapidly swept up by surrounding hands.

“Greetings, cousin,” Evalin chimed, reaching out delicate hands to wrap around Eleanor and pull her close, the smell of smoke and the forest wafting from her cloak, “I am so very glad to see you.”

“As am I.” Pushing away, Eleanor looked over Evalin once, furrowing her brow in concern, the formality, the tight posture-- “Eva, is everything all right?”

Evalin’s eyes flickered behind them toward the servents, her pink lips down turning slightly—no, it wasn’t—but this wasn’t the place to discuss it.

Eleanor was about to suggest they go somewhere to talk when Lucielle, an elderly servant whose hair had once been as fiery as her temper, sent a knowing look across the table at the two princesses.

“Your Majesties,” she chimed, slipping away from the waulking table and dipping into a slight curtsey, “if you wouldn’t mind, could you perhaps take the old dye out? It would save an old woman with terrible knees a trip up the stairs.”

“Of course, Lucielle,” relief flooded Evalin’s face, her shoulders loosening, “we’d be happy to help.”

“Oh good, good, such lovely, kind ladies both of you.” The woman waved a withered hand over her shoulder. “There’s only a few bowls that need to go. Pour them in the buckets and dump it off into the grass.”

“Yes, of course,” Eleanor murmured, watching Evalin with an eagle’s gaze, “we’ll go now.”

“Bloody whore,” Eleanor swore as she slammed the buckets of dye and urine down on the battlement, her regal face set in a cool rage. If she ever got her hands on that dark queen--“How dare she address you like that?” “Language, Elle,” Evalin reprimanded, sending a long glance at the guards at the edge of the battlements. Their attention was averted from the princesses as they had been trained, but they still had ears. “And . . . it is what it is. She would listen to none of my pleading.” “Of course not,” Eleanor quipped, her sweet voice harsh as she threw one of the buckets they had carried up the stairs over the battlement walls and onto the grass below, splashing the ground with green dye and the urine used to set it. “How dare anyone call out the illustrious Maeve on her brutal rule.” Evalin had recapped the hardships the demi-fae faced, the scorn they received from both the humans and the fae. A people caught between two races with no home of their own--many of whom spent their lives trying to win the favor of the fae queen only to live their days out in poverty in the small rural villages between the human and fae lands.

“It would be a blessing on this kingdom and the next if she’d rutting keel over,” Evalin paled at the insinuation, even as Eleanor hissed in fury, “Gods above know that royal bit—” “Eleanor,” Evalin warned again, ever the water to Eleanor’s fire, “Ears, cousin. Ears.” “Piss on them,” she shot back, her vision nearly red as she thought on the fae queen. “If she’s so offended by my words then Maeve can come here and address it with me, but Gods know she won’t leave that stone throne or the harem of pretty warriors she collects.”

Evalin cringed as the words flowed past Eleanor’s lips.

But what reaction had she expected when recounting such news? Not only was Evalin the crown princess of Wendlyn and Eleanor’s greatest friend, she carried the bloodline of Mab, which entitled her to more respect that Maeve had ever given.

And going so far as to bargain with Evalin about her firstborn in exchange for the demi-fae’s rights--

“You shouldn’t be going back to Mistward, Eva.” She shook her head, the gall of the queen to try and barter with Evalin’s future child . . . “Stay as far away from the woman as you can.” “They are my friends, Elle,” Evalin murmured, running a hand through her golden locks as she glanced towards the mountains and the village that dwelled deep within, as though she could see all the way to that fortress, “and no one else will stand for them.” “And of your own safety?” She knew Maeve wouldn’t be so foolish as to attack a crown princess, but using magic to coerce-- “That has to be taken into account too.”

“I know, Elle,” she placed a hand on her stomach, as though her thoughts drifted to the life that would one day grow there, to the life that Maeve had so casually predicted. “I know.”

“Foul demon woman,” Eleanor grumbled as she lifted third bucket of dye to dump over the battlements edge, perhaps it was best her cousin was going to Terrasen, if for no other reason to be away from gods damned Maeve, “I hope I never see the likes of her.” “Me either, Elle.” Evalin shook her head, her honey-colored locks catching the light of the fading afternoon sun, before smiling up at Eleanor, finally, a true smile. “Though I am glad to see you. I’ve missed you in our weeks apart.” “Me too Eva, the castle has been too quiet without you.” A laugh. “I thought you’d quiet enjoy your time alone without me tailing after you.” “Well, a bit,” Eleanor conceded, smiling mischievously, “though with word of you and Prince Rhoe’s engagement I haven’t been able to be away from even the mention of you.” A delicate blush rushed up the princess’s cheeks as she averted her gaze from Eleanor.

Better, Eleanor thought as she watched her cousin nervously run her fingers over her cloak, her mind no doubt lost to the prince who awaited her across the sea.

“Let’s celebrate your return tonight and stay together, like we did as children.” Something sparked to life in Evalin’s eyes at that, at the long conversation they would have through the night, the mischief they might get into.

“Yes, let’s.” She rose from where she leaned against the stone and watched Eleanor, her eyes finally full of the mirth and warmth Eleanor was accustomed to.

She mulled on the thoughts of Maeve, of the idle threats she’d made to her dear cousin as she walked over and picked up the final bucket of waste, testing its weight in her hand. “Do you know what I say, Eva?” she inquired, swinging the bucket and sending its contents sloshing all over the stone as she stomped towards the edge of the battlements, the image of the dark-haired queen sharpening in her mind.

Evalin turned her attention back to Eleanor, her mouth opening as though to speak, her hand lifting as though to stop her. “Elle, wait—" She lifted the bucket above her head and smiled ferally. “Piss on Maeve.”

Ignoring her cousin’s warning, she slung the contents of the bucket over the wall with a flick of her arms, willing somewhere, somehow that damned queen also had a bucket of green dye and piss being dumped on her.

A loud splash sounded as the liquid splattered down the stone, followed almost immediately by a soft grunt of surprise.

She froze.

Evalin cringed, even as she couldn’t help the amusement that darted across her face. “You threw it over the wrong side, cousin.” Embarrassment flooded Eleanor as she realized in her fury she’d thrown the waste not onto the grass but onto the street below the battlement, the one that led to the palace gates. Right atop some poor fool strolling up the path at the wrong moment. Blinking in shock, she braved a look down the side of the battlements to see a tall figure below, soaked in the urine and dye she’d tossed over the side, his fine grey cloak stained a blotchy green. He was armed to the teeth, daggers and swords adorning his body, an intricate bow strapped across his back along with a large pack. Someone who had been on the road for a long time. With growing horror, she watched as he pulled his hood free with predatory ease, revealing pointed ears and long blonde locks that were now also tinged green and most certainly smelled like urine.

He turned his head upwards to see where his unexpected shower had come from—

Beautiful, was the only thought that flitted through Eleanor’s mind as she took him in, devastatingly beautiful and undoubtedly fae.

Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to move, the breath rushing out of her as she took in his features, the tawny eyes, the broad shoulders and shapely throat encrusted with black markings—

And hanging loosely atop his tunic was a silver medallion now also dripping in murky green, a medallion in the shape of an owl that indicated the ruling house of Doranelle-- Evalin was now next to her, a hand covering her mouth as she muttered, her eyes wide.

“‘Oh, piss on Maeve indeed.” A hole opened up beneath Eleanor as she blinked, breaking eye contact with the fae male before quickly stumbling away from the battlement’s edge, her bucket tumbling to the ground in front of her.

She’d gotten her wish, no doubt. She’d just soaked one of Maeve’s soldiers in dye and urine.

She slid down the battlement wall and placed her head in her hands, ignoring the stifled chuckles that quickly turned into full belly laughs from Evalin.

Couldn’t she keep her damned mouth shut?

Evalin wasn’t certain Eleanor’s face would ever return to its natural shade as they wound down the staircase back to the bottom floor of the palace. No, she assumed she’d probably stay tinged pink until the darkness claimed her.

She’d tried to warn her that she was dumping the bucket off the wrong side of the wall.

And, as was Eleanor’s style, the rancid mixture had splashed all over one of Doranelle’s soldiers, no doubt from Maeve’s personal guard.

Her stomach had dropped at the sight of him, an uneasiness settling over her with his sudden appearance.

Eleanor had merely muttered “Traitorous Gods” before swiping up the bucket and rushing down the stairs, her skirt swishing as she took them two at a time.

No doubt her brother Glaston would be less than pleased with their cousins’ actions. He’d grown cold since their father’s death and his ascension to the throne--the young man she’d loved so fiercely as a child was now a shell of who he’d once been.

His coldness tended to manifest as criticisms of herself and Eleanor. Mostly wild, free Eleanor. He was going to be furious.

Not that anything could be done to right it now.

“Majesties, there you are,” an old woman crowed as she rounded the corner of the hallway and spotted the two Ashryver princesses making their way down the hallway, “Your presence is requested at dinner tonight, and seeing as you’ve been on the road all day, Evalin,” a look towards her dusty cloak and scuffed, muddy boots,” you need to bathe and change.”

Old Nan was as stalwart and round as she’d ever been, her harsh eyes buried beneath bushy brows as she looked over both girls with that assessing gaze. Evalin instinctively straightened her spine, correcting her posture.

Eleanor beside her made no attempts to remedy hers.

Evalin had to resist the urge to reach out and nudge her, a gentle reminder to keep them both out of trouble--

The old woman stopped her approach suddenly, tentatively sniffing the air before gasping, “Is that . . . urine?”

Evalin tried to keep her face neutral as she heard her cousin clear her throat, smoothly slipping into a protected position behind her, letting her take the brunt of their nursemaid’s fury. “Nan, please—” Evalin began, trying to placate the old woman before her temper flared, knowing it would likely be unfruitful-

“Eleanor!” A reprimand, sharp and unforgiving. “I’ve told you before, princesses do not waulk fabric. Lucielle will be hearing of this. I’ve told her again and again to not let you sully your hands with the piss of servants.” “And I order you to leave her out of it.” Eleanor snarled from her position behind Evalin, still cleverly hidden as she peeked up over her cousin’s shoulders and narrowed her brows, “Princesses may do as they like, need I remind you.”

An argument as old as the castle itself, one Eleanor and old Nan had had from the time Eleanor had been able to muster the word “no”.

Evalin could already feel the headache creeping in.

She desperately needed to bathe, to sort through her thoughts concerning the conversation she and her aunt had a week before, when, over tea, she’d nonchalantly inquired after the prospect of her and her betrothed’s future heir, violet eyes smoldering as she’d carefully gauged Evalin’s reaction.

When she’d presented the idea that, should she bring her heir to Maeve for training, she’d gladly grant the demi-fae access to Doranelle and rights to all its splendors, as Evalin had been tirelessly working to achieve over the previous years.

The conversation had left her feeling oily, eager to depart Doranelle and return to Wendlyn where she might confide in someone she trusted, in Eleanor, what had been asked of her, in private and without the watchful eyes of her family or the fae.

And now with one of her soldiers arriving here at the palace within an hour of her return home—who was now covered in dye and refuse thanks to Eleanor’s careful hand—there was much for her think on.

“Nan,” Evalin interrupted the argument beginning to build around her, reaching a soft hand out for her nursemaid, “I would very much like to bathe and have Eleanor help me dress if you’d be willing.” Nan’s dark eyes narrowed with simmering fury but she nodded anyway, sidestepping the young princesses and allowing them to pass.

“Be quick Majesty,” she called after, wiping her hands in the apron at her waist, “we’ve a guest tonight.”

“Wonderful,” Eleanor muttered under her breath, only hissing slightly as Evalin surreptitiously stepped on her toe, silencing her. Evalin had assumed as much, knowing precisely who their guest would be. She’d known it from the moment she had noted the tell-tale grey clothing of the warrior from earlier, the fine weapons strapped across him.

He wasn’t an ordinary foot soldier, but one of Maeve’s bloodsworn. The medallion was only a courteous marker for anyone who did not know of them. But any who did . . . it was not hard to identify them, lethal and vicious in the way they moved, their ancient presences near palpable.

Sent, no doubt, at the behest of her aunt.

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