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muertawrites · 4 years

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The Dark of the Moon (Zuko x Reader)

Summary: Late night insomnia turns into a conversation about love, and Zuko makes an interesting discovery about his feelings for you.

Word Count: 2,100

Author’s Note: You can thank Avatar being on Netflix and rekindling my childhood obsession for this one. I wrote this mostly as a dialogue / pacing exercise, but it’s also a bit therapeutic since I can actually relate to Zuko more than I realized or could have ever foreseen watching this show as a ten year old. Enjoy a little emotional romantic fantasy on behalf of a preteen crush and all the toxic friends I’ve ever had. ✌

~ Muerta

Zuko usually slept with you. It started one late night during a mutual bout of insomnia, in which you ran into him as you both wandered the halls of the Western Air Temple. You hardly knew him, but he sat with you and talked about everything that night - anything that wasn’t related to the war or either of your pasts that had been torn apart by it. He surprised you with his dry, even-toned sense of humor, as well as with his intelligence in not only combat but literature and philosophy as well; being a healer and a fortune teller by trade, you found a lot to talk about with him.

As the nights awake became more common, you and Zuko spent more of them together; sometimes you’d wait until you happened upon him in the halls, others one of you would designate a place to meet. Eventually, one of you would go directly to the other’s room and you’d sit, sharing whatever light or heavy thoughts happened to plague your minds. You learned a lot about him in those nights, and grew to feel proud of how far he’d come in such a short time - you often helped others, those much older than yourselves, over months to scale the internal struggles he had, and he’d managed to do so on his own. The more you gave to him, the more he gave back, and it soon became commonplace to fall asleep to the sound of his breathing as he lay in his sleeping bag on the other end of your room.

And that’s exactly what woke you up - the strange, still energy of your bedroom that indicated his resting place was empty. You rolled over, unable to spy his silhouette under the moonlit windowsill, and you rose, your feet carrying you to where you were certain he would be.

It was a gorgeous night, with a gentle breeze ruffling the crisp air. You found Zuko in the courtyard, gazing out over the fog veiled landscape under the swell of the full moon. Without a word, you sat beside him, watching the clouds roll by like ships on a silent ocean. His chest churned in turmoil, so intensely you could feel it in your own.

“Apparently, I can’t sleep without you anymore,” you said. “How selfish of you to have problems that keep you up at night.”

Zuko huffed out a soft chuckle, though the weight in his chest didn’t lift. He leaned back onto his palms, craning his neck backward and allowing the wind to tousle his ash-black hair.

“You didn’t need to come out here,” he told you gently. “It’s not your job to help me fix myself.”

“It never has been,” you replied. “I’ve never fixed anyone. All I ever do is listen and recite a few proverbs; everyone comes to their own conclusions in the end.”

“That’s not true,” Zuko retorted. “I’ve seen you heal. You can do things not even Katara can do, just with whatever happens to be growing nearby. It’s incredible.”

You smiled, your heart fluttering in your chest.

“Physical healing and emotional healing are two super different things,” you told him. “Emotional wounds can only really be healed by the people who have them. I mean, unless you want me to crack open your chest and poke around at your heart for a little while.”

Zuko chuckled again, the tenseness of his muscles easing up just slightly. He opened his palm and spawned a softly glowing flame, both of you watching it flicker in the cool night air.

“I wish I’d been born a water bender,” he mused. “Something that would do good for others. All fire does is destroy.”

You were silent for a moment, watching the thoughts swirl, tormented, behind his eyes. You thought of all the times you’d seen him smile, how his happiness made his handsome features all the more radiant and caused your stomach to bubble with joy. The memory shot a spike through your chest.

“... You know, we only ever see one part of the moon,” you commented, breaking the quiet. “Everything behind that - the dark side - we don’t really consider, even though it’s always there and is as much a part of the moon as the side that’s in front of us.”

Zuko smirked at you, distinguishing the flame in his hand.

“Reciting a proverb at me?” he teased.

You grinned.

“This one’s more like a metaphor,” you admitted cheekily. “That tea I make, the one that tastes awful but makes pain completely disappear?”

Zuko nodded.

“I need fire to make it,” you continued. “I have to roast the ingredients over an open flame before boiling them. Without fire, I couldn’t do most of my healing; it would be too painful without the tea to help.”

Zuko said nothing, but you could sense your words sinking into the cracks in his troubled thinking.

“Fire is heat and light,” you added. “It’s just as important to life as water or earth or air. Every element is capable of destruction or creation - there isn’t a single one that’s inherently good or bad. The person that controls them is the only one who determines that.”

There was another long pause, in which you busied yourself noting the different wild plants growing between the stones that paved the courtyard. You listed the different medicines you could make with each, the process calming you.

“I’ve done some pretty shitty things to people I care about in order to embrace my goodness,” Zuko finally spat. The bitterness in his tone stung you. You turned to him, and for a split second you caught a familiar, rageful glimmer in his eye; the sight made your own temper flare.

“Zuko, don’t do that to yourself,” you said. “It wasn’t just your father who hurt you and you know that.”

“I know,” he snapped, cutting off the end of your words. “I still care about her, though. I don’t even know if she really ever cared about me, but I still… I still miss her.”

Your ribs seemed to cave in, crushing your heart and lungs. He’d told you about Mai many times, and all you ever saw was that the darkness in her drew out the darkness in him; it even hung over you, clouding out the comfort you felt with Zuko and replacing it with unease and doubt. You feared there was no place in his heart for you - not while Mai still remained in it, no matter how badly her memory made him bleed.

“It’s hard,” you choked out. “I still miss some of the people who hurt me, too.”

That was all you could manage to say. You pulled your knees to your chest, half-burying your face in the fabric of your night dress as you forced the tears welling in the corners of your eyes not to flow.

This is what you get, you scolded yourself. This is what you get for feeling things for people you know could never feel the same about you.

A sensation of warmth curling around your shoulders made you jolt. Instinctively, you inched away, glancing in Zuko’s direction as he retracted the arm that had draped around you. You expected him to look away, but he didn’t - his pale amber eyes instead locked with yours.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “You hold your head so high… I forget sometimes that you’re trying to heal, too.”

His words caused your tears to spill, though you didn’t cry; your face remained stony, and no sobs shook you. Your tears fell as easily as water from a cliff’s edge, impeded by nothing but the will of gravity.

“... The cards you lent me,” Zuko said after a pause, almost blurting the words. “I’ve been reading them, to help me let go of everything I left behind. I don’t think I’m doing it right.”

A few weeks ago, you’d given him a deck of cards you used for fortune telling. Each card depicted a different object, element, or scene, and were laid out in combinations that gave insight into a person’s spiritual path. You liked them more than other forms of fortune telling, as it encouraged its readers to make their own assumptions and drive their own fates instead of having it simply told to them. You gave your deck to Zuko so he could reflect on something finite, instead of getting consumed by his own thoughts. It was exactly what you used them for, and you knew they would help.

“Why?” you asked softly.

“I drew a card that didn’t make sense,” he told you. “I laid down the Tides, then the Crossed Blades, and then… I pulled the Badger Mole. The other two I understand - one is for movement and change, the other is for strength in allies, but I… can’t figure out what the Badger Mole is supposed to mean.”

“Badger moles are strong, powerful,” you explained, speaking dispassionately from memory, “but they’re gentle. The card represents the duality of both. They mate for life, too, so it also represents love and companionship.”

As you spoke, you felt a meteor crash between you and Zuko. His face fell, dumbfounded, as he looked at you, his eyes darting minutely back and forth as you watched the pieces mend together in his head.

“What do you feel?” you whispered, part of you terrified of his answer.

“... I feel like I’m fighting the tide,” Zuko replied, his tone awestruck. “It’s pushing me to shore, but I keep trying to swim back out to sea.”

The corners of your lips curled upwards slightly, your cheeks still sticky with tears.

“It’s really scary, huh?” you said. “Loving another person.”

“Yeah... especially when you’ve never known what it feels like before,” Zuko added softly.

You reached out, tentatively resting your palm against his cheek. His hand rose to close over yours, the sensation trembling you to your core.

“How many times have you pulled the Badger Mole?” you asked.

“Every time,” Zuko breathed. “I’m so stupid for not realizing. You make me feel wild and calm all at once. I get this crushing feeling in my chest when I see you or even think of you, and I thought it was just fear or sadness. But… you don’t make me want to lash out like I used to, with my father and Azula and Mai… just the thought of you makes me want to be the best person I can be. Even though I know you already accept me for not being that person.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, somewhat defeatedly, your knees falling away from your chest and crossing in front of you. Your body was heavy, but your head felt light.

“I love you, Zuko,” you murmured. “But I’m afraid.”

Zuko wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. His forehead fell to rest against yours, his eyes closing as he steadied his erratic breathing.

“If you’re scared, I’ll protect you,” he said quietly. “That’s what I think lovers are supposed to do.”

The word made every organ in your body jump to your throat. Lovers. Your limbs felt weak, but your heart felt strong with Zuko holding you.

Without thinking, you took his face in your hands and kissed him. It wasn’t hard and passionate like you expected, but firm, gentle, his lips pressing to yours like two palms grasped in an assuring embrace. He lay one of his large, able hands on the back of your neck, his thumb tenderly stroking your skin.

When you finally broke apart, Zuko gazed at you with a soft, forlorn expression. His fingers reached to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I talk about her so much,” he said. “It must kill you.”

You shook your head, a soft smile forming on your lips, still red from where Zuko had kissed them.

“Don’t worry about it,” you told him. “I know some people from my past you’d happily drive a knife into.”

Zuko chuckled, the light, airy smile you saw when he was truly happy spreading to each of his cheeks. The spike that drove itself through your heart when you thought of it earlier was gone, replaced by the sweet warmth of a low flame on a cold night. With him, you were safe.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Zuko suggested, taking your arm to help you stand.

His hand slipped easily into yours, your fingers twining together. He leaned forward and kissed you again, his lips only grazing yours, causing your skin to buzz with the sensation.

“... Do you think we’ll have to talk to Aang about this?” you asked as you walked back to your room.

Zuko raised an eyebrow at you, confused.

“He is your great-grandfather,” you elaborated with jest. “I should probably do the chivalrous thing and ask for his blessing or something.”

Zuko laughed, nudging you with his shoulder so that you stumbled over your feet. You shoved him back, to which he took you by the waist and wrapped you tightly in his arms, kissing your cheek.

“He probably won’t care,” he replied. “But my uncle will love you.”

#muerta's works #zuko #zuko x reader #zuko x you #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko x you #zuko fanfic #prince zuko fanfic #atla fanfic #avatar fanfiction #self insert fanfiction #lmao when you don't know how to end a fic

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cicada-bones · 3 years

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 18: Understanding

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan returned to his room in a daze, his mouth filled with the taste of dust and ashes. Gavriel was now sitting up on the worktable, cradling the bowl of stew the princess had left, now almost empty, while the loaf of bread had been gnawed down to the crust.

The golden male looked at him slowly, steadily. Instead of returning his gaze, Rowan turned and sat on the bed before his knees gave out beneath him.

“So that was the Heir of Terrasen.”

Gavriel’s voice reached him slowly, as if traveling through a thick fog. “Yes,” Rowan responded plainly. There was no chance in hell that Gavriel hadn’t heard every single word that had passed between them.

“Fenrys mentioned the princess in his letter. Have you…was that – ”

“No.” Rowan collected himself through sheer force of will. “That was nothing. Just an argument – she’s even more difficult than Fenrys was.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Gavriel’s voice lightened somewhat, but there was still an undercurrent of suspicion, of worry. One that Rowan was determined to eliminate.

“I think she’s a punishment from Maeve, and if not her, then the gods. She fights me on everything, questions every word I say. If I told her the sun rose in the east and set in the west, she wouldn’t believe it.” Just keeping his voice even and polite was a massive effort.

Gavriel was silent for a moment. Then he said, hesitantly, “She looked so…familiar. It was strange, almost like – ” the male’s voice cut off abruptly, his lips pursed tight. Rowan caught a quick whiff of something cold and sharp in his warm, nutty scent, perhaps grief – or longing? But then the emotion was once again carefully controlled and concealed, so thoroughly Rowan thought he might have imagined it.

Gavriel shook his head roughly, saying, “It doesn’t matter. Did Maeve say what her intentions were regarding the princess?”

“No. Only that I was to bring her to Doranelle when she proved herself.”

“And how much longer do you expect to be here?”

“Perhaps a few months.”

“So she learns quickly.”

Rowan sighed. “She was already proficient in combat. There were a few complications in teaching her to access her power, but now that she’s gotten through that first stage I expect she’ll progress quickly.”

“Her power is...” Gavriel’s voice trailed off in astonishment.

“I know.” Rowan responded. Even with barely a minute in the girl’s presence, Gavriel already could sense her potential.

“Do you expect that she will join us?”

Rowan shook his head slowly, pursing his lips. “I don’t know.” He paused for a second, looking out the dark window. “I can only suspect what Maeve wants, but the girl has her own agenda.”

“And?”

“And I have no idea what it is, or what she wants. And I don’t particularly give a shit. I’m going to train her and take her to Doranelle as Maeve ordered, then I can be rid of her.” Rowan’s voice was hard, but his throat was tight. And he suspected that the male might have heard the half-truth there.

Gavriel’s face twisted in a frown. “Maeve won’t want to let such a gift escape her grasp, regardless of the girl’s intentions. She must have some kind of plan in place, some kind of leverage she can pull.”

Rowan understood. Although Maeve was powerful enough to confront her enemies solely with brute force, that wasn’t how she preferred to operate. Instead, she manipulated, twisting others into the positions she wants them in.

Gavriel’s voice was dispassionate. “The princess will yield when they meet in Doranelle, and then we will discover Maeve’s purpose with the girl. Perhaps she’s intended to be an agent in the west. Adarlan has become quite the annoyance of late, there’s a chance Maeve wants the girl to go west and claim her throne. We haven’t had a strong ally on that continent for decades now. It makes our western flank weak. And the advantages of having a foreign ruler there to protect our interests must be massive…”

Rowan remained silent, nodding along while Gavriel speculated idly. It was strange to hear someone talk of such things as if they weren’t of monumental significance. As if they were only small shifts, tiny moves on the chessboard of nations.

For some reason, they no longer were for Rowan. For some reason, he couldn’t think about the princess in that way anymore – as only a piece to be moved at the will of other, more powerful players.

“…or maybe she is intended to join us, and Maeve will continue to avoid war and fortify our borders. Either way, the princess will likely prove a great advantage.”

When Rowan didn’t say anything, Gavriel looked at him sternly, though not harshly. It was an examining look, one that questioned and surveyed. In it, Rowan could feel every year of Gavriel’s seniority, each decade of the centuries Rowan had not yet experienced. Though Rowan outranked Gavriel, was second only to Lorcan in their court, in that moment, he didn’t feel it.

Gavriel had always been his sounding board, where he went when he could no longer stand Fenrys’ recklessness, when Lorcan’s misery became too much to bear. But this time the issue was so much less clear, so confusing and incomprehensible that he couldn’t even begin to address it with himself, let alone the male.

So he remained silent, acknowledging Gavriel’s questioning look but refusing to answer it. Gavriel leaned down to place the bowl of stew on the floor, and instead of pushing the issue, accepted Rowan’s refusal. “The night is beginning to wane, and I doubt you still want to be doing this when the sun returns.”

Rowan nodded, moving to sit astride the worktable and picking up the needle and mallet. Gavriel led back down, closed his eyes and once again began his murmured prayers.

It took a while for Rowan to get back into the easy rhythm, for the motions to feel comfortable and familiar again. The moon rose and fell, casting a beam of light that traveled across his bed until it disappeared behind the Cambrian mountains, and all went black. The rain eventually stopped its soft patter against the window, and the silver mists returned.

All the while, Gavriel spoke on behalf of his fallen dead. He pleaded with the gods to take their souls and treat them gently, guiding them into the Afterworld with kindness and tenderness. He told of their great deeds and their mighty worth, until the scent of his grief lessened and wore thin.

Rowan was silent the whole time, his only sounds the soft tap of the mallet and dip in the inkpot. He didn’t join in with the male’s murmured entreaty, but together they grieved through the night. And though their sorrow had completely different causes, the familiar ritual helped to soothe both of their aches until the edges were dull and blunt.

By the time the sun began to rise, the markings were finally done. Rowan began to clear off the table, collecting his needles and pouring the remaining ink on the fire, while Gavriel gingerly pulled his shirt over the fresh tattoo.

Rowan had been wrapped up in his own thoughts, but he thought that perhaps something had shifted in the male through the night. That Gavriel had undergone some change of heart, or realization. But he said nothing, and Rowan didn’t push. He knew he was in no position to ask personal information of anybody.

Rowan kept his face turned towards the back wall, away from the bed where Gavriel was now sitting, strapping on his many weapons. Soon, the male finished readying himself and stood, saying his goodbyes. Rowan mumbled one in return, now mopping up the pools of blood and spilled ink that dotted the surface of the table.

But before leaving, Gavriel hesitated in the doorway, deliberating. “I will see you in a few months Rowan. Until then…” he trailed off. “Just remember that Maeve will use any and all advantages at her disposal, regardless of the consequences. Do not accidentally become that very advantage.”

Before Rowan could protest, Gavriel interrupted again, “I’m not saying I understand whatever your relationship is with the girl. Just don’t let any attachment to her overshadow your duty to your queen. You have your orders, and no matter what she does, the princess cannot avoid the coming meeting.”

Rowan spoke through his teeth. “I know my orders, Gavriel. And as I said last night, the girl is nothing to me.”

“So you say.”

“So it is.”

Gavriel just nodded, backing off and turning to leave the cold stone room. But before he could, Rowan added in a slightly lighter tone, “Farewell Gavriel. And when you see Maeve, tell her…tell her that the princess is learning well, and I expect to return to Doranelle before Samhuinn.”

“I will.” Gavriel dipped his head, and left the room.

···

Gavriel strode through the fortress, lost in thought.

He couldn’t escape the image of the girl, the Princess of Terrasen. It swam before his eyes no matter how hard he tried to eliminate it. He’d spent the whole night consumed by it, haunted by it. While he had been whispering prayers to his lost men, while Rowan had marked his shame and grief on his body, his heart had been vehemently denying the truth that hovered just out of reach.

Those eyes, that face…the girl was a spitting image of the woman he loved.

An Ashryver Princess, a future Queen of Wendlyn. The woman he had left alone nearly twenty-four years ago. Who had decided to banish him from her presence rather than accept that he was blood-sworn to Maeve. He would have followed her to the ends of the earth, would have done anything to protect her. But she didn’t want him to, and so Gavriel had left and not looked back. Never to see her again.

He didn’t know what had happened to her after that, hadn’t wanted to. It hurt too much. But he had heard that shortly after that summer, an Ashryver princess had been married off to the Prince of Terrasen. And within months, had a golden-haired child with extraordinary Fae gifts. Gifts usually never seen among those whose Fae blood was so diluted.

The possibility hovered above him, tantalizing him with its likelihood.

Was that his child sleeping in the fortress above him? His child whose heart beat with fire and power and magic?

As the night had passed, it had gotten harder and harder to deny it. The truth that his heart was telling him. He could have sired a child. A child who thought they’d been abandoned, who was alone and friendless in a world that was crueler than it was kind.

His grief had fled his body, and it took all of his control to hide the anxiety that replaced it. Though Rowan had been distracted by his own pain, Gavriel didn’t want the male taking notice. No one knew about his relationship with the princess that summer, and he had gone to great lengths to keep it that way. He would not fail her now. Though his love was dead, he could not fail her child.

But there was nothing more he could do. Nothing to protect her from the powers that circled, vultures ready to pounce.

Gavriel had heard everything said between Aelin and Rowan, and it worried him. The male had been needlessly cruel, even heartless. But Gavriel knew Rowan, and something had shifted in the male since he’d seen him last. It wasn’t so much that an edge had been softened, more that an edge had been uncovered. That the girl had awoken some part of him that had been sleeping, dreaming of being awake and alive.

Perhaps in another time, in another life, this would have comforted Gavriel. It would have gladdened him to see his old friend begin to heal, to let go. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Especially considering what he had overheard last night, the pain and loneliness they both shared.

And, the girl was fated to face Maeve, to be brought before her and offered up like a pig to slaughter. For Maeve to do with what she would. The idea, the very image of seeing that perfect, golden face kneeling before Maeve was enough for his heart to twist and contort uncomfortably in his chest.

But still, no matter the ramifications of this horrific possibility, Gavriel didn’t want Rowan to do anything stupid. To lose his head, in the face of his melting heart. If he tried to betray their queen, he would fail, and either be punished himself, or send the young woman to death or torture.

The words came to him unasked, unbidden. His daughter.

And they rent him through.

···

Rowan lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, listless and pathetic. The sun had now risen, Mala’s golden light streaming through the window and caressing his icy face. It carried with it a whisper of something, something he couldn’t quite make out. And, like words in another tongue, they sailed past his ears like beautiful nothings.

The whisper of light carried no scent other than that of the dust motes floating through the air, no trace of embers or flame. No trace of the girl’s fiery power.

A power that he’d felt burn out before his very eyes.

He’d spent the whole night denying it, turning to action and repetition to dull the pain and sorrow and regret, but it hadn’t worked. Once Gavriel had walked out that door, it had returned full force.

He couldn’t shake the image of the look on her face, could rid himself of the smell of ashes trailing after her every step. And all the while, the taste of her blood on his lips haunted him, a pale remnant of fire and light and beauty. It stalked him through his dreams, and he couldn’t escape it, no matter how far he flew.

Rowan’s eyelids drooped, his limbs aching with exhaustion from the hours of tattooing, but sleep did not find him. The sun continued to rise until its height could no longer be ignored, and Rowan unwillingly pulled himself from bed and headed towards the kitchens.

As he approached, the lack of sound was deafening. Usually, he could hear the chatter of the boy, Luca, and Emrys’ soft responses and quiet laughter. Occasionally, Rowan even heard short comments from the girl. And even on days when the work was heavy, and talk scarce, you could always hear the sounds of movement, of the hustle that was demanded by the requirements of feeding dozens of people each and every day. But this morning, it was near-silent.

When he reached the kitchen doorway, Rowan found the large room empty save for Emrys, who was sitting quietly at a table, cradling a mug of tea. He looked up at Rowan, and his eyes were bright with tears. When the old male’s scent reached him, it was heavy with sorrow. Something had happened.

Rowan honestly didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to find out the state the girl had been when she arrived that morning, didn’t want to know what she might have told the old male.

It didn’t matter. Because either way, the princess was nowhere to be seen. And he couldn’t sense her anywhere else in the fortress either. Even if she had only left to go on a walk, and was intending on returning, she was supposed to be here. Rowan was going to have to track her down.

He felt a quick rush of relief at the thought. The girl had left again, and so for a little while longer at least, Rowan didn’t have to face what he’d said yesterday. He had the excuse of dragging the princess back to the fortress to avoid whatever other, more personal confrontation threatened.

Rowan took a step towards the back door, nodding a greeting at Emrys, so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the old male carefully considering him until he spoke up.

“What are you doing?” Emrys asked flatly.

“What?” Rowan’s eyes narrowed. The old male looked him up and down, studying him with a practiced eye. And though the steel in Rowan’s gaze was undiminished, the demi-Fae did not shirk from his gaze.

“To that girl. What are you doing that makes her come in here with such emptiness in her eyes?” Emrys’ voice wasn’t rude or confrontational – he wasn’t seeking to challenge Rowan. But it still rang with a quiet, unshakable authority that set him on edge.

“That’s none of your concern.”

Emrys pressed his lips into a tight line, unwilling to back down. “What do you see when you look at her, Prince?”

He didn’t know. These days, he didn’t know a damn thing. “That’s none of your concern, either.”

Emrys ran a hand over his weathered face. “I see her slipping away, bit by bit, because you shove her down when she so desperately needs someone to help her back up.”

“I don’t see why I would be of any use to – ”

“Did you know that Evalin Ashryver was my friend? She spent almost a year working in this kitchen – living here with us, fighting to convince your queen that demi-Fae have a place in your realm. She fought for our rights until the very day she departed this kingdom – and the many years after, until she was murdered by those monsters across the sea. So I knew. I knew who her daughter was the moment you brought her into this kitchen. All of us who were here twenty-five years ago recognized her for what she is.”

Rowan blinked, the only sign of his shock. Emrys and Malakai had known the whole time, they had known that he was lying, had known that the girl he was training was the Heir of Terrasen, was Evalin Ashryver’s daughter. All those overheard conversations, that quiet concern – it wasn’t just the affection of an affectionate male, but the anxiety that arose from real connection. Rowan could only stare.

Emrys continued, his eyes intent. “She has no hope, Prince. She has no hope left in her heart. Help her. If not for her sake, then at least for what she represents – what she could offer all of us, you included.”

“And what is that?” the question was almost earnest.

Emrys’ response was soft. “A better world.”

···

Rowan had left without another word, fleeing Emrys’ determined stare. Taking to the skies, his only respite from a world filled with people and their useless talk.

Now he flew high above the fortress, fiercely driving through the silver mists, water droplets coating his feathers with their icy touch. But he barely took notice of them, barely took notice of anything as the old male’s words resounded in his head, bouncing off his skull and rattling his bones.

Shove her down, Slipping away, Such emptiness, No hope.

She has no hope in her heart.

He couldn’t escape them, couldn’t dodge them. They stuck to his feathers like tar, heavy and molten and sweltering, and the cold wind made not one bit of difference.

What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?

Rowan did not know.

The taste of the girl’s blood echoed in his mouth, mocking him. And the fiery taste brought with it more words, more memories, more icy shame in his gut.

Spineless, Pathetic, Cowardly.

Worthless.

All so completely untrue.

He’d known they were, had begun to confront the truth of her pain, of his cruelty. But knowing and understanding were completely different things. Being confronted with his misjudgment had shaken something loose in Rowan, had forced him to acknowledge the truth of the princess, and how horribly he had wronged her.

She was a girl who was alone, who was in pain. Who thought she’d found someone who knew the truth of her and didn’t hate her for it, but then found herself mistaken.

She was his mirror.

His equal.

And he’d rejected her. Had clung to his solitude and hatred and pain instead of choosing something better. Something that felt like hope.

But it was a fragile, death-marked hope. A hope that would soon be brought to keel at Maeve’s feet. To be destroyed forever.

Rowan’s chest constricted, the image of him guiding Aelin through the streets of Doranelle, alone and powerless, enough to twist in his gut like a knife. To be the destroyer of that hope…it was a deed he would not come back from. That he could not come back from.

Now it was Gavriel’s words that echoed in his head. The princess will yield when they meet in Doranelle.

No.

He could not allow it. In the deepest, darkest part of his blackened heart, he could not allow it. She would fight, and he would help her. Die with her, if necessary. Die as he should have for Lyria, all those centuries ago. Die protecting hope, instead of destroying it.

And Aelin would fight as well, would fight until her last breath because that was who she was. She already was asking questions about Maeve, searching for any weaknesses. Not that Emrys had given her any.

A memory crashed through him with the force of a lightning strike.

Suddenly, Rowan knew. He understood what Mala had whispered on his skin that morning. He remembered.

A millennia ago, a warrior had stolen Maeve’s heart. A warrior named Athril, dearest of Brannon and beloved of Maeve, the Queen of the Fae. A warrior who had killed demons and darkness and fought in the wars that helped to found this world and forge it anew. A warrior who had intended to give Maeve a ring.

His queen had never known where Athril’s ring and Brannon’s sword had disappeared after their deaths. But Rowan did.

He just needed to find a way to get them to the princess without having to explain, without pressing at the limitations of the blood oath. He couldn’t outright betray his queen, couldn’t just give weapons to her enemies without consequences.

But perhaps there was a way for him to achieve two of his goals at once, to subtly put the ring in the princess’ hands, while also teaching her to control her power. Aelin had always been best motivated when other people’s interests were at stake. Now all Rowan had to do was find some motivation.

···

An hour or so later, Rowan was flying back through the icy mist, searching for the golden princess. She had walked for miles through the oaken woods, up through the mountains and along a tree-lined shore of secluded lake that now glared white-bright in the early afternoon sunlight.

She was curled in on herself, shaking from the force of her sobs, her shoulders thin and tight. Rowan waited for her to calm before swooping down and shifting to sit beside her. As he drew closer, he was relieved to taste the barest hint of flame beneath the sea of ash, a pale trace of hope.

She raised her head to look out across the rippling water, but didn’t acknowledge his presence in any other way. Tears glistened in tracks down her cheeks.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice as soft as it had ever been.

“No.” She swallowed hard, then yanked a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. They were silent for a moment, the only sound the soft lapping of the water on the shore. A soft, peaceful place.

Rowan breathed, and rallied. “Good. Because we’re going.”

“Bastard.” She cursed at him, but it was without much heat. “Going where?”

Rowan turned to look at the princess. Her eyes were bright again, the gold molten and swirling beneath the glazed surface of her recently shed tears. Almost like a frozen-over lake, where the force of the water was barely contained by a thin sheet of ice. Ready to break free.

Rowan smiled at her. “I think I’ve started to figure you out, Aelin Galathynius.”

···

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