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leiawritesstories · 7 months

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A Visit to Orynth

Rowaelin Month, Day 24: How Rowan Knew "Fireheart"

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: canon has been edited because i said so, Maeve, royal politics, references to the blood oath and other canon fun

Enjoy!!

@rowaelinscourt

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The prince first visited Orynth when he was a young male, barely twenty-four years old. His parents frequently traveled for diplomatic reasons, and they’d invited him to accompany them for the first time that year. We won’t ask you to do anything, they promised. Just come along and get a sense for what the world of politics is like.

Prince Rowan Whitethorn had never been a fan of politics. He preferred steel to statecraft–give him a broadsword or a pair of hatchets any day.

But he went to Orynth that spring, and for some reason that he couldn’t name, he felt oddly at home in the sprawling city with its unusual but somehow perfect blend of stone buildings and patches of greenspace like little meadows dotting the cobbled streets.

He left most of the diplomacy and politicking to his parents, who spent most of their days holed up in council chambers with Queen Elena and King Brannon and their court. The first couple of days, he had to attend the sessions, and he paid as much attention as he could before resorting to drawing little battle diagrams on his note sheets. His father noticed, but said nothing, only muffled his knowing smile and quietly directed Rowan towards the training yard. So Rowan spent the rest of that visit with the palace guards, sparring and training and exchanging technique and tactical notes with the highly skilled military.

That was the last time he visited Orynth for nearly three centuries.

Upon his return to Doranelle, Rowan entered the legions, and he barely saw his home or his family for the next three hundred years. He rose swiftly through the ranks, ascending rapidly to the rank of captain before he was seventy-five years old. His queen took notice of his prowess, and he was inducted into the bloodsworn legions, an honor granted to precious few warriors. The decades he spent serving closely under the queen’s command honed him into a warrior of near-impossible capacity, and honed his heart into a block of ice, as impassive as the glaciers of the far north.

Prince Rowan Whitethorn was three hundred and thirty years old the second time he visited Orynth.

Erilea had been casually discussing their relations with Doranelle for the last century, and it had finally reached a point where the rulers of the Erilean kingdoms decided to host a summit and invite representatives from Wendlyn and Doranelle. Wendlyn, of course, sent a delegation of Ashryvers, who were relations of the royal family of Terrasen. Maeve called together her bloodsworn and chose two of them to accompany the five selected Fae delegates.

“I trust you will keep your Queen aware of the discussions,” she purred, a deceptively soft smile gracing her lips as she handed Rowan and Vaughan their notes for the talks.

Rowan dipped his head in acquiescence. “Of course, Majesty.”

Three weeks later, as he stepped off the ship and set foot into Terrasen for the second time in his life, he drew in a lungful of the crisp, clear mountain air, and found that its scent comforted a part of him that had been empty and aching since his parents passed away.

He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, occupying himself instead with the concerns of the discussions. Maeve had sent him–her legendary warrior-prince–for a reason, despite his lack of diplomatic skill, and he intended to prove that he could hold his own at a meeting full of human royalty. And if things went poorly, then he could fall back onto Vaugahn’s quiet, diplomatic tact.

King Orlon Galathynius greeted the Doranelle contingent as they entered the council room on the first day of the summit. The human king was aging, but the lines around his eyes and the gray of his hair only strengthened his image as a capable, compassionate leader. According to what Rowan knew, Orlon had ruled Terrasen for nearly twenty years and showed no signs of abdicating soon, although his younger brother, Crown Prince Rhoe Galathynius, worked closely with the king.

“Welcome to Terrasen,” King Orlon said warmly, clasping Rowan’s hand in a firm handshake that proved he retained his physical strength. “It’s an honor to welcome Doranelle back to our land.”

“The honor is ours.” Rowan dipped his head in a bow to the king. He bowed lower for his own Queen, but the courtesy was still due.

Inside the meeting chamber, a dark-haired, younger version of Orlon approached Rowan and Vaughan and exchanged greetings. “Rhoe Galathynius. Pleasure to meet you in the flesh, Prince Whitethorn, Lord Recorre.”

“Please, leave off the title, Highness.” Rowan shook Rhoe’s hand, noting the insignias the human prince wore on his jacket–military rankings. “We’re all just delegates for peaceful relations, aren’t we?”

“Indeed.” Rhoe smiled. “Let me show you to your seats; this room is rarely used, so it’s always a nightmare to navigate. I keep telling Orlon we need to use the throne room, but he–ah, Evalin!” A stately, golden-haired woman with the distinctive turquoise eyes of the Ashryver family and a slender silver circlet around her brow had walked up and laid her hand fondly on Rhoe’s arm. He tucked her arm into his with a soft, tender smile. “Vaughan, Rowan, allow me to introduce Princess Evalin Ashryver, my lovely and far more talented wife.”

“Welcome back to Orynth,” Evalin smiled. “It’s been far too long since we hosted Queen Maeve’s people.”

In that moment, Rowan knew two things with absolute certainty. First, Princess Evalin Ashryver knew that he and Vaugahn were bloodsworn–he didn’t know how she knew, but she did. And second, if her lineage (and her scent) were correct, she was a direct descendant of the Fae Queen Mab, Maeve’s sister, and therefore was most likely the Fae Queen of the West.

Suddenly, he wondered if he’d been sent to Orynth to view Evalin with his own senses and bring knowledge of the Ashryver princess back to Maeve.

The sonorous peal of the great brass gong tore Rowan away from his thoughts.

“Ah, we’re about to start.” Rhoe dipped his head at Rowan and Vaughan. “It truly is an honor to host you in Orynth. Please, attend dinner with Evalin and I.” He flicked a half-grin at his wife. “We’d better get to our seats, Fireheart.”

Fireheart.

“You and your misleading nicknames,” Evalin teased as she and Rhoe walked off. Rowan’s Fae hearing picked up their conversation. “I don’t have the fire gift, my love, only the water. Fire is Brannon’s line’s gift.”

“You have the fire in your heart, my love,” Rhoe returned. “And who knows? Perhaps someday the gift will manifest in one of our children, if we’re so blessed.”

“It’s a slim chance.” Evalin’s whisper contained an ocean of sadness.

“It’s still a chance, Fireheart.” Rhoe kissed his wife’s forehead.

Rowan stopped listening then, overcome by what he’d just learned. The fire gift. It wasn’t a myth after all–the gift of fire magic laid dormant in the royal bloodline of Terrasen, and the intersection of the Ashryver and Galathynius lines with Rhoe and Evalin’s marriage just might be enough for the near-mythical gift of Brannon Galathynius’s fire to manifest again.

Fireheart. So the prince’s affectionate name for his wife was more than just an endearment–it was a wish for their future. For their kingdom’s future.

Fireheart.

Rowan went to Orynth again ten years later, but this time, he went uninvited. He shifted into his hawk form when his small ship had docked in the harbor, and he remained in that form for the entirety of the next few days. He went to Orynth not to negotiate or pay a formal visit, but to linger on the parapets of the castle and pick up conversation.

He went as a spy.

On his last night in Orynth–a blustery, rainy night–Rowan perched on a window ledge and pressed his hawk body as close to the window glass as possible without making a terribly loud noise. He stretched his Fae senses down and out, into the dining room below his perch, and strained to hear the conversation taking place in the room. The royal family of Terrasen was hosting the royal family of Adarlan, and rumor had it that relations between Adarlan and every other Erilean kingdom were tense, if not outright hostile.

Rowan couldn’t make out much of the conversation, but he heard enough. Bits and pieces of politely veiled threats, the sneer behind the king of Adarlan’s tone, the uncomfortable shifting of the staff and guards who stood at the edge of the room–it pointed towards looming conflict. He hopped off his perch and flew up to a window he knew was in Rhoe and Evalin’s chambers. Perhaps he’d hear something worthwhile from them.

It wasn’t long before the prince and princess came wearily into their rooms, speaking in hushed tones about the poor signals from Adarlan.

“I’m worried, Rhoe,” Evalin admitted. There was a soft clink as she laid her jewelry on top of the dressing table. “There’s something bigger than just Adarlan at play here.”

“Something magical?” Rhoe asked.

“It’s possible. I…I don’t think it’s purely magical, though. That ring of Adarlan’s…I can’t describe it, but I felt like it was looking at me, almost like it wanted to claim me.”

Rowan gripped his perch with all the strength of his taloned feet, determined not to slip despite his shock.

“Fireheart,” Rhoe breathed, coming over to embrace his wife, “are you certain? I trust your judgment–I have no way of detecting magic–but…” He took a deep, measured breath. “A wrong move from Adarlan could constitute war, and if there’s magic at play…”

“It could end us all,” Evalin whispered.

Rowan had heard enough. Quietly, he hopped off the window ledge and launched himself up into the wind and rain, his thoughts churning as rapidly as the storm. Adarlan. Magic. War. He hadn’t known what his Queen had wanted him to discover when she sent him to Orynth, but he’d bet his broadsword that it wasn’t rumors of magical war.

Three weeks later, when his ship docked back in Doranelle, Lorcan delivered the news, and the information he’d heard while spying suddenly clicked into place.

Adarlan had performed some kind of ritual that banished magic. The King of Adarlan had armies marching across Erilea to root out magic-users, and everywhere his army went, he claimed dominion. Melisande and Fenharrow had capitulated. Eyllwe seemed on the brink of collapsing. The Western Wastes and the Witchlands had separated.

And the entire royal family of Terrasen was dead.

Orynth was so different from the first time Rowan had set foot in the city, but the mountain breezes still smelled the same. The ancient and modern buildings and the winding cobblestone streets bore scars from the war, but new green life had begun to creep across the slashes and scuffs and scorch marks, blanketing the damage of war. The grand stone castle still crowned the city hill, but its doors were no longer barred. Instead, commoners and nobles and Fae–both full and partial–filtered in and out of the castle grounds, uniting the crown and the city.

The continent was healing, and his wife had made it all possible.

Speaking of…Aelin’s voice sounded in his mind. Is the castle really that bad, buzzard?

He grinned. I find my skills better suited to the physical act of rebuilding.

I know a physical act or two that could use your skills.

I’m sure you do, Fireheart.

A surge of her love filled his mind. Where are you?

Near the western wall.

Solitary buzzard. He felt her bright laughter ripple through his blood, warming him through. I’ll be there in a moment.

And a few minutes later, she was there, her crown tipped sideways atop her messy hair. “Rowan.”

“Fireheart.” He set the one last stone into place in the section of wall he was working on, turned, and pulled her against his chest, reveling in the trace of embers that always followed her.

“You keep avoiding court when I need you,” Aelin teased. “Who else is going to scowl at the lords when they say something idiotic?”

“I’m sure you can handle that,” he drawled. “You are the queen, Fireheart.”

She chuckled and went quiet for a moment, gazing over the tumbled wall out into the evergreen hills. “I’ve been wondering, buzzard. Why ‘Fireheart?’ You can’t have known that’s what my parents called me when I was a child, even with all your centuries of knowledge.” Humor laced her last words.

“Are you calling me old, love?”

“Always.” She smirked. “Tell me, buzzard.”

Rowan was silent for a long moment, working over the story, wondering how much he could say before someone inevitably interrupted the queen’s private time with her husband. “I met Rhoe and Evalin, once, many years ago. I remember Rhoe calling Evalin Fireheart.”

Aelin stroked her thumb over the ruby of Rowan’s wedding band. “I never knew you met them.” I miss them, she murmured into his mind, muted grief shadowing her mind.

“Just once.” Cupping his free hand under her chin, he tilted her face up and kissed her, soft and tender, a gesture of both love and comfort. “You are everything they dreamed Terrasen would be.” I’m entirely sure they’re smiling down on you from the afterlife, he added.

“I love you,” she whispered.

He touched his forehead to hers. “I love you too, Fireheart.”

~~~

TAGS:

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@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

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@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

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@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

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@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

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@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

#my writing #rowaelin month #rowaelinmonth #rowaelin month 2023 #rowaelin #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass fanfiction #ft aelin's parents because i said so #canon au #except we kinda ignored canon oopsies

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mariaofdoranelle · 1 year

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Look at Us Now - Ch. 1

Fic masterlist

Oh, hi, guys! Welcome to my new hyper fixation!! *fireworks* *champagne glasses* *me smiling like a maniac*

I really hope you like this new au! My other ones are still in progress, I’m just really excited about this lol

Warnings: cursing, mentions of drinking, mentions of sketchy cigars, mentions of a fistfight, mentions of a sprained ankle, promises of smutty times

Words: 3,3k

This party was falling apart. Literally.

Uncle Orlon thought it was a good idea to bring Aelin to this year's Aviator's Ball, so she could meet her future bosses with a little less pressure. At first, it was all fancy uniforms, expensive drinks and small talk. Now that it was past midnight, some of the older officers with the highest ranks had left—Like Orlon and Darrow—, a drunk major knocked down a massive flower arrangement, and the guy Aelin was flirting with had offered her a very sketchy-looking cigar, which she politely declined.

When two lieutenants started a fistfight, Aelin knew it was time to go.

She speed walked through the crowd of people, and even bumped her shoulder against the party planner's, who was going toward the brawl. The poor girl.

When she finally stepped outside, it felt like she could finally breathe.

"Staying out of trouble?" A deep voice asked her. Aelin looked around until she found an officer leaning on the side of the stairs that led to the garden. With his face lit up by the moonlight and eyes sparkling as they studied each other, he was breathtaking. Or at least that was Aelin's first thought when she saw him.

Aelin walked towards him. Staying out of trouble was Uncle Orlon's only request, but she also didn't want to look bad in front of her future bosses and future coworkers. That sounded like a suicide mission.

"Seems like that's what you're doing."

The hot officer chuckled. "Turns out being locked up becomes really easy when you're in the military. Specially when you make yourself some unruly friends."

"Have you ever been to the guardhouse?"

"Fuck, no."

She leaned against the wall on his side and shook his hand. "I'm Aelin."

"Rowan."

Turning fully towards him, she flipped her hair back a little to expose her shoulders and cleavage. "It's really hot in here, isn't it?"

Rowan got sidetracked by her exposed skin for a millisecond, then his eyes snapped back to hers. "You think so?"

"I know so, and I think it's because of—"

"Global warming, I know. God, this city gets hotter each year."

"What?"

He tilted his head. "You don't agree? This city's weather is hell."

Aelin clamped her lips together and tried not to laugh, even though her shoulders were shaking already. "I was going to land a pickup line, Rowan."

"Oh." He blushed, and it was the most adorable thing. "I thought we were talking about carbon monoxide."

Aelin chuckled. "Well, you ruined my pickup line now."

"My roommate teaches me a lot of those, but I won't use them."

"Why?"

Rowan leaned sideways on the wall and smirked. "Because I'm not trying to pick you up, I'm feeling like pinning you down instead."

She looked up, gaping. Aelin could kill that blunt, sassy grin of his. Or kiss it. God, she really wanted to kiss him now. Since he noticed her minutes ago, actually.

It was beautiful, how that smirk melted as his eyes darkened. The fabric of his uniform under her fingertips and Aelin's hands going up until they reached the lapels and clenched.

With both hands on her waist, Rowan was already one breath away from her when he closed their lips together with small, tentative brushes. At least until Aelin closed her arms around his neck and almost crushed their faces together, deepening the kiss.

His hands were everywhere. Her hips, her waist, toying with the straps of her dress. All that clashing and flicking and grabbing was making her heartbeat go wild. When it became too much, Rowan grabbed her upper arms and mentioned to lean away, but Aelin gently bit his lower lip to stop him.

Stay here, she conveyed.

He gave her small, gentle kisses and rested his forehead against hers, both heavily breathing against each other.

"You're not someone's wife, right?"

"What?" she breathed. Aelin's mind was still foggy from the kiss, she must've heard the wrong thing.

He swallowed and slid his hand down her arms, squeezing her fingers at the end. "That's why Fenrys got into a fistfight at the party. He made out with another officer's wife."

Aelin leaned away to properly look at his face, trying to understand what was going on. First, who the hell is Fenrys? Second, did he just stop their kiss to ask if she was married? Because he was avoiding a fistfight?

She sighed. You know what, that was fair.

Shaking her head, Aelin wiggled all her ringless fingers.

His eyes assessed her lack of uniform. "Someone's daughter, then. I think that's even worse."

A troublesome smirk was her only answer. Well, she was someone's great-niece, but it became almost the same if she considered Orlon raised Aelin since she was eight.

Looking up, Rowan cursed under his breath. Probably calculating his chances of being punished for this if her date—Brigadier Galathynius, not that he knew it—discovered. Proving her theory right, he asked, "They outrank me, right?"

Aelin raised her eyebrows. "You want to fuck me or not?"

"What?" His eyes widened, then he flinched. "Fuck, sorry, babe." He trailed kisses from her jaw to her lips, tugging her closer by the waist.

She hummed. That was much better.

"Do you want to leave before this party burns itself to the ground?" He whispered in her ear.

She chuckled. "Sure."

They were silently walking wherever he was leading her. One-night stands were so awkward sometimes, but Aelin was feeling good about this one. There was something comforting about Rowan, but she was failing to point what exactly. At one point, their hands accidentally grazed, but he kept them there and slowly intertwined their fingers.

Aelin hid a grimace when she saw his car, though. "I live in the village." She pointed in the direction of one of the military villages they had close by. "We can go by foot."

"You think I'd drink in front of all my bosses?"

He had a good point. It seemed like he was the only officer who cared, though. She had no idea how he understood her concerns so quickly, but Aelin didn't want to think too hard on this.

"I thought you should know I just moved in and my house is... lacking." He scratched the back of his head. "If you don't mind."

"Oh." She tilted her head. "We can go to my place, if you think that's better."

His shoulders dropped in relief. "You're sure it won't cause trouble?"

"I know my way around those security cameras." Aelin waved him off and leaned her side on his car. "But I still need to know what's lacking in your house."

Rowan's cheeks went crimson in a heartbeat. "I have a bed, it just hasn't arrived yet."

Aelin started cackling, her body trembling with laughter as he stared at her with the corners of his lips tugging up.

"I physically have a matteress, though!" He yelled over her laughter and opened the car, "And a great wall."

Things got quieter inside the car, so it was Aelin's cue to update her boyfriend, who was a little back and forth between Doranelle and Rifthold these days. He never told her about his one-night stands, which she didn't mind, but it felt wrong to sleep with someone without telling him.

Aelin: found myself a hot officer for the night

Aelin: we're going to my place

Dorian: how hot is he

Aelin: 8,5 maybe?

Such a horrendous lie. Aelin never graded her boy toys above 9 because she felt better if only her actual boyfriend was a 10. Truth was, if Dorian is a 10, Rowan is at least a 12. Actually, he was so handsome it made a lot of sense grading him above maximum score.

Dorian: nice

Dorian: have fun babe x

Rowan cleared his throat when they arrived at the village. Quickly tucking her phone back inside her purse, Aelin gave the directions of her house and made him park two houses before.

They silently walked together, until she stopped him on the border between her house and the neighbor's.

"I'm assuming you don't want to get caught by the cameras, since you're so scared of my uncle."

His eyes sparkled now that she satisfied his curiosity. Or maybe made it worse. There was no way to know. "An uncle, then." Rowan raised his eyebrows. "I'm not scared of him, but it would be nice if you could assure me he won't put me in the guardhouse for this."

Aelin snorted. Orlon couldn't hurt a fly if he wanted to, and even Darrow was a huge softie inside. But just the thought of sneaking out a little with her hot officer sent a thrill down her spine, so she kept her mouth shut.

"This wall we're in, it's a blind spot." When Aelin looked at Rowan, he was the most focused she'd seen tonight. An airman ready for battle. "We'll follow that path until we reach the porch, then we climb on the first window. It's my cousin's room, but he doesn't live here anymore. Then I'll check if the coast is clear, and my room is the one right next to it. Got it?"

Rowan nodded, eyes still calculating their path.

"It's the only way to get inside without getting caught on camera," Aelin added.

"This sounds like my training."

Aelin made eye contact, her chest a little more thrusted out than before. "Is the reward as good?"

"Not really, no," he muttered, his eyes on her lips.

"Well, you'll have to work for it, Officer," she said before tugging his arm towards the low fence they needed to climb.

From the moment Aelin decided she wanted to become a doctor, she knew she'd work at the Air Force General Hospital.

This was the place she came to get her first casket when she was nine, after falling from her rollerskates. The place Aelin reached for when she got a little too drunk at seventeen, and made Aedion flirt with the doctor so she wouldn't snitch on them to Uncle Orlon. She was comfortable there. It felt familiar.

During those early daydreams about her own life, Aelin never thought about the moments she'd wish she worked somewhere else, though. They were nothing more than fleeting thoughts, she loved her job. But they still happened on days like this.

When Aelin opened the X-ray images on her computer, the boy's ankle didn't seem to be broken. One small blessing.

His eyes went wide when she told him so. "But it feels like it is."

Aelin gave him a sympathetic smile. "It's just a sprain, but I'll prescribe you some painkillers and—"

"Good, now we can go back to training," his instructor interrupted.

A death glare was Aelin's only response before she continued, "And I need you to rest that feet for two days—"

"Absolutely not!" The unwanted instructor cut in again, making the boy freeze on his seat. "What's the point of painkillers if he can't even exercise?"

"Captain Whitethorn," she hissed, "I believe I am the doctor here."

He slowly turned to that terrified boy. "Do you mind giving the doctor and I a moment to speak?"

"No." Aelin got up before he could. "Captain Whitethorn and I can talk in another room." She pointed at his swollen ankle. "You rest that feet."

Rowan followed her to an empty room two doors down, and they closed the door, it was like... It was like every other day, actually.

"You." He pointed a finger at her. "Do not question my authority in front of my students, Lieutenant."

"And you." She pointed a finger back. "Do not question my authorithy as a doctor in front of my patients, asshole."

"I was not trying to—"

"Yes, you were!" Aelin screamed this time. "Every day, you question what, when, how—"

"Well, maybe I wouldn't need to question if you just—"

"If I just what?" She opened her arms, tired of this. "If I just acted exactly like you?"

Rowan just stared at her with that intense look of his.

Aelin took a deep breath. She wouldn't put sense in Rowan's head by screaming. She never did.

"Luca—"

He raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? You're trying to guilt trip me by using his first name?"

"It's his first week here, and he's already in the hospital, Rowan! He's a teenage boy! He's someone's kid!" Aelin yelled, her tone increasing with each argument.

"Don't you even think about mentioning my daughter! He's the one who enlisted. I'm just doing my job."

She sighed. "I know you are, but your teaching techniques..."

He scoffed. "Don't act like you didn't love my teaching techniques back then."

"Fuck you!"

There were two loud bangs in the door before Aelin's tiniest, angriest co-worker barged in.

"You two." Elide's finger darted between them before she continued. "Seriously? Again?"

Rowan didn't dare point out that he was being talked down by someone with a lower rank than his. He knew better than to argue with Elide.

She continued, "I'm going to discharge your patient, and you two are leaving. Now."

Aelin looked at her watch. Fuck, they needed to rush if they didn't want to be late.

She turned to Rowan. "I'll be in the car in 5." And stopped. Aelin slowly turned to Elide and said, "Tell the patient that Captain Whitethorn told him to go home and come back in two days."

Rowan clenched his jaw, arms already crossed, but said nothing. He knew he had no chance with Aelin and Elide together.

The drive was pretty silent after that, but not exactly comfortable. She knew their fight hadn't ended yet, but it had to for now. They needed to look composed for this.

They heard the deafening sound of children screaming before the car could park at the Air Force school, made specially for the children of the Air Force personnel. It wasn't one of those fancy Montessori schools with hyper-specialized teachers, but it was a good school right next to the village they lived in. It was the best choice for them.

Rowan didn't think so. And he always let her know that, from big arguments to the classic arms-crossed-and-narrowed-eyes thing he was doing now.

She wouldn’t acknowledge his dissatisfaction now, though. They walked together until the pre-K area, which was separated from the big kids', and it took no time at all until a soft set of limbs wrapped themselves around her legs.

Aelin crouched down to talk to her daughter and adjust that messy hair, taking it out of the front of her gorgeous deep green eyes, when Maisie's jaw fell. And she shrieked.

"DADDY!" Was the only thing she screamed before jumping on Rowan's arms, always ready to catch her. "You said you couldn't pick me up today."

Maisie's hair was completely her own, Aelin noticed as her daughter had her back turned at her, on her dad's arms. Not as pale as Rowan's, not as golden as Aelin's. She had Aelin's nose but, apart from that, Maisie looked like a small Rowan Whithethorn with chubby cheeks.

She was just waiting for her face to be right next to his and... yep, there it is. Copy, paste, add childish features. Genetics sounded a lot simpler than what she studied in college while looking at those two.

Rowan was spinning her around, and Mai's squeals of delight were almost deafning. For the first time since seeing Rowan today, Aelin felt like smiling.

They had conflicts, yes, but Aelin couldn't deny that he was a great dad. She had never resented Rowan for being the parent with the stronger genes, or Maisie for being so much like her father. On the contrary. She even thought it was cute, especially when she saw her daughter's little frown or her shy demeanor with strangers. Maisie's a Whitethorn through and through, or so Rowan's family point out every time they meet.

"How was your day, hun?" Aelin asked on the walk back to the car while brushing her little girl's hair back with her hand.

"I got the littlest, babiest grapes today." She stopped in the middle of the parking lot and opened the lunchbox. "Look!"

Inspecting it, Aelin noticed Maisie's littlest, babiest grapes looked like a car ran them over. "What happened to them?"

She took the lunchbox back and frowned. "I don't know. I slept with them at nap time to protect them, but it didn't work out."

Aelin's lips were clamped together, trying hard not to laugh. That little girl probably squished the poor grapes to death. Rowan seemed to think the same, from the way the corners of his lips were tugging up. Noticing Aelin's stare, he gave her a small smile while ruffling their daughter's hair. She quickly looked away.

They never picked her up together when Maisie was in daycare, but they were doing it as an encouragement now that she was still adapting to preschool.

She always missed one parent while in another's house, even if she spent no more than three days in each house and had daily goodnight calls. Every morning was a different meltdown because she says she doesn't like school, so promising Maisie that both parents would pick her up was a good way to stop a tantrum. Some days, at least.

Their daughter was asleep in the car seat, exhausted from preschooler life, so they kept quiet while Aelin drove Rowan back to base for his night class.

"I'll call you," was the only thing he said. Not goodbye or thank you for the ride.

Aelin knew she meant he'd call Maisie for their goodnight call, but she took the bait anyway. "No, you'll call Maisie."

Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose, and Aelin could feel her body go tense again. He was the one annoyed, really?

"I don't understand why we keep having the same conversation over and over."

"Me neither, is that so hard to stop calling me and use the f—" she glanced at Maisie, still asleep. "Fucking parenting app?" Aelin whispered.

"You know what?" He leaned closer to her, hand resting on the car panel. "It is. I hate that app."

"I. Don't. Care. I can't have you calling me several times a day to ask stupid shit like if I packed Maisie's lunch."

Rowan frowned. "That kind of comment isn't helping, Aelin. In fact, it makes me even more concerned."

Was he implying that Aelin didn't care?

Heat flushed through her whole body as she saw red. "Get out of my car."

He didn't.

"Now!" Aelin whisper-yelled, still trying not to wake Maisie up. "Don't you have a student to screw or something?"

Rowan's eyes widened, and every feature of his face slowly started looking consumed by rage. From his glare to his reddened face.

He held back, though.

"You know what?" Rowan unfastened his seatbelt. "I can't talk to you when you're like this."

"Great." Aelin knew she had gone too far. She'd think about it the day she actually cared.

"And I'll call you as many times a day I want whenever you're with my daughter."

He got out and slammed the car door.

Rowan's body went taut at the same time Aelin flinched. They both knew what was happening now.

"Mommy, where's Daddy going?" Their daughter asked a moment later, rubbing her eyes.

Maisie's lips started wobbling the second she noticed Rowan was leaving, and she was wailing even before he could get into the backseat to soothe her. He kept saying that he'd see her at their goodnight call later and tomorrow at the pickup again, but nothing seemed to work.

Resting her head on the steering wheel and taking a deep breath, Aelin tried to think of something. The best bribes were always ice cream or more screen time. She needed to pick her weapons wisely.

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#rowaelin #throne of glass #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass fanfic #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #aelin x rowan #rowan x aelin #throne of glass fic #aelin and rowan #tog au #look at us now

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vintageadsmakemehappy · 1 year

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1956 Du Pont ad for Orlon Blankets

#1956 #50s life #50s #1950s #dupont #orlon #blankets #vintageadsmakemehappy #vintage magazine #vintage advertising #magazine #advertising

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catastrophesandcures · 10 months

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|| A Heavy Name || Throne of Glass One-Shot ||

(Where: the new Heir of Terrasen struggles with cursive G’s, the eyes of people long gone, and holding up her mother’s name)

Adele, Age 8

Adele Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius wishes for a shorter name. Her hand cramps, fingers occasionally spasming, as she signs her name over and over and over, over, over…

She works to perfect her handwriting, to get accustomed to the long loops and scrolls. She’s sometimes taken to signing with a simple AAWG, but Uncle Darrow, the old badger, says princesses of Terrasen wield their powerful names.

What the sword won’t do, the name can.

Adele glares over her shoulder to the portrait of Uncle Darrow that hangs beside old king Orlon. Adele shakes her practice sheet at Uncle Darrow’s stern, always watching picture as if to say, See? I’m not cutting corners!

Adele peaks at Orlon, then. For some reason, she’s always afraid to fully look the painting in the eye. Beside him, Grandfather Rhoe. Then, Grandmother Evalin. She looks like Mama, but younger. She has the same eyes as Mama, maybe softer, less…wild. Adele looks away from Grandmother Evalin too, not able to think about Mama not having a mama. She stops looking at what she calls the Big Pictures–faces of the dead–and moves her gaze to the smaller frames along the hearth’s shelf, to the pocket sized portrait of her younger brother, Arryn. He’d just cut his own hair, and the golden strands spiked in different directions. Adele giggles. He looks awful, and the squiggle of a mustache she’d drawn over his lip has yet to be noticed.

Uncle Darrow seems to frown down at her, then. She can hear him telling her to get back to work. Adele rolls her green eyes, but practices and practices until her handwriting is perfect. She must be perfect. Not just a princess of Terrasen, but Heir of Aelin Firebringer. Heir of so many people. There are so many eyes, waiting and watching.

Adele messes up her G, again. She always messes up the G of Galathynius. She starts a new line, from her first name, and goes and goes, her little hand straining to hold the quill, straining to make it to the end.

She loops the G in the wrong direction.

“Rutting G!”

Adele likes to curse when she’s alone, and she spits the word Uncle Aedion taught her again and again. Her chest heaves and she pants, tearing the paper in half, shredding it to pieces, and splits them until she holds confetti.

Until she holds burning paper in too small hands. Ashes fall between her fingers, her palms unable to keep all that she holds, all that she burns.

She doesn’t often cry. Adele is a princess, Heir of Fire–she is strong.

But, she weeps. The blooming flame in her hands rutting scares her. She can’t put it out. She shakes her hands. She blows, but her breath is shallow and shaking.

Adele screams. Screams at her hands, at the fire, at the G’s she turned to ash and stomped beneath her feet. Her handheld fire blooms and grows. “Rutting stop!” Adele screams at her open, unburnt palms.

And then cool, soft but calloused hands, close over hers. Water meets her fire until there’s no more smoke, but steam. They are the most familiar hands in the world. Scarred and calloused; nimble, long fingers prone to playing a haughty tune on the pianoforte. Cool to the touch. Patient. They keep holding Adele’s, hers sweaty and clammy.

Adele doesn’t look up. Her chin dips to her chest as tears roll down her face, her nose.

Fingers catch her tears–cool, calloused, familiar. “Why do you cry, Fireheart?”

Adele sobs at the name. Exhausted, head splitting, she relinquishes to her mother’s embrace and nestles into the space between chin and breast. The safest place in the world, as if Mama’s body had been carved to fit Adele’s.

“Because,” Adele hiccups, “I’m not perfect.” Another hitch of uneven breath, then, “And it makes me feel lost.”

Mama grips Adele, tight and warm. She smells like the embers of a home’s hearth, like jasmine and wind. Adele presses her nose to her mother’s skin, clinging to the comfort.

When Mama pulls away just slightly, just enough so that their eyes meet, Adele looks away. Mama has none of it. Her palm cups Adele’s cheek, bringing them face to face. Turquoise and gold meet pine green. Soft meets sorrow. Mother sees daughter.

“Perfect,” Mama’s warm, fiery tone says, “can go to rutting hell.”

A knowing gleam shines in Mama’s eyes, perking the corner of mouth. Adele laughs nervously, but Mama laughs with her, hands still holding Adele’s flaming face from the crying. And the magic.

Mama’s finger tilts Adele’s chin up again, and this time Adele really looks at her. She wonders if she looks like her, or if Adele takes more after her father. Her cousins tease her that she’s too serious. A courtier from Mellisande had once pinched her cheeks and told her to smile more. Has anyone ever dared pinch the cheeks of Aelin Ashryver Galathynius? Adele holds the ends of her mother’s long, gold hair in a fist and wonders if she’ll wear that queenly, beautiful face one day. If she’ll carry grace and mischief as well as Aelin of the Wildfire. Adele knows the stories–well, just some. Just the ones from the shelves she could reach. Which, Adele knows, are the least interesting shelves in the Library of Orynth. She’ll have to start climbing to the higher, dustier shelves where the real stories are waiting for her. There’s a book up high that has Mama’s name on the spine. It ripples with red and gold and blue, as if a living flame wraps the pages. Another book beside it, The Walking Dead, doesn’t sound nearly as interesting as the one about her own mother.

Mama raises her brows slightly and looks down her lashes at Adele–a look she knows means to listen, and listen good. She’s the prettiest lady in the whole wide world.

“If I cared about being perfect,” Mama says softly, and a moment passes where her eyes cloud, as if she’d gone very far away. Adele doesn’t know what to call that look, that distance in her mother’s eyes, but she feels it. “I wouldn’t be me. And I,” her mother quirks a conspirator’s brow at Adele, the light in her eyes shining once more, “am rutting wonderful.”

Adele laughs again.

Her mother leans down to wiggle their noses together. “You are wonderful, my girl. No matter what you do, to whatever end, I will be the voice that never lets you forget it. I want nothing from you, Fireheart, other than to be completely yourself.”

“What if I’m not like you?”

Mama props Adele onto her feet so that she stands. Mama kneels before her, and Adele wonders if anyone in the world has ever seen Aelin on her knees. Adele knows she’s just a child, that there are things she doesn’t know, but she cannot imagine it–her mother, the strongest, most powerful person to ever exist, who Adele worships like a god–on her knees. But, Mama does kneel. Now, before Adele. Though she only meets the top of her mother’s head, Adele wonders if she’ll ever stand as tall as her.

“Then I’ll be glad for it.” Mama’s eyes flash and she almost looks like an animal from Oakwald with the intensity seeping through her, like fire taken skin. “Be yourself. Let yourself discover who that is. You do not belong in my shadow, Fireheart. You are the torch I carry.”

Mama catches a rogue tear, and something ripples across the surface of her face. Adele has only ever seen her mother cry at the birth of her brothers and baby sister, but she almost does now. Her eyes, the same as Grandmother Evalin and Arryn’s, mist.

“I was your age when…” Mama trails off, distant again, lost in thought as her gaze roams every inch of Adele, as if memorizing her, as if remembering something.

A breeze passes through the study though no windows are open. It smells like winter and Yulemas, and Adele instantly perks. She feels joy in her chest, a spark of belonging and home. Mama’s eyes flutter in that same joy Adele must be feeling.

Mama continues, having found the strength she needs, and says, “I was your age when a lot of people made me feel like I was wretched and horrible. The world hated me for a long, long time.” Mama smirks. “Someone always will.”

Adele balks at the idea of anyone even remotely disliking her mother, but Mama nods as if to say it’s the truth. “Let no one ever, ever make you feel that way. Not even me. No, you’re not perfect. You are my daughter.” Mama combs her fingers through Adele’s hair. “Which means, you’re bound to be misunderstood, to make mistakes. You are my daughter, which means, you’re bound to always get up again.”

They lean their brows together, and Mama whispers, just for Adele, “You are the greatest thing that ever happened to me.” Then, louder, “And you can tell your nosy, nursemaid father I said that.”

A deep chuckle sounds from the far ends of the study. Another winter wind that reminds Adele of all her favorite memories drifts to them. It combs through her hair, and Adele can feel Papa’s phantom hands, bigger than her head, bigger than any problem or tear.

Mama squeaks, jolting as if something had pinched her, and laughs as she throws a glare towards where Papa still lingers in the dark somewhere.

Before they get up to join him, her mother pulls her into one more tight embrace. Her arms are solid and muscled, and they hold Adele like precious jewels.

Mama whispers, “We carry a heavy name. Bear it however the rutt you want.” She leans back, eyes shining. “Now, let’s discuss your copious use of curse words.”

Adele shrieks, running away.

#lil one shot I had stuck in my head #mom!aelin #sneaky taylor Swift lyrics if you squint #throne of glass #throne of glass fic #aelin galathynius #aelin ashryver galathynius #rowaelin #rowaelin babies #heirs of terrasen #tog #tog fic #next gen tog #next gen throne of glass

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