HEIR OF FIRE.

She considered Aelin's option, only the slightest touch of feigned disgust in her expression at the state of Aelin's nails. "It helps that most of the men in this city have the average intelligence of a child." Lysandra's words were a drawl as she, quite deliberately, chose a different chocolate to the one Aelin had recommended. "I prefer raspberry." She explains, selecting the raspberry ganache and popping it into her mouth.

She chewed on the chocolate, enjoying the burst of sweet flavour in her mouth, as she considered Aelin's question. How much detail did she want? Could she handle the pain of old wounds being reopened this close to the enacting of their plan?

YOU AND SAM WERE THE EXAMPLES. It doesn’t surprise her to hear those words aloud, but burns her nonetheless – anger that runs red hot at the thought of what her former Master may have said to justify the hell he’d put them both through. Then again, she doubted with all regard that he’d taken any ownership for his part in her lover’s death – that would have meant acknowledging his actions.

“He was a reprehensible bastard, wasn’t he?”

Scoffing lightly, her frame stretches now, as though comfortable on the sofa she’d bought so very long ago – this apartment once a promise of a life she’d been fighting for, a day long ago where she’d truly believed he would let her leave the Guild. She hadn’t known then the depths he’d go to, to control her.

Resentment builds in her chest, holds and aches, and she breathes out gently, her eyes closing as head tilts back against the sofa.

“Sam deserved better. He was too good for it.”

It is a curious question to ponder, but now their conversation has shifted back to Aelin's realm, and Rhysand doesn't miss the wicked gleam in this fae queen's eyes as she leans in closer to him. "He alluded to the fact that you were a fire wielder, but you sacrificed much of your power to save your world some time ago," he responds, watching her with curiosity glimmering in the starry depths of his eyes. "I'm eager for a demonstration, but... should we take this conversation somewhere less flameable?"

FIRE WIELDER. It hardly seems enough to capture the depths of the flames that stoked her very blood, the heir of ash and fire, hailing long from the core of her bloodline’s beginning. Her gift and curse from the gods, taken as easily as it had been given – and though it had been a long time in coming, the well had stoked those embers with every passing day, until her blood began to sing once more. She knows it will take years to restore the depths of the inferno at her prime, but her fire is hers to build, and she feels a little less cold to feel it inside her once more.

“I don’t know that we’ll find many places…less flammable, but I’m all for moving this somewhere a little more appropriate.”

Wicked grin lights her lips now, before swinging her frame up from her chair with an almost feline precision that’s not too distant from a lifetime of living in shadows as assassin, long before Queen. There’s training arenas, she knows, in the depths of the castle – magic has long since been returned across the kingdoms, and what was once feared is now nurtured, trained, refined.

Her own is not any different.

Leading the way down the rebuilt corridors of Orynth, the chatter quells slightly – though she doesn’t take it personally. The castle has been rebuilt beautifully, and just as she preens for admiration of herself, she preens more so for the home she’s helped rebuild, restored to former glory in a way that feels all more precious, knowing how long it had been lost to the people she leads.

“It’s not all back yet. Not fully. Much of it… I gave. But I do have some of it back now – it grows every day.”

A glance back, and a quirk of a brow.

INJURED

“  no— stop.  go on ahead.  i can take care of this myself.  ”

“  fuck.  i think something’s wrong.  ”

“  shit it hurts.  i can’t move.  ”

“  i don’t think i can keep going like this.  ”

“  is that my blood?  that’s my blood…  ”

“  if i tell you to leave me behind,  would you listen?  ”

“  well.  there goes my favorite shirt.  ”

“  it feels like i can’t breathe i—  ”

“  how bad is it— wait don’t tell me. i don’t think i wanna know.  ”

“  i can’t feel it.  ”

“  i don’t wanna sound like a wimp but this is really freakin’ me out.  ”

“  i’m scared.  please don’t…please don’t let me die.  ”

“  it’s okay.  think i can walk.  ” 

“  i’ll be okay but i’m gonna need to get this bandaged and fast.  ”

“  is this the part where i’m supposed to be heroic and say it’s just a scratch?  ”

“  i think i’m going into shock.  ”

“  i was just trying to be brave.  like you.  ”

BYSTANDER

“  please be okay,  please be okay. fuck!  ”

“  well this isn’t how i pictured i’d be sweeping you off your feet.  ”

“  i can’t get to it to stop bleeding— it won’t stop.  ”

“  okay,  i’m gonna keep some pressure on this and we’re gonna get you some help,  alright?  ”

“  no.  don’t move.  you need to stay still.  ”

“  i’m sorry—  i was gonna try to help but it happened so fast.  ”

“  please don’t die i really don’t need that kind to trauma right now.  ”

“  if it hurts,  good.  it means you’re still going.  now just hold on a little longer.  ”

“  no,  shit.  fuck okay.  we’re gonna fix you i promise.  ”

“  shit shit shit shit.  ”  

“  i dunno what i’m supposed to do— what do i do?!  ”

“  you’re going into shock,  alright?  i need you to just focus on my voice.  ”

“  no— don’t take the fucking knife out.  ”

“  fuck.  that’s a lot of blood.  ”

“  jesus christ i am not prepared for this.  ”

“  if you die for me i’m gonna be really fucking mad keep your eyes open.  ”

“  you shouldn’t have done that.  fuck.  ”

“  you did really good.  i’m proud of you. just relax now.  ”  

“  if you die it’ll be like my villain origin story so.  don’t die.  ”

ATTACKER

“  you bleed so pretty,  don’t you think?  ”

“  shit— shit i didn’t mean to…  ”

“  huh.  i thought it’d take more than that to bring you to your knees.  ”

“  this really isn’t personal,  you know.  ”

“  i could’ve made this quick and painless if you hadn’t tried to fight me.  ”

“  this didn’t have to happen.  ”

“  why did you get in the way?!  ”

“  oh fuck,  i’m sorry.  i’m so sorry!  ”

“  after all this time.  and it was so easy.  ”

“  if you want to live,  don’t follow me.  ”

“  next time,  i’ll go for the heart.  ”

“  i told you to stay out of my way.  ”

“  i know you’re probably about to go into shock so pay attention.  don’t take the knife out.  this won’t kill you if you stay down and let me go.  ”

“  are you really still trying to fight?  ”

“  stay down!  ”

“  shh-sh-sh just breathe.  it’ll all be over soon.  ”

“  i’m sorry.  i wish i didn’t have to do this.  ”

the laughter that aelin pulls from her is almost melodic, brunette waves tossed back as her head tilts from the challenging look that aelin and rhysand share between each other. her mate holds the stare for a beat longer and feyre knows it’s because of how he enjoys her laugh; when she sobers, his starlight hues flicker to hers and the mirth is mirrored, all before he curtly nods and follows rowan’s lead. cassian does his best to remain stoic, but he does lean down as he sweeps by, whispering to the queen and high lady: “bring back some chocolate cake for me.”  

she would shake her head if she didn’t entirely understand. “i’m sorry,” tumbles from her lips as their company departs. “actually... no, i’m not going to apologise for him. this isn’t the summer court.” the made fae waves a dismissive hand as she straightens, standing without using aelin’s body as a leaning post. a noise of thought resonates in the base of her throat as she begins to wander backwards, clasping hands in front of her body; at first, she had intended to play it off jovially, but pensive thought creeps its way in after feyre had made it a few paces away. her feet slow to a stop and she turns to her friend, brows furrowed. 

THE SMILE SHE OFFERS IS RADIANT, filled with a content that the woman beside her seems to bring – something all too comforting about her company, something that feels all too much like home. The way it had felt to look at the stars and search for her guiding light, the way she feels with the presence of the starlit ruler by her side, a hand catching her own now to loop an arm in amongst her own and squeeze tightly. She’s excited to share her home with her, to show her everything she’s written about for months in their letters, the beauty of a land so opposite to the city of starlight she’d gushed over in her own visits across the sea a world away.

Aelin listens now to those words, spoken in a confidence they both know the other would never betray, and her hand lightly tugs against the arm looped amongst her own to flash a gentle smile in her direction.

“It’s…normal, for those scars to linger. On us. On the world around us. War leaves wounds that aren’t so easily seen, harder still to heal. But they do with time – with care. I doubt either yourself or that husband of yours would let those scars linger for long.”

Still, for a moment she surveys her – and a hand gently extends now, leading her through the courtyards, through the gardens, to what has only been built far more recently than the remainder of the castle. A garden that extends across, with statues she doesn’t expect Feyre to understand the importance of yet – the dragons and riders long since fallen, the statues of her fallen parents, the golden lion that guards the gate to the garden, the wall that extends as far as the eye can see etched with carvings and names of all they’ve lost. A wall added to with every new visitor, who comes to add a name.

“When I was younger, I lost the first man I ever loved. He was tortured and killed…and for a long time, I buried his death in a part of me where I didn’t have to think about how much it hurt. I didn’t visit his grave for years to come because I didn’t know where he was buried, and even if I had known, I was not free to come to see him.”

Aelin watches her friend now, and she adds gently, an explanation for her story.

“Enough,” he said softly, though the weight in his tone was unmistakable. He shifted, still on one knee before her, and his fingers tightened gently around her hand, anchoring her as he spoke. “You speak as though you are a burden to be borne, as though I have come to you with the intent to barter or to bargain. Do you think so little of me?”

His emerald eyes burned, the intensity in them softening only as he caught the flicker of fear and uncertainty in hers. “You say I deserve perfection. You stand before me trembling and offering yourself as if you are less than that. But, my lady, do you not see? You are everything. Your kindness, your strength, your courage...you are perfection in my eyes”

His voice softened, turning quieter, more intimate, though it carried no less conviction. “I have fought battles, endured pain, and carried scars that will remain long after I am gone. And yet, in all my years, no war, no trial has been as terrifying as the thought of asking for your hand. Your grace, your beauty, your fierce spirit...those are things I do not deserve, and yet I am selfish enough to want them. To want you.”

THE LAUGH THAT SPILLS FROM HER LIPS IS A BITTER ONE, but soft, hollow, as her head shakes so very slightly. Her hand tightens amongst his, entwines, and her voice is surprisingly steady as she dares to speak. Does she think so little of him, he asks, and she wants to scream from the top of her soul that it’s the opposite, that there’s not a single part of her that doubts anything he might dare to speak.

“No, your Grace, I do not think so little of you.”

I think so little of me.

But she doesn’t speak those words aloud, merely softens as her eyes catch his – and for a moment she has nothing to say, holding his gaze as though a lifeline clutching her to the room around her. Precious moments they’ve stolen without chaperone, without the prying eyes of a man who would barter her for coins and fineries, precious moments to say with sincerity what they otherwise may not have the chance to before their wedding, to understand with perfect clarity the life they have to offer one another.

It's a long moment in which she holds her silence, holds her breath, before her thumb grazes against the back of his hand as and she dares to speak.

“Yes. My answer is yes.”

She steps closer now, and her expression softens, already hearing the footsteps that promise an interruption far sooner than she’s hoped – but enough time to utter quietly, the beginnings of an almost wicked smile teasing her lips.

“If I could…just ask for one condition…”

A glance over her shoulder, and a whisper.

“clarisse. sam–” she sighs heavily, it’s not often that she talks about him because the grief can be overwhelming. grief, she learned, was weird like that. sometimes she could talk about him and the fond memories without crying while other times just the mention of his name will leave her in tears. there’s times where she will be doing something that has nothing to do with her brother and the grief will strike her so harshly as if she was slapped in the face. it’s been years and his death still pains her greatly, perhaps because she knows his death was unfair. he should still be alive and that is what tears at her heart. “sam’s death will never get easier, i’ve accepted that. what makes me feel somewhat better is knowing that he’s in a better place and free from this hellhole. free from the monster he was chained to.”

her feet dangle off the ledge and for a moment she allows herself to think what will become of her if she simply fell. she could be with her brother again and their mother, the three of them could be a family again. clarisse wouldn’t be a problem anymore, she would be free and that’s all nesta longed for. she closes her eyes tightly, shaking herself from those thoughts because she knew sam wouldn’t want her to do such a thing. her fingers grip the ledge tighter, turning her knuckles white. “after being with clarisse for so long you stop feeling like a human, your life starts feeling meaningless. i can’t deal with that, i can’t handle my existence being solely for the pleasure of men.” there was no hope of freedom for nesta, not for a very long time thanks to clarisse putting her mother’s debts onto her as well. she huffs an unamused laugh, “you know, i don’t even know which one is worse; clarisse or if arobynn honored my mother’s wishes and took me in as well. i guess i was shit out of luck no matter what.”

SHE HAS KNOWN THIS CONVERSATION WILL NOT BE AN EASY ONE – it hurts, a physical ache, to stare into his sister’s face and see the parts of him she’s long thought forgotten. Features she’d promised herself she’d never forget, that had been taken with the weight of time ; she sees that grief, knows it all too well, has buried it long in the depths of a heart that’s long since stopped bearing the weight of all the loss she’s had to take in her short life. But where the scars etch from that night of a lifetime long ago, Sam is far more raw, far more recent – brings a sharpness that still catches her breath when she lets herself think about him for a little too long, remembers that it’s her failure that sees him rotting in a grave she knows not where.

Gaze roams the scenery of a festering city before her as Nesta speaks, and she can’t quite bring herself to speak in turn at her words. In some ways, she thinks it a mercy Arobynn had kept her for his own training, had carved her into the goddess of death masked by a name that had brought every assassin in this city to a stand still. Celaena Sardothien had known the weight of being bought and owned, but not in quite so intimate a manner as the woman beside her – and she can’t offer words to spare those scars, so all she can offer is a hand that rests over the whitened knuckles by her side, squeezes in all the solidarity she can offer. Little reassurance, it will bring – but if nothing more a reminder she’s there, and she sees her pain.

“Clarisse. Arobynn. They’re both monsters in their own manner, are they not?”

Hollow words, that bring a hauntingly hollow laugh to her lips to resonate with the emptiness of sentiment, head shaking for a long moment – and then she catches the offer beside her, draws in a quick breath at the thought.

“No.”

Her eyes turn now to catch the gaze beside her, the way she’s watching her – and there’s a harshness now that she’s never demonstrated before the girl before her, but something about the idea of her Master having his hands on her, on Sam’s sister, of all…