#event 20

The Wolf of the North breathed in, watching the colours of the sky turn from a mellow, deep orange to a brilliant azure blue. It reminded him so much of Lysandra, how she would shift every so often to scare him. The beginning of their life together was always filled with her pranks, but after half a century, it began to slow down, as if the magic took a toll on her life.

There were no records of how long a shapeshifter lived—most shapeshifters were killed at an earlier age in Erilea, due to the fact that they were mostly unaccepted. It wasn’t until Prince Endymion Whitethorn gave him the evidence in writing from an ancient book written in the Old Language. Rowan had personally translated it for Aedion, and it had given him some sort of comfort that she had another few decades to go.

When he watched her energy slow down over the years, he panicked. He had ran to Rowan and Fenrys, asking for advice, begging them for answers. They could only console him, and even then it wasn’t enough. Tying his life to Lysandra, like what Lorcan had done to Elide, would be selfish for him as his Queen’s only blood relative. He had thought about it through and through, but Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius needed him, even if she claimed she didn’t. She even told him to go with Lysandra, but behind the doors of their room, Lysandra had told him not to.

I’ll haunt you in the afterlife if you come with me, she had claimed. He smiled at the thought. Lysandra had never let anything deterred her, even in the darkest of times.

Aedion sighed and turned towards his bedroom, padding as quietly as he could to his bed. Underneath the sheets, Lysandra was lying stomach down, her locks splayed all over the pillow.  He watched as her back rose and fell from her steady breathing of slumber. Her scent was all over the bed, as if she couldn’t keep still when she’s asleep.

It was true. Sometimes Aedion would wake up in the middle of the night with Lysandra either on top of him, or on his other side.

He pushed the blanket down and sat on his bed, shuffling to get as close to Lysandra without waking her. Her ever-changing scent filled his nose and all he wanted to do was to get lost into it. Aedion scooted to her and wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Under the rays of the morning sun, he could clearly see some of the graying hair weaving through her dark ones, something even her shapeshifting ability could not hide. 

His wife was aging each day and he had no way to stop it.

Aedion felt the tears surge and before he knew it, he was burying his face into her hair, wanting to be as close as possible to her while he still could. She stirred a little, but made no sign of waking up. Not at all the likes of who she was sixty years ago, when a bird chirping in the morning would pull her out of her slumber. Now, it’d take more than that to get her up and running.

They had no mating bond, not as Aelin and Rowan did. Aedion never cared for the bond—he knew it was as rare as Fae offspring. The bond he made with Lysandra was enough. And don’t talk about their mischievous children. Camden and Lillian knew when to stir up trouble, but they were the reason Lysandra and Aedion grew closer together. 

Fae shapeshifters? The first of their kind in written existence. A recipe for trouble, really. 

*

Three weeks.

It took three weeks after that morning for Lysandra to finally pass.

She had asked to go to Perranth and they had arrived five days before, her wanting to see the clear blue lake that stretched behind Perranth. They had a picnic before the lake, watching the sunset together, the sky bleeding various reds and oranges, purpling at the horizon.

Aedion had known it was time. And Lysandra wanted to go before her favourite time of the day.

He had prepared Lysandra’s favourite meals with Paige Lochan, Elide and Lochan’s demi-Fae daughter. Pancakes drenched with maple syrup, and hazelnut chocolate cake, thanks to his cousin, who managed to get Lysandra hooked on it.

She was laying down on his lap, watching some deers drink from across the lake. He had stroked her hair and watched her eyes flutter shut, monitoring her breathing until there was none to monitor. 

Aedion had only smiled and kissed her forehead, holding her for a short while, and proceeded to call Aelin from the Lochan’s house.

The funeral was short and done Terrasen style, just the way Lysandra would have wanted it. Not the Adarlan way that she was born in, nothing to tie her to the life she was forced into.

Aelin had shed tears throughout the funeral, Rowan holding her tight. Manon stood in silence with Aedion—she knew the feeling of being helpless when it came to a loved one. First with the Thirteen, and then with the late King Dorian Havilliard II three decades ago.

If the Crochan Queen and Blackbeak Matron could do it, then Aedion could too.

Aedion Ashryver stood vigil throughout the night with his family. His children stood behind him, silent as well, accepting the fact that their mother is gone forever.

In his life, Aedion had no regrets. He had decided so when he married Lysandra and gave her the Ashryver name.

He looked up towards the stars on the second night of his vigil, alone now. And he silently thanked the Gods for giving Lysandra to him, no matter how short it was.