#rhoe

Since Aelin had been old enough to fully understand what it meant to be immortal she had tried not to let her thoughts be consumed by the inevitable truth that plagued her. One day her family and her friends would die, and she would be left in the world alone. The things that she once knew and loved would be gone and she would watch as the world shifted around her while she remained unchanged. 

She was lucky in so much that she had found Rowan. Her parents and friends may not be immortal, but she savoured the knowledge that he would be there with her through the grief that was coming. 

She sat by her fathers bed; his hair long gone grey, his face older, but still familiar. She held her fathers favourite book in her hands, reading the pages slowly as he drifted in and out of sleep. In those brief moments of consciousness he would hold her hand and they would talk about the lives they’d had, he told her stories of his childhood, of his love with her mother. Aelin would only listen, trying to savour the sound of his voice, praying that even when she was hundreds of years old, she would still remember it. 

It had been a few hours since he last woke, the time between them getting longer with each passing minute. Still she would not leave his side. 

“Aelin.” 

She turned to her mate who was loitering in the doorway, a cup of steaming tea in his hand. He moved closer, placing the tea on the table next to her. 

“How is he?” He placed his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging the knots that had formed. His thumb brushing her skin. 

“Getting worse.” Her voice cracked. “They informed me it wouldn’t be long.” 

Rowan didn’t say a thing as he pulled a chair up next to her, his hand finding hers. She let a few tears fall, the drops hitting the open pages of the book. 

It had not been long since she had been sat by her mothers bedside, holding her hands and hearing her mothers words of encouragement, her greatest wishes and her regrets— not that there had been many regrets. Aelin had been by her side, her father sat with her too, both crying as they said their goodbyes. The loss of her mother was a pain she would feel for a long time still. Only two years had passed and she missed her with such ferocity that it took her by surprise sometimes. 

She was thankful for the time she had been given, her parents had lived long lives and she would be eternally grateful for that time. But despite their long lives, Aelin had many more things she wished they could have seen, could experience. They would never meet their grandchildren— something that had torn Aelin apart. She had cursed the fae bloodline, unfair that it was so difficult to conceive, unfair that despite trying for years there had been no success. 

It will happen for us. 

She turned to Rowan, who was already looking at her. 

“I just wanted them to meet their grandchildren.” She whispered, more tears threatening to spill. 

Her father stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He managed a small smile as he looked upon the two fo them. 

“Do you not have more important things to do?” Her fathers voice was quiet as he spoke, his words coming out croaky. Rowan huffed out a laugh. 

“There is nothing more important than me being here Papa.” 

She gripped her fathers hand tight, his own grip weak— so different from the man he used to be. She held on tight as her father closed his eyes again, his head falling slightly to the side. Aelin tried to hold back the sob that threatened to come out. Rowan’s hand was on her back, rubbing soothing circles. 

She didn’t know how long she sat there. The day had turned to night, healers had been in once more, lighting candles on their way, bathing the room in a soft glow. They never approached Aelin nor did they engage in any conversation; they knew she was mourning, so they gave her space. Rowan had retreated to their own rooms a while ago, letting her have these last moments alone with her father.

When the candles had burned themselves out and the room had finally plunged into darkness, the only light from the moon through the window, she stood from her fathers side. She placed a kiss on his forehead, whispering, “I love you.” 

She didn’t expect a response, but her fathers voice whispered out his response. “I love you too, Fireheart.” 

Aelin couldn’t help the tears this time, letting them fall as she tried to comprehend what was happening. 

“Why do you cry?” 

“I don’t want you to leave.” She managed to get the words out between her sobs. “I have tried to be strong for you and for everyone else around me… but—” she hiccupped. “What will I do without you?” 

“You are the strongest, most brave woman I know, Aelin.” He took a deep breath, his lungs wheezing. “And even though I am leaving, it doesn’t mean I won’t be right by your side. Your mother and I will be with you for eternity; until we meet again in the afterlife.” 

“Pappa…” 

“We are—“ another deep breath. “We are so proud of you, of what you have become.” 

She felt her soul being crushed as he said those words. Her father patted the space beside him, and she didn’t hesitate to crawl beside him and curl into him. 

“There were so many things I wanted to show you… to experience with you.” She found his hand again, holding tight. “I wanted to give you grandchildren and I wanted you to see the theatre we built for mamma.” 

“You gave me everything I needed, Fireheart.” 

It was silent a while, Aelin could still feel the rise and fall of his chest— a relief. She didn’t stir as a healer came in the room. She took one look at Aelin and her father and left just as quickly as they had arrived. 

Aelin remained curled to her fathers side, sleep finding her soon enough. She dreamed of her mother mostly, of their lives together; of the happy memories they had shared. The dream was bright and lovely, full of laughter and love and pure joy, and moments before she woke, her father entered that dream too. His face no longer worn with age, but youthful, vibrant. Her parents smiled at her, their own hands clasped together as they waved to Aelin. She tried to hold on, hold on to that picture of them. But all too soon her eyes opened and she knew. 

The morning had not yet come, the sky still speckled with stars. She did not move, her eyes staring out to the sky beyond— wishing she could rewind the night and say goodbye one last time. The soft rise and fall of her fathers chest had ceased, his light breaths no more. 

Aelin summoned all the energy she had, sliding off the bed and standing. She did not face her father, who would be lying there, unmoving— gone. So she slipped out of the door to find the guards outside, standing to attention. 

“I need you to fetch Rowan and a healer.” 

Aelin did not know how she sounded so calm, her voice strong and commanding— not when she felt like she was falling apart. Both her parents lost to the inescapable doom of time. Although Aelin knew it was coming, that one day she would have to say goodbye to the ones she loved… still she did not feel prepared for when it. She never thought the last time would be the last time. The absence of them enveloping her. 

“Your majesty.” The healer curtsied low as she halted in front of her. 

“My father—“ She cleared her throat. “He is gone.” 

The healer rose, nodded once and entered the room behind her. 

Aelin remained in the hallway. The quietness that had been before was broken by the sounds of footsteps from all directions. More healers entered the room, all of them curtsying low as they took in Aelin. Two new guards arrived. But the person she wanted the most was nowhere to be seen. 

“Your majesty?” A small voice from behind her. “This is for you.” 

The small girl handed Aelin a piece of rolled parchment, her fathers messy scribbles visible on one side. 

“Thank you.” 

She waited outside the room. 

“Fireheart?” At the sound of her mates voice she broke. Rowan caught her before she hit the ground, his muscled arms coming around her, an unyielding force. “It’s alright, I’m here.” 

She sobbed, she let her cries fill the hallways, she unleashed the pain and utter heartbreak within. Her body shaking in the arms of her mate as he held her steady on the floor. 

“Let it out. I’m here.” He kissed her head as she cried into his chest, her tears soaking the shirt. 

“He’s gone.” Another sob. “They’re both gone.” 

“I know, Fireheart. I know.” Rowan stroked her back as she clenched his shirt in her hands, her sobs easing slightly, the tears still running down her cheeks like rivers.

“Why?” 

She looked to him, his pine green eyes already on her. He kissed her forehead and pulled her in closer, hugging her tight as he gave another soft kiss on her head. 

“There is no explanation good enough to say why we lose the people we love.” He murmured. 

Aelin sniffed, letting out a heaving sigh as she let the tears continue to fall. “I’m never— Gods.” She furiously wiped at her face. “It isn’t fair.” Her voice a whisper. 

“They’ll always be with you. Wherever life takes you, they’ll be there.” 

She wiped away the tears with her shaky hands. “I just want one more day with him, to hug him goodbye again, to tell him I love him.” 

Rowan stroked her hair, kissing the top of her head, holding her closer as she cried. 

They didn’t say anything for a while longer; Rowan holding her all the while. They ignored the comings and goings of the staff, Rowan making sure no one disturbed them. 

Aelin did not know how long she stay there with Rowan. But the sun had fully risen in the sky, it’s rays shining through the large window, bathing the hallway in glorious warmth. 

“Fireheart?” 

She glanced up. 

“It’s time, my love.” 

She stood in time to see her father being carried out of the room. His body draped in white linen, a single white lily placed in the centre of his too still chest. It had been a tradition in Terrasen for hundreds of years to follow the dead to each of their resting places. The first being the healers wing— where they would be embalmed and priestesses would come to pray for their souls. The second place being the mourning room within the palace; where family and close friends would come to pay their respects. The final spot would be the burial. Her father would be buried next to her mother, their bodies laid to rest together— as they had always requested. 

Rowan placed his hand on her back, his touch soothing and steady. 

~ 

Aelin could not remain with the healers for long. Whilst they waited for the priestess to arrive she waited outside the door, letting them prepare her fathers body. Rowan remained by her side holding her hand, letting her cry when the grief overwhelmed her once more. 

When the priestess finally arrived they followed her into the room, candles were dotted around the room basking it in a soft glow. Her father was covered in clean linens a deep shade of green to represent the colours of Terrasen. Traditional flowers had been arranged around him. She hated seeing him like this— she had hated it with her mother too. She hated how he was so still, another solid reminder that he was gone and would not be coming back. He would not sit up and make a joke or gently snore like he used to when he would fall asleep in the armchair in the library. 

“Would you like to say any words, your majesty?” The priestess looked upon Aelin, her brown eyes sparkling in the candlelight. 

Aelin shook her head. The time for words would come later. Right now she wanted to have this over with so she could go back to her rooms and cry until she fell asleep. 

The priestess bowed her head and began her prayers. She started in the old language, most of which Aelin did not understand. Prayer after prayer she would say until she began her final blessing— in their own language this time. It was a traditional blessing, one that all people who had passed would have. A blessing to heal their souls, to send them on their way to the afterlife safely. The blessing was short but the words still made Aelin weep. 

The priestess lit one final candle which would burn until his official funeral, then when his body was laid to rest it would be extinguished. 

The priestess finished with a final amen, curtsying low as she disappeared out of the room. Rowan squeezed her hand as they exited the room not too soon after. 

Rowan and Aelin walked in silence, her tears silently falling as they made their way to their room. 

“I think you should eat. It’s been a long time since your last proper meal.” 

“I’m not hungry.” She entered the room, everything left how it had been before her father had passed. Rowan’s desk scattered with papers, her own desk the same. Piles of books lay there, the candles burnt out, wax dripped down the sides of the gold holders. 

She turned her eyes to the paper on her bedside. The note her father had given her. 

Rowan followed her gaze. She had not opened it. She had given it to Rowan who had placed it there, knowing that perhaps she would want to read it sooner rather than later. But she had not had the courage to do so. The folded note taunting her. 

“You should read it.” 

She shook her head. Looking back to Rowan. “I don’t want to.” 

He brushed a strand of her hair aside. “Think about it whilst I get some food for us, okay?” He kissed her forehead, lingering, before pulling away and heading back out of the bedroom. 

She suddenly felt exhausted, the weight of the day hitting her. Aelin moved slowly to the washroom, her every movement heavy. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and cringed at the woman she beheld. Her hair had come loose from the braid she had hurriedly done that morning, dark circles beneath her red eyes. Perhaps on a normal day she would be mortified of her appearance but today she did not care. She forwent washing her face and brushing her hair; instead she undressed and found Rowan’s shirt that was strewn across the wooden chair. 

She padded back to the bedroom, sliding into the soft sheets of the bed, pulling them up around her. As she lay there she stared to the note. She wanted more than anything to read it, to see her fathers words, to lay her eyes upon his handwriting, to have a last moment of closeness to him. 

She knew he would want her to look at it, to read it. He would want her to know the words he had written, to find comfort in them. 

So Aelin took a shaky breath and reached for the parchment, and slowly unrolled it.

My dear Fireheart,

The time has finally come for me to say goodbye to you. I have rewritten this letter more times than I wish to admit— but I have so much to say and I am finding it hard to find the right words. 

I know that my death will be hard on you, for many reasons. But I want you to know that I will always be by your side, wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be there with you. You may not see me anymore or hear me but I will be there supporting you for all eternity. 

I do not wish for you to mourn me too long— for I want you to be happy, to thrive and not dwell on these mortal things. You are so much stronger than you could ever imagine and I believe in your strength to overcome. I know happiness seems so far away, but remember to laugh and enjoy the beauty in this world, to smile and treasure every moment. 

I’ve given you a lot of advice over your life, some good and some bad and I wish I had more wisdom to to give but I think you probably have more to give to me. Despite my shortcomings, I hope you know that everything I have done has been because I love you and I only wanted you to be the best version of yourself— and when I look at who you are now, I can see that you are. 

I know you wished for more time with us. You wanted to give us so much— not just grandchildren, but a new Orynth, a better world— but what you did not realise was that there was nothing you needed to give us, there was nothing we wanted you to give; because having you as a daughter has been everything I have ever needed or wanted. You are my pride and joy and I love you with everything that I am. 

The greatest honour of my life has been being your father; and when the time comes, your mother and I will be waiting for you in the afterlife. 

Do not cry for what you have lost, but rejoice for the times to come. 

I love you more than you will ever know.

Until we meet again,

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

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

It was unnatural.

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

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

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

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

They’d learn to stop moving their lips then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“Of course, Nan, forgive my ignorance.”

Evalin flicked her ear.

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

“Then don’t call me Nan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nonsense.  You speak nothing but nonsense.”

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

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

What better time to tell her than now?

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll make it work, I swear it.”

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

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

Evalin snickered.

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

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

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

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

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

Were all the fae this forsakenly beautiful?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good, I had hoped as much.”

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

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

Understanding filled Gavriel’s tawny eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He mo leannan,

Hó mo leannan,

‘S e mo leannan a’ fear ùr—

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

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

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

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

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

Fortunately, the event was still months off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And without Evalin’s constant presence and companionship…

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

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

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

She banished the thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sooner Evalin was home, the better.

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

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

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

Oh, he comes o’er hill and dale,

Sword strapped right,

Bonny and bright,

Come to bid his tale--

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

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

Relief flooded her.

Home and safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Couldn’t she keep her damned mouth shut?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that anything could be done to right it now.

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

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

Eleanor beside her made no attempts to remedy hers.

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

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

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

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

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

Evalin could already feel the headache creeping in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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