Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 7
A/N: Right, this might get a little confusing, but you know how we (English speakers) kind of went from Latin, to old English, to Now English? I’m substituting those for the Old Language, ‘Middle Language’ (the transitional phase—completely made up), and whatever the common tongue is for Prythian? Yeah, sorry about that!
Warnings: none…? I don’t think…?
Word Count: 5,587
-Part 6- -🌌🌠- -Part 8-
You stare at the page, heart in your throat.
Stare at the page, and reach for a pen.
Who is this?
Ink stains the white paper, and stupidity heats your features. He probably left it as a taunt. It’s not like he’s going to respond. You groan, setting the pen down, covering your face with your hands. Mother above. Definitely not your smartest moment. Reach to flip the paper over—not wanting to be reminded of your naïveté.
More ink has appeared, just below your scribbled question.
You may hide your intelligence around your family, but that won’t work with me. Smarten up.
The words burn your features. Scowl at the paper.
Forgive me for not anticipating the paper to talk back, Eris.
It vanishes the second you’ve written the sentence, leaving you blinking at the empty space on your desk. Winnowing isn’t possible within the House of Wind—you’ve heard both Rhysand and Feyre say it before. Yet note passing seems completely acceptable, for some reason. You suppose no harm can derive from simple exchanges.
You’ve been surrounded by magic for nearly two years. It’s shameful to still be taken aback by its multi-faceted ways.
A reluctant smile gilds your mouth. That’s Eris alright. Readjust your hold on the pen.
And it’s embarrassing to rely on stupidly long words in attempt to prove your intellect. Just say it’s versatile.
The parchment disappears, then returns. Nothing’s been added.
Amusement brightens your mouth, raising the writing instrument, poising it to attack. The words dance on your tongue, weapons to provocation: You have a bad attitude to being spoken back to. But you shake your head, instead choosing compromise for your next reply.
Did you want something? I doubt you simply dropped in to say hi. Unless this is your way of making sure I got the book?
Perhaps it was my way of seeing where you fall in this alliance.
Brow draws together. He obviously means the alliance between the Night Court and him, but where do you fit into it all? How does this show your placement? What does he even mean, where you fall? Take a deep breath, release it. It will do you no good to fall for his own provocation.
I hope you were satisfying enlightened, then, you write back.
Quite.
Stare at the neatly scripted response. He’s leaving the conversation for you to direct. First thoughts go to where he acquired the book, but somehow you feel that’s not the direction he wants you to take this in. So, sighing, you stumble straight into the trap he’s laid out.
Why haven’t you told anyone?
Paper vanishes again. Takes a minute to reappear.
It’s pretty blackmailing material. Why waste it in common conversation?
Lips purse together as you read his reply. Manipulative indeed.
Whatever you think you’ll be able to extort from me, I can guarantee you’ll end up disappointed.
Not the family favourite?
Blink at the speed of the response. Like quicksilver. Vague amusement warms your chest—how clear the mockery is. Disconcertingly comforting to know he doesn’t change. The same in every form. Precious constancy. Lower the pen to parchment.
I suppose you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?
And I suppose you’ll hide beneath the guise of observation, now?
It certainly isn’t warfare. I’d think you’d be practiced at spotting pretty, bladed words.
Again, the parchment vanishes, leaving you in the silence of your own room. Feet tap anxiously upon the clear wood, leg vibrating as you wait on him. Realisation smacks you upside your jaw—you refuse to sit here wasting precious seconds for whatever nihilistic response he carves out for you. Instead, you turn to the anthology, flicking to the index, peering at titles. Searching for one that will catch your eye.
I’m flattered—you’ve sharpened your tongue since we last sparred.
Roll your eyes. Lips quirking at the inherent Eris-ness of the response.
Wooden swords will only serve me for so long. Why not experiment with steel in a controlled environment?
The parchment vanishes, and takes its time to reappear. Time you spend scanning titles, pondering their contents. Maybe you should ask why he gave it to you in the first place. Certainly not out of the kindness of his heart.
Paper reappears.
You think merely because there are entire courts between us that makes you safe?
Peer at his reply—try studying it. Does he want you to be wary of him? It seems unlikely, somehow. He wouldn’t be able to get anything from you if you’re afraid of him. He should be encouraging you to feel at ease speaking with him if he wants something.
Do you make a habit of being as unpleasant as possible to every person you encounter, or am I just lucky?
A smile warms your mouth as the paper vanishes, fantasising how irritated he might become. From your words! Exhilarating!
Eyes land on a title that piques your interest: Movement of Light. Brow narrows with interest, flipping to the registered page number eagerly. Upon the parchment, beside the tightly knitted words, lays a neat diagram. It appears to be of a rectangle with two small holes punctured through its thin mass. Interesting…
Do you make a habit of keeping secrets from your family?
Lips purse. Cutting to the core, again. Manipulative as he may be, he’s certainly skilled at finding the right bruises to target. You wonder if it’s a skill he’d been taught through books or word of mouth, or if, perhaps, it was a nastier kind of education. Shake your head free of thoughts, pulling away from the book.
Having no secrets at all is stupidly idilic. Are there any other misconceptions you would like me to clear up?
You’re surprisingly cynical for your age.
Strange how having one’s mortality ripped away will do that to a woman.
Even you can hear the bitterness bleeding through. But the words have been written, and the paper has disappeared, so there’s no use trying to take them back. Even if you’re mentally cursing yourself for allowing that kind of opening. Surprised at how easy it is to be caught up in conversation with him. Or sparring, as he so eloquently puts it.
Wonderful immortality not treating you well?
Again, with the taunting. Amusement and something else prickles beneath your fingertips. Irked.
I’ll admit, it’s not quite as spectacular as I might’ve thought once upon a time.
That seems measured enough.
I thought humans were raised to hate us.
Observe the words—how they sit on the parchment. The contrast between your short scribbles and his elegant font.
Might a deer not wish for a wolf’s strength?
Parchment again vanishes. Once you’ve counted to three, you turn your attention back to the book, scanning the passage of writing. Brows narrow at the leap in language—words you’re unfamiliar with. A photon? Maybe it would be better to start from the beginning. Where’s a damn glossary when you need one?
Paper reappears—you take a moment to pull away from the volume.
Have you always been in pursuit of grandeur?
Brow narrows at the question.
I’d say I’ve always been rather passionate about not starving. So I suppose I did once think having three hot meals a day would be utter luxury.
I would have rather rotted away than be forced to live amongst vermin.
A surprised laugh flutters from your chest, amusement sparking within you again.
You’re much too stubborn for such a miserable end, Eris; too bitter to resign yourself to such a fate, either.
Parchment vanishes. One. Two. Three. Return to the volume, start at the beginning. Where your eyes were intended to land. Sighing, you scan the title: The Foundations of our World—Stuff. Brow narrows, lips quirking upward at the vagueness of it. Stuff. Such a lack of precise articulation, yet here it is, in an anthology of noteworthy discoveries. Somehow, this piece had been selected as important; important enough to be the base for the entire book. Strange…
Eye roll across the tightly stacked letters, mind pulsing as words soak into your brain, thumping dully as blood rushes through your ears. Take everything at it’s basest nature, reduce it down to the fundamentals, and what sort of building blocks are you left with? What makes up the world as we see it?
‘Take the prefix a- from the middle language, and combine it with the Old Language verb to cut, creating the name for the indivisible: atom. The smallest bits of matter that can exist independently.’
Intrigue returns with crushing force, making it near impossible to tear your eyes from the volume when the parchment reappears. How long has he been writing? Maybe he was preoccupied.
And yet I understand it was the youngest of you who took up her weapons and headed out into the wild. For how adamantly you protested against my lack of action regarding something I could easily correct, you seem to appear quite the hypocrite. Why didn’t you go out into those woods?
Blink away the memories of frost. Of sweat-stained clothes, and matted, knotted hair.
Getting a little personal with the questions, don’t you think?
Writing to me at all is much more personal than you should ever be getting—I’m sure your friends would agree. Yet there you are, pen in hand, thinking up your next counterattack.
The reply comes with surprising swiftness, allowing you only a brief glimpse of the following passage. Just as you’re beginning to grasp the core of what the essay is talking on.
You write with the confidence sight, you reply, eager to return. Yet he seems to have put his own distractions aside, as the response follows promptly.
Magic is a wonderful thing.
Blood ices in your veins, limbs stiffening, tongue turning leaden.
You’re lying. The House is fortified with wards; practically impregnable.
Yet here we are, corresponding. Does your High Lord know what you get up to behind closed doors?
Heart spikes in your chest, fingers trembling just a little as you lower pen to paper.
You clearly want something; you’re not going to get it if you spook me away, so quit the games.
Very well, but I’ll admit I indulged in the thought of your discomfort.
Release a heavy sigh—he doesn’t somehow have a window into your room, able to watch every move you make. Surely that would be too far, even for his manipulative ways. Skin prickles at how easily he slid beneath it—fingertips brighten.
You share that delightful, sharp-written humour with your youngest brother, you know that?
The parchment vanishes, then reappears in a matter of seconds. You laugh to yourself.
Touchy subject, Eris?
The second you dot the question mark, the door swings open; you yelp, jumping in your chair, shoving the parchment away. Vanishes again a blink later, slightly crumpled from the violent rejection.
“I knocked…” Feyre supplies, features tightening with concern. “Did you not… Oh.” She blinks, peering at the door frame; the threshold. “I suppose it must have been set up to block out exterior noise, too.” Sighs. “I’ll get that fixed at some point. Seems a waste to have a sound barrier up if you’re unable to hear what’s going on outside.”
Swallow heavily, trying to look normal. Like you weren’t knowingly communicating with the heir to the Autumn Court throne. Blue-grey settles upon you, fingers fidgeting in your lap, shifting in your seat to get comfortable. Everything feels unsettled. Her brows arrow, “you’re… What were you doing?”
“Nothing.” You reply, quickly. Far too quickly to be normal.
Lips quirk. “Writing to Bas?” She teases.
Heavy sigh whooshes from your chest, deflating a little. “How do you know about him? I haven’t even mentioned him to ‘Lain,” you say lightly. Something flashes through her eyes, too quickly for you to decipher. “Az mentioned you had someone after you,” she laughs, stepping into the room, door closing behind her. “I had no idea it was so serious,” she smiles, the happiness so inappropriate with the context you have.
Shake your head in denial, “he’s just a friend. There’s nothing else going on.” She gives you a look to say she doesn’t believe you. “I’m serious,” you insist. “There’s nothing romantic going on.” That part’s true, at least.
Feyre laughs again, then shifts on her feet. A strange quest seems to overtake her. “You know things are different here,” she begins softly, “to how we lived as humans.”
Heat flushes your features, making you groan. “Oh my gods, Fey. I am not having this conversation with you.”
“I’m just saying, if you want to get out there…see the world…maybe a few males, too… That’s fine. That’s stuff we can do, now. Well, you can do.” She amends the last part. After all, she’s the youngest, and already has a mate, a husband, and a child. An entire family. The epitome of womanhood.
Shake your head adamantly, “please, stop.” You grimace. Her lips quirk, mischief in here blue-grey eyes. She’s so lively…spirited. Bubbly? But calm, too. When did she become so adult? She seems to have aged in the blink of an eye.
(Why didn’t you go out into those woods?)
She shifts again, peers around the room—it’s a superficial move. She’s buying time, building up to something. “Your floor’s clear,” she notes, nodding to the clear wooden boards. Nod in response, trying not to wring your fingers. You were doing nothing wrong. He had spoken first. Nothing to be guilty about; no one got hurt. It’s fine.
“About our last interaction…” she begins, quietly. Spine stiffens, heart spikes. “I wasn’t trying to find something wrong with you; I’m sorry it came out that way.”
Exhale softly, shoulders lose their tension. Smile easily, waving her off. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” you laugh. “I understand. I’m sorry for lashing out at you, it was unfair on my part to act that way.” Her eyes narrow on you. Keep up the smile. “Is this your way of saying you just don’t want to talk about it?” She asks, softly. Blue-grey shimmers with sincerity.
Lips begin to ache with the stretch. “What are you talking about? We’ve made peace, there’s no need to exacerbate this.”
“Do you not want to talk about it?” She reiterates, keeping calm and quiet.
“What is it?” You laugh, turning to face the desk, eyes flitting to the volume. Scan the page; absorb nothing. “What you said last time. About being a burden.”
Body stiffens, breath catches.
“Fey, I’m getting tired,” you excuse, voice steady.
“You’re tired a lot,” she replies, quietly. Still watching. “Maybe Madja should take a look at you.” Sigh. Lean back in your chair. Tilt your face back, peering at the ceiling. “I’ve had a long life,” you murmur up to the white wallpaper, “I’m allowed to be tired.”
“You’re barely twenty-two.”
“And a lot has happened. I’m allowed to be tired.” You repeat, not looking at her.
Silence stretches between you. Gentle, but taut.
“How about you?” You ask, shifting the conversation over. Turning to peer at her. Your younger sister. Feyre blinks, then nods her head. “Good. Wonderful.” Watch her silently. Mark the lowness of her lids. “Nyx still waking you up?”
Nods again, smiling faintly, traveling somewhere distant. Somewhere foreign to you. “Eight days a week,” she laughs quietly. “Rhys and I are taking turns looking after him during the nights. Despite his work-load.” Sighs, pushes hair from her cheek, tucks it over a pointed ear. “He’s been great. Supportive, attentive, perfect. I keep trying to get him to let me handle Nyx, but he’s insisting it’s a joint effort. Wants to be there in a way his father…” she trails off, eyes misting.
Nod your head slowly. “And I suppose you want to be there in a way our mother…?”
“Yeah,” she replies thickly. “I guess that’s part of it.” The quiet turns viscous, coagulating into something almost translucent.
“I read some things…” you begin gently, “about the turbulence of motherhood.”
Her features lift into a smile, “oh, don’t worry about me. Rhys and I are working through it. It’s difficult, but everyone’s there when the strain starts to set in.” You blink away subtle surprise. “Mor’s always up for taking him off our hands for a day or two. It’s the same with Cass and Nesta,” she laughs fondly. “Amren…well, she’s Amren. And Elain’s great at making little treats here and there. Smiley faces out of his breakfast and things like that—he loves it.”
You nod slowly. Blink. “That’s great.” Again the silence creeps in.
Then she’s shifting on her feet, and. You just know—
“What kind of person is Bas?” She inquiries, not at all subtly. Nosey.
“He’s my friend, and nothing else.” He’s much more than a friend, but there’s no way to explain that without an entire Court’s worth of misunderstandings and uncomfortable questions. Still, she nods, but remains in your room. “And he… His intentions?”
“Feyre,” you scold, incredulously.
Your younger sister doesn’t flinch. Keeps her gaze straight. “Okay. Okay,” she sighs, holding up her hands in defence. “I’m wary of him.”
“Please, you can trust me he’s harmless. To me, at least. I’m sure if someone swung at him he’d be the type to swing back, but that’s besides the point.” You leave out the part that you’re fairly certain he would be the one to also somehow provoke a fight. He can be pretty provocative when he wants to. Not always in a bad way…
(…a hot, male body that’s pressing you into the wall.)
“I just want you to be careful,” she says quietly, eyes misting, going somewhere far away. “Males…people can be unkind. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Amarantha, Tamlin… You nod your head, “I understand. But Bas…I can trust him. So please don’t doubt him; please don’t doubt me either, in this decision.”
Feyre nods again. Silence stretches, then she straightens. Pats the doorframe. “Well, I’ll have this fixed as soon as possible. It’ll need to be disabled, than I can remake it—so you’ll be able to hear people coming. It’d be awful if you got yourself hurt from being startled by one of us.” She gives you a sweet smile, then disappears out into the hall, door clicking shut behind her.
Unsure if it’s her silent feet or the sound barrier that prevents you from hearing her disappearing footfalls.
————
Skin is itching, fingers burning. Heart spiking.
Burning, burning, burning. Hands on fire.
Vision blurs, floor spinning. She’s on the ceiling.
Crash into a wall, bone crunching. Stumble to the kitchen.
Water. Where’s water. Burning skin. Charring fingertips.
Liquid drips down cheeks, splashing onto knuckles.
Scraped raw, searing pain. Bone splintering, nails peeling.
Cool water fills the sink, drown her hands.
Sweet strangulation, dulcet deprivation.
Lovely oblivion.
————
Breath eases in and out, soothing your lungs. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out.
Chest deflates, keeping your body straight but relaxed—imagine sinking into the mattress. Cheeks puff up with the exhale, calm and quiet. Sit silently. Allow the world to fade. Tension seeps from your shoulders, muscles relaxing the way you’ve practiced. Now to make sure you don’t drop off instead.
Empty out thoughts, settle into the silence. Float away on a breeze. Imagine hands being set aglow. No. They are aglow.
Eyes remain shut, tight. Picture the radiant green seeping onto your skin, setting it alight.
Fingers twitch, bones itch. Teeth grind. Nails heat.
Eyes open in time to catch the glow as it fades, sinking back into your skin. A flicker of Starfall, then nothing. Sigh heavily, back slumping, shoulders sloping. It’s something; most importantly, it’s progress. Day three of fourteen. Slow movements, slower response. Gently stoking the flames.
Remove the light from your world, lids closing, return to the darkness. Seeking solace. Breath eases in and out, soothing your lungs. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out. In. And out. Fingertips warm, but eyes remain closed. Don’t acknowledge it. Can’t look or feel for it. Allow it to grow in the back of your mind, allow into latch into your blood; flourish. Swirling and billowing, gaining momentum until it can move on its own, until it can function without nurture.
Keep your back turned to the power, allow it to remain unseen. Pull it upward; hear as it cracks and fizzles in your head. Rapidly dividing…splitting at high-speed…multiplying until it boils and bubbles. One cleaves another in two…into three…nine…
(…Twenty-seven, eighty-one, two-hundred forty-three…)
(…two-thousand one-hundred eighty-seven, six-thousand five-hundred sixty-one, nineteen-thousand six-hundred eighty-three…)
(One-million seven-hundred-seventy-one-thousand one-hundred forty-seven.)
Heat burns your fingertips, flashing pain blaring so rapidly, sparking like lightening across your palms, splintering phalanges…down into the carpal bones, nearing your wrists.
Vision blasts into view, pupils contract to tiny dots, shrinking away from the pale green light that’s blazing from your hands, barreling up your forearms, crackling past elbows, bolting up, up, up… Muscles seize, contracting against the hot itch scrambling your flesh, twisting at sinew. The blinding light dims, eyes peeking open as it dulls to a quiet luminosity, tinting your skin. Feels like poison ivy…the nettles by your old estate.
Swallow, staring at the radiance. Almost mesmerising enough to block out the burn. Throat itches, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deep breaths. Ease in. And out. Deep and easy. Calm and quiet. Collected.
Slowly, warily, you rise from your bed, door swinging open on the house’s command. Silently pad down the hallway, arms and torso concealed well by your dress, cardigan hiding the faint incandescence of your wrists. Hands—no way to hide them. Ignore it for now, you need a drink. Deep and easy. In. And out. Calm. Quiet and collected.
A glass waits for you on the table, walk steadily forward, fingers tremble as they clutch the cup. Water vibrates inside, tiny ripples fluttering across the surface. Effervescent bubbles shimmer at the base. Grow larger, swelling into compact air, fizzing up. Simmering in your hands. Tension coils your shoulders, brow dampening. Liquid heats up, boiling into a volatile mess. Bubbles pop at the surface, scalding water splashing onto your knuckles.
Scream as glass shatters, burning your bare feet as the liquid sprays.
Heart spikes, glowing brighter, inching up your arms, over your shoulders. Crawling across your collar bones. Muscles knot, tangling over themselves as they seize in terror. Power coils closer, snaking toward your throat, slowly…slowly…
“What—”
Hazel pierces into you, flicking over your hands, marking the shards of glass. He appeared in a flurry of darkness, shadows pulling back once he’s materialised in the doorway. Eyes already scanning for the source of distress. Fix on the slow spread of toxic green as it tip-toes higher. Hits a barrier. It’s a small hesitation—but it’s enough. Magic flickers, recoiling from your clavicle, enough hesitation to be quashed. Like a weight sinking down, an avalanche of rock crushing vermin, bones crunching beneath the pressure. Incandescence shoved away, dripping down your arms, cut back to your fingertips.
Sweet relief washes over you, waves of coolness cresting from your forehead to your toes. Lovely reprieve. Exhale heavily, spine nearly collapsing beneath the strain, leaving a slight glimmer to your fingertips, nails curved and warped from heat. Stagger back as he silently moves toward you. Scarred hands reach out, wanting to touch; wanting to steady.
“Are you—”
“Don’t,” you bark, snapping your arms closer to your body. Feel their unnatural heat as it singes the fabric of your dress. His nostrils flare, scenting the charred material, shadows flicker.
Call breath into your lungs, soothing. Deep and easy. In and out. Calm and quiet. In. And out. Calm and collected. A familiar scent has hairs raising at the back of your neck, eyes flicking up to lock with hazel. Closer than before. Despite the heat.
“What was that?” He asks, the deep roughness of his voice curling across your breastbone, soothing the heated skin like a balm. Swallow heavily, keeping your hands tight to your torso. Turn away; move to the sink. The tap turns on independently, cool water sizzling as it washes over trembling hands. Cold metal mollifies your skin, a comfy weight around your neck. The tiny barrier your magic had hit. Tripped up on.
Azriel doesn’t make a sound, but you can feel him nearby, standing at your side. Watching silently as the water fizzles and hisses, the last of the glow dimming from your fingertips. How close he’d come to touching the blisteringly hot skin. Slowly, the cold begins to souse into your digits, running smoothly over your hands, no longer bubbling or evaporating on impact.
The house has already cleared away the shards of glass; dried the pool of scalding water by the time you’ve dried your hands. Flaky, and ashen. The smooth, creamy texture seemingly been ravished by the heat. Yet all you felt was a slight itch to begin with. You don’t make any attempts to conceal how quickly you want to escape the room, but you’re kept where you are. Waiting…waiting for him to change his mind about keeping your secret. After what he’s just seen…
Feet are pinned to the boards, muscles unwilling to obey your mind as you explore them to turn and leave. Arms feel leaden, stiff and immovable. Wait for the compromise to be retracted. Hands tremble, teeth faintly bite onto your tongue. Wait for the condemnation. For being so foolish; stubborn.
“Are you hurt?” Words thud dully against your ears, keeping your hands as out of sight as possible, hidden beneath the sleeves of your cardigan. Nod dutifully. “I’m okay,” you murmur. Lips are numb, mind buzzing faintly. Floorboards spin ever so slightly, blurring in and out of focus. Deep breaths. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out. Calm and collected. In. And. Out.
Boots appear at the top of your sight, just a little way from your own. Far enough not to be intimate. He holds out a scarred hand, palm facing upward. Almost expectant.
Blink away the dizziness. Flesh tingling…wriggling beneath your skin. Nails itching.
Wait silently to see what he’ll do.
Continues holding out his hand, waiting patiently to see if you’ll offer up your own. Remain rooted to the spot, numbness crawling beneath your sleeves. Mind buzzing with confusion at the outstretched palm.
Slowly, he begins reaching for your wrist, as if to inspect the results of the experiment. Analyse the consequence. Examine.
It topples you into motion.
Turn on your feet; quietly scamper off down the corridor. Behind the safety on your door.
With the wooden barrier in place, plus the sound block on your room, you can truly feel forgotten for a while. Like time’s stopped.
————
The shower had your blood moving again, temperature cooling to a regular heat. Mind working again, mentally cataloguing every thought you had, every twinge of unusualness that could have been the signposting you should have noticed to prevent that rapid surge of…burning.
Peer down at your hands, almost absently. Aside from the slight roughness to your skin; the chapped dryness to your knuckles, there’s nothing to show for the bone deep itch that had manifested within your flesh. Just the texture becoming sandpapery. Flaky.
A dark blue towel is draped over your shoulders like a shawl, preventing the damp ends of your hair from saturating the changed dress.
(What was that?)
It stopped almost out of nowhere. One moment, steadily spreading throughout your body, the next, it seemed to stumble. Like hitting a bump of some kind. Something that disturbed its momentum. Peer down at the necklace that’s sitting comfortably around your throat, resting just above your collar bones. In the dip of their joining point.
The small, glass pendant hanging from the bronze chain sits innocently on your person. Fingers brush over the map in wonder, curiously feeling. Cool metal contains the accessory, lead encapsulated within a gleaming polish. Even the underside has a pretty finish. Lead, bronze, and glass. Maybe some ink, but that’s all it is. No secrets carved to its base, no hidden compartment. Just a simple ornament, yet something about it disagreed with you. Thank the Mother.
Fingers play with the charm as you take a seat at your desk, reopening the volume. Rusty red leather creaks as you turn to your page, more than willing to submerge yourself in learning. The candles flicker as you ease out a breath, taking in the familiar scent of parchment and something pleasantly spiced. Maybe it’s an Autumn Court scent.
Crumpled paper lands on your desk, settling comfortably between the two large pages of the anthology.
It may surprise you to learn I have better things to do than spend all my hours writing to you.
Stare at the neat, elegant script. Debate the merits of responding willingly. Returning to this strange sparring match would be acknowledging your interest. There’d be no way to talk your way back to innocence. Putting pen to paper will mean…
And yet here you are, Vanserra, writing back to me.
Oh, you hope that irritates him. Hope he sends back something vicious. Something to make you spark awake again. To light up the numbness that’s turning your world monotone.
Would you like to tell me where these wrinkles came from?
Lips tug at the edges, but remain set in a dull line. Lower your pen to the roughed-up parchment. Fingers dry and somewhat cracked in the low light.
Nonsense, Eris. You don’t look a day over thirty.
Picture the way his sharp caramel eyes blaze with ire at the brazenness. Maybe his palms also heat when he’s in a mood. It’s a little comforting to remember power probably didn’t come naturally to him. Maybe. You’re making assumptions, though.
And you don’t dress a day over fifty. Considering Rhys’ wealth is at your fingertips, you have the fashion sense of someone who’s still destitute.
Mouth parts as you read the response. Brows flicking up your forehead. Harsh…
A smile quirks the corners of your lips.
I’ll have you know I dress for comfort. You’re the one who cares so much about prettification. Maybe I could visit your personal beauty parlour sometime, Eris?
Parchment vanishes, allowing you time to peer down at the diagram before you: a small rectangular table. There are various squares left blank, while others are filled in with one or two letters. The boxes that do contain letters attached are numbered, correlating with asterisks further down the page, displaying a full title.
Who would ever accompany you? It’s bad etiquette to visit a tonsorium on one’s own.
The smile fades after a few moments. Who would go with you if you wanted to visit somewhere? Elain? Feyre? …Mor? Shake your head, pushing away the dismal thoughts he’s brought to your attention. Divert elsewhere.
It’s worst to not entertain your guests. What a miserable (and sour) host you would be. I think I’m actually quite glad to not be visiting anytime soon.
Try to return to the anthology; find yourself awaiting his reply. Leg tapping against the floorboards. Minutes pass while you attempt to absorb more of the text, but nothing’s sticking. Like there’s a fog passing through your brain, stopping you from taking in the wonder of the world. More minutes tick by—the sky a solid dark blue the other side of your window. A few other candles gleam alight, and you murmur your thanks to the House. Flame flickers in response. Oddly comforting.
Eyelids start to feel heavy, weighing into your vision.
You don’t realise you nodded off until you wake from your nap. The desk is still void of a reply; you wearily peer around your room, attempting to orient yourself. Knuckles itch to be scratched, still rough to the touch. Gaze settles on your door. Perhaps it’s a little scary that you wouldn’t know if something was lurking directly the other side. Wouldn’t be able to hear any heavy breathing, or the scrape of steel. Deep breath, because there’s nothing there.
Stand to draw the curtains, but hairs stand on end. Remain still for a few seconds, centring on the feeling. Is it fear? Is it loneliness? Brow knits in concentration, absently drawing the curtains, turning back to face the entrance to your room.
(The only exit.)
Sigh in frustration. It’s not good to give into your…however you’re feeling. It will only encourage your mind to exacerbate whatever problem its fabricated. Still, you find yourself opening the door, peering down the well-lit corridor. Nothing there, no strange feeling, no lurking presences. Just your mind finding something to react to, creating a madness to subject you to. Deep breaths. The House of Wind is secure. Safe, and secure. You’re safe here. Nothing bad will happen; you won’t get hurt.
Deep breaths, heart lowering its pace.
Move to bring the door to; notice something on the ground, beside the frame.
Crouch down to pick up the small tin. Bring it inside, door swinging shut as you hold it up to the light.
Peer at the neat label. Pop open the lid; look inside.
It’s a small pot of hand cream.
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