Actually I'm having a lot of fun exploring what a matrilineal but still patriarchal society might look like. There are a lot of things that are different to our society but also a lot of room for similarities and I'm fascinated.
Also, given that one of my story's main themes is fatherhood, this is providing some really interesting character stuff too.
One of my main characters is raised mostly by her father and not her mother. Now everyone, the reader and the people of the world she lives in, will all be asking why? And I'll have to come up with a satisfying answer to that which used to fill me with dread but now I'm actually kind of excited for it.
Warnings: Grumpy!Bucky, Bucky being a dick, Angst, Eventual smut?, Slow Burn fic, Maybe a touch of jealous!Bucky, 18+ cause swearing
Word Count: 1071
~
It should be noted that any loud noises before midday should most definitely be illegal, especially since the atrocity was coming from your front door. You hadn't had enough time to register the time flashing on the alarm clock only noting that it was too early for this shit.
The continuous thumping on wood was worse than a thumping headache and ringing ears from a late night out. You were still dressed in an oversized t-shirt, no doubt one of Steve's you had pinched from staying round his, along with bed head and reminiscence of last night's makeup clinging around your eyes. The noise still echoing in your apartment. You fumbled around for your keys but you couldn’t think straight with the loud noise. “Alright! Alright! I'm coming!” The outburst was well and truly expected considering the situation at hand. You finally managed to unlock the door, swinging it open to reveal a very disgruntled Bucky.
“The fuck you want.” The attitude was evident within your voice once he came into view. To say that you were not happy was an understatement and a half. First, he acts all high and mighty ‘saving’ you and then turns around to be an arrogant asshole, leaving you seconds away from filling injury claims for whiplash. A blank expression rested across his face as he gingerly held his hand up showing a holder with two takeout cups and a brown paper bag. “Breakfast.”
Suspiciously, you stepped aside, allowing him in, not once taking your eyes off him and with him keeping his eyes on you, taking in your appearance. That's when it dawned on you what you were wearing. If the t-shirt had just been a plain solid colour then this whole interaction would most likely not be happening, but since the shirt you nicked was a bold and very distinctive graphic one that Steve was fond of, you could see this going one of two ways. One: Bucky doesn't pay attention to it and just ignores it. Two: Bucky points it out. And, of course, it's always number two.
“I thought that you and Steve were just friends?” The cocked eyebrow, unpleasing look, and matter-of-fact tone of voice was a dead giveaway that your sleeping attire did not appeal to him at all. “We aren't. I borrowed it when I stayed round ‘is.” The tired grumble fell from your mouth as you pottered into the kitchen area. Your response caused Bucky to scoff as if he didn't believe you.
Turning around in a sudden, you came face to face with him. Bucky had been following hot in your heels, and it left only mere inches between the two of you. Tilting your head upwards and locking eyes with his, smirking at his stunned impression. “Wish it was yours, Barnes?” Your smirked never faltered as you studied his face, searching for an inkling of emotion.
His expression stayed the same, except for the slight pink tinge that dusted his cheeks. Slowly, his hand came to rest on your waist, as he lowered his face with centimeters to spare. The action left you fighting to close the gap between the two of you, to connect your lips with his. Eyes burrowing into your soul and warm breath tickling your mouth, Bucky finally spoke up after what seemed like forever.
“This isn’t a game, doll, don’t test my patience.” Not once did his tone falter, the sternness evident. With this, Bucky didn’t wait to see what your reaction would be, distancing himself from you in a heartbeat and turning on his heels leaving you stunned in your own kitchen as you watched him walk away. dropping your stare to glance at the discarded coffee cups and brown bag, only to spot a number scrawled onto a napkin signed ‘Sorry ~ B’.
It wasn't until later that Steve had appeared at the front door, inquisitive as to what had happened the night before. He claimed that a ‘little birdie’ had told him what went down but wanted to get the story from you. And he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. The two of you made some hot drinks and curled at opposite ends of the sofa, relishing in the calm before the possible storm.
“So…” Steve started, “Spill what actually happened then cause I don't quite believe you're the type to just randomly throw drinks in people's faces.” He chuckled into his mug.
“Ugh! Where do I begin?” You threw your head back letting it rest on the back of the sofa. Turning your neck till you were facing him. “Don’t get me wrong, Bucky seems, from what I've heard, like a really nice guy. So believe me when I say I tried, I was nice to him, I wouldn't leave him out of the conversation and I really thought we were on the path to being friends. And I know I don't know him very well but I was patient with him because when I thought we were getting along one time the next he'd do a 180 and treat me like shit. And he… he overstepped the line last night with what he said, an-and I don't know if it was the alcohol in my system or what but the drink was in my hand and then it was on him.?” You hadn't realised how little air you had taken in before, or how quickly you had spewed out the mess. The mess of words had literally just tumbled out of your mouth with no chance of stopping.
You heard Steve take a sharp inhale of breath breaking the trance, before giggling quietly to himself. A puzzled look donned your face as this was the last reaction that you had expected to come from the man. “Oh, man, I’m not going to lie, I kinda wish I was there to see you do that.” He paused for a second before readjusting himself. “I’m sorry he’s been such a dick to you, I honestly didn’t think he would behave like this. I’ll have a word with him.” Steve sighed
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I think I’ll be able to deal with him.” The sass in your voice was only slightly evident as a smirk rested on your lips. Steve left it at that, as the two of you finished your hot drinks and curled up on the couch, have a well-deserved catch-up.
(Penny dead but I just shortened the title of Weasleys after the war as WATW)
Hermione couldn't breathe. It felt like there was something heavy on top of her. She had read about these things, but now her head was empty, she just felt heavy.
And it hurt.
Her chest felt heavy and the feeling was just indescribable. She was just walking in the trees, on the grass barefoot, not knowing where she was going. She just walked.
Penelope Clearwater.
It hurt to even think about her. She just couldn't think.
Penelope Clearwater is was a good person. A kind girl.
She was Hermione's friend. It's not fair. It's not okay.
Hermione feels guilty even though she shouldn't. It's not her fault, the logical part of her brain tells her. There was nothing she could have done about it.
The other part says hogwash.
She could have done something to protect her, some muggle safe house or or some shelter or just something. She was pregnant, she... just didn't deserve this.
Hermione stops. She just stops. She sits down, her back to a tree and breathes. She needs to relax and think rationally.
She's angry at Percy, because he should have done more for her, but she knows deep inside she's not really angry, just upset.
He's the one who told her about them dating.
"Hermione sits in the library, the quietest place in Hogwarts, thank Merlin for that.
She needs some space away from the boys and just learn for the moment but she also came here to stare at Percy Weasley who was reading a book at the other end of the table.
She might have a tiniest bit of a crush on the eldest Weasley at Hogwarts. It's not like she has anyone to spill that secret to either Ron or Harry. Telling Ron or Harry is definitely a big no especially since Ron is his brother.
Percy heaved a sigh, his face troubled as he quickly shut book and groaned softly. Hermione doesn't think she's ever seen him in such a state, she often marvels about how he keeps sane with the terror twins around him but even then he wasn't like this.
Something must have happened. Hermione doesn't like seeing him like this. She had to ask him what's the matter.
"Percy, I'm sorry to interrupt but umm is there something on your mind?"
Merlin, that was so awkward, Hermione was just about to say never mind and run back to her book, but Percy replied.
"Oh, hello Hermione, well, to put it simply, I have girl problems",Percy says embarrassed as he looks the other direction.
Oh. OH.
Well, she really didn't think this through, did she? How can she help with that? Giving her crush love advice was not on her agenda.
But looking at Percy feel so down doesn't make her feel any better.
She really was going to do this, wasn't she?
"Well, I'm no expert really, but just talk to her? That's always the right way to go and maybe a present she may like. I'm clueless about the situation so I'm not really sure what to say here."
"You don't have to say anything really. Just please don't tell my brothers about this."
"Of course, you can trust me"
The fact that Percy had confided in her made her feel warm and nice.
"May I ask what's her name?"
Hermione did want to know this mysterious girl's name who had Percy being so melancholic.
"Her name is Penelope Clearwater", he said, a lovesick smile on his face. It made Hermione's heart break.
She knew Penelope Clearwater, she was a prefect and extremely pretty.
When she got back to her dorm, she let thee tears loose. He was her first crush and seeing him liking someone else hurt.
It was a long time before she met Penelope in person. She was in the library, looking for some clue to solve the mystery of the Chamber.
That's when she saw her.
Penelope Clearwater.
Black curly hair, in a way that Hermione's could never be, hazel eyes like honey and a smile that could make you feel warm.
She was flawless. And she was approaching Hermione.
"Hello, do you need some help?", she had asked her.
Hermione wasn't usually speechless but at that moment, all she could do was stare.
"Don't Gryffindors have a quidditch match today? You ought to get going."
"I just needed to get something before I go."
That's when she found the page she was looking for.
"WATCH OUT"
Penelope screamed jumping in front of her, getting petrified in the process.
Hermione quickly tore the page, before it petrified her, all the while thinking how Penelope should have been in Gryffindor.
After that incident, Penelope always greeted her, asking her if she was fine and inquired about her mental health. She was studying to be a Healer, a fine profession for her.
Penelope was almost like a friend.
Hermione didn't realise how far she had walked until she saw Ginny with the broom.
She could never go a long way without finding a Weasley could she?
Ginny for her part was looking at the Lovegood's cottage.
Luna. Oh.
Luna probably knew Penelope.
Does she even know? Does anyone besides Percy?
Hermione sighed before standing next to Ginny. Ginny didn't even flinch as she appeared by her side.
"When should I tell her Hermione?"
"Once we deal with our grief, we can help her with hers."
-
Fleur sat alone in the kitchen of the Burrow, drinking tea. She was sure Percy would come back. Bill had gone upstairs to talk to his parents about the matter.
Charlie had gone down to the village to buy some groceries.
CREAK
And then there he was, the man himself.
Charlie came into the kitchen, placing the items on the kitchen platform carefully , before sitting besides Fleur.
Fleur felt closer to Charlie than any other Weasley siblings. Charlie kept praising her for the whole dragon part in the Tournament. It was nice to see that someone appreciated her talent, besides her beauty, not many people did that.
It was refreshing.
"Percy will come back won't he?"
"Yes, I believe he will Charlie"
Charlie kept tapping his feet as he sipped his tea. He was anxious, it was not something Fleur hadn't seen before. He wasn't there when Fred died. He had taken that hard and kept blaming himself for things which were in no way his fault.
"I should have known her."
"Who?"
"Penelope. I should have paid attention, I should have done something. I should-"
"Charlie, this is not your fault."
"It is! I should have read Percy's letter more carefully, I could have helped her come to Romania or I could have-"
"Charlie. Listen to me, you cannot live in the past, you cannot change it. This is in no way your fault, you had no indication that this would happen, you were not to blame."
He seemed to calm down at that.
"You're right Fleur. I'm not to blame, we all are."
-
George sat on his bed, lying down, staring at the ceiling.
There's just som much rage inside him, so much anger and disappointment and anger again.
He's angry at Percy.
He's angry at his family.
Most of all, he's angry at himself.
He's behaving like a git, he knows that but why can't he stop? He just wants things to go back the way they were. Why can't things be normal again? Why is life like this?
"George?"
It was Ron. He was knocking on his door.
Ron, who never knocks, is knocking on his door. If George wasn't feeling so down, he would have laughed.
"What is it Ron? Don't come in."
"Don't be so hard on Percy, George."
"Why? Because his child is dead."
George hated every word that came out of his mouth but he could care less.
"Our nephew is dead George. Let that sink in."
Nephew. Merlin, he was being a prick wasn't he?
"You know what's the worst part George? I don't care, I should, I should give a damn but I feel so numb. Everything feels numb."
George didn't know what to say to that because that's what he's feeling right now.
Numb.
"Your anger isn't directed at the right person George."
Its the middle of the night - so Im definitely going to post this again in the morning - but here you go! thanks for the nice words I really appreciate it ❤︎
word count: 4120
Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter
Barely five minutes had passed before Lysandra was sauntering down the stairs, arms now empty and her gaze lazily sweeping over Rowan’s bare chest. Her eyes burned with intent, but he knew she was cataloguing him, marking the strength, height, weapons in his hands – the gaze of a spy. And Rowan couldn’t help but wonder if she really was just spying for Aelin. With those wildcat eyes…who else would she be serving but herself? Was there a chance she might betray them?
Rowan could practically feel Aedion’s eyes on him from behind, his scent burning with jealousy. Rowan had to keep his own eyes from rolling.
Lysandra shot Rowan a wry smile as she passed them, and Rowan caught a whiff of her scent on the breeze. It was strange, almost…layered. He couldn’t quite figure it out, and before he could get a full breath, Lysandra had wrenched the rolling door open and left the warehouse, pulling it shut behind her.
Then Aelin appeared on the stairs, a pile of garments in her arms. “These are for you,” she to Rowan. “Looks like I owe Nesryn a favor, she asked Lysandra to bring them this morning.”
Aelin continued as Rowan started up the stairs to take the clothes off her hands. “She also brought news. Arobynn received a report last night that two prison wagons were spotted heading south to Morath – chock full of all those missing people. We need to send for Chaol.”
Aedion nodded, already heading out the door, while Rowan continued into the apartment to see if the new clothes would fit. When he passed Aelin, she smirked at him.
So that’s a no on the fit. Rowan held in a sigh. Knowing Aelin, she’d put him in tight clothing on purpose.
···
To Rowan’s relief, the clothes hadn’t been all that tight. The pants were loose enough that they no longer restricted his movement, even if they were nearly four inches too short at the ankle. But Aelin had still given him an overly-pleased once over when his back was turned. She was spending too much time with Lysandra.
By late morning, Chaol was standing in the middle of the clearing, his eyes fixed on the map between his fingers. His steel, cotton, and birchwood-flavored scent was exactly as Rowan remembered from when he’d first tasted it in Aelin’s blood all those months ago, in that reckless first bite.
The memory alone was enough for ice to crack through Rowan’s veins, freezing his expression in place. This man had been responsible for sending Aelin across the sea, with no warning and no protection, right into the arms of his former queen. Who had been responsible for the broken heart she had arrived with. And then, when she returned here, he had the impudence to tell her that it was her fault he had failed to protect his King. That it was her fault her cousin had ended up in prison and Dorian the walking dead.
Rowan wanted to rip his face off with his teeth.
But instead, Rowan just stood guard by the door. Keeping his eyes locked on the former captain of the guard.
The man was of slightly higher than average stature, with brown eyes and hair, and hardened features. He held his broad shoulders straight back, his spine rigid, but his limbs were unsettled. He couldn’t stop shifting in place, discomforted.
Rowan suppressed another grin.
The man’s eyes also kept shifting to Aelin, and as he moved in place yet again, Rowan caught the slightest hint of jasmine and flame in his scent – Aelin.
Even though he couldn’t detect even a trace of the captain’s scent on Aelin anymore, the captain was still holding on to her. Still carrying her scent. Fury bubbled in Rowan’s gut.
Despite the vile words he’d hurled at her, the captain still wanted Aelin, and now that Rowan was looking for it, he could see the pain from her rejection written all over him.
Rowan almost regretted being polite to the man. But he knew Aelin would be rightfully furious with him if he attacked Chaol when their alliance was already so fragile. So he stuck to the door.
But that didn’t mean Aelin didn’t notice his icy stare, nor the captain’s discomfort. Her eyes glinted. “You know, he won’t bite,” she crooned.
Chaol leveled a stare at her. “Can you just explain what these maps are for?”
“Anything you, Ress, or Brullo can fill in regarding these gaps in the castle defenses would be appreciated,” she said.
His lips pursed as he folded up the map, tucking it into the inner pocket of his tunic. “For you to bring down the clock tower?”
“Maybe,” Aelin said flatly.
Chaol bristled. He was still obviously avoiding Rowan’s gaze. “I haven’t heard from Ress or Brullo for a few days,” he said tersely. “I’ll make contact soon.”
Aelin just nodded, pulling out a second map – this one of the sewer network. She weighed it down on the table with two of the daggers hidden up her sleeves.
Chaol shot her a disapproving look that made Rowan want to snarl.
Aelin ignored them. “Arobynn learned that the missing prisoners were taken to Morath last night. Did you know?”
Chaol tensed. “No.”
“They can’t have gotten far. You could gather a team and ambush the wagons.”
“I know I could.”
“Are you going to?”
He laid a hand on the map, his face darkening. If Rowan didn’t know any better, he might have felt sympathetic. The man was obviously in pain.
His words were low, but hard. “Did you bring me here to prove a point about my uselessness?”
Aelin straightened. Rowan leaned forwards slightly, readying himself. Aelin spoke, choosing her words very carefully, “I asked you to come because I thought it would be helpful for the both of us. We’re both – we’re both under a fair amount of pressure these days.”
“When do you make your move?” the captain asked, his eyes roving over the map.
“Soon.”
Another purse of the lips. Apparently, he didn’t like her non-answers. “Anything else I should know?”
“I’d start avoiding the sewers. It’s your death warrant if you don’t.”
“There are people trapped down there—we’ve found the nests, but no sign of the prisoners. I won’t abandon them.”
“That’s all well and good,” Aelin said calmly, even as Chaol slammed his teeth together, “but there are worse things than Valg grunts patrolling the sewers, and I bet they won’t turn a blind eye to anyone in their territory. I would weigh the risks if I were you.”
The captain was angry, but he kept silent as Aelin combed her fingers through her hair and asked, “So are you going to ambush the prison wagons?”
“Of course I am.”
Rowan couldn’t doubt the sincerity there, and it seemed Aelin couldn’t either. Her eyes softened in concern, her scent flickering. And Rowan knew that there was still some affection left for the old captain of the guard. But how much?
Aelin sighed softly. Then said, “They use warded locks on the wagons. And the doors are reinforced with iron. Bring the right tools.”
It was Rowan’s turn to clench his jaw. Aelin would know, she had spent weeks in one. Chained up and in the dark. On her way to slavery.
It took all of his self control to remain still and standing.
The captain straightened up, making to leave.
“Tell Faliq that Prince Rowan says thank you for the clothes,” Aelin said. And even though confusion passed over Chaol’s face, he nodded his agreement. Rowan stepped aside with a murmur of farewell as the captain stepped into the bright sunlight of the golden afternoon.
···
To his great surprise, Aelin told him that there wasn’t anything pressing they needed to take care of that day, so instead, she spent the time showing him her city.
She took him through the slums, keeping to the shadows whenever possible, and they walked all the way through the capital to the elegant residential districts and the busy markets squares, now crammed with vendors selling goods for the summer solstice in two weeks.
She talked all the while, pointing out paths and walkways, busy intersections and guard postings, along with all those little details that made this place her home, the good and the bad. And so much of it seemed to be connected to Sam.
Places they had walked together, ate together, laughed together – where they had grown up. She even pointed out the place Sam had rescued her from the sewers when she had been kidnapped and nearly drowned.
The cobbles were warm with the afternoon sunlight, and despite the darkness of the Valg guards, the pair of them walked through the city as if belonged to them. As if the streets and buildings were but a carpet unrolled before their feet.
“The man who runs that store always used to give me free tarts.”
“That dressmaker was my favorite, she always knew exactly how to alter a garment to suit you perfectly.”
“I had dance lessons here for years, the instructor is an amazing woman, you would have loved her. She let me play her piano, even if my back was never straight enough for her. She helped me rescue Aedion.”
They even spent almost half an hour in an old music repair shop, wandering among the aisles of old instruments and piles of music sheets. Even if, in Rowan’s opinion, no piece of music could be more beautiful than the sound of her laugh as he nearly tripped over some twisted pieces of metal she told him belonged to a broken brass horn.
Aelin also took him to one of Nesryn’s family bakeries, where she tried force him to eat some of a pear tart, no matter how many times he told her that it smelled sickly sweet to him.
At the docks however, Rowan actually managed to convince Aelin to try some pan-fried trout. She cringed and swore at first, but once she’d tried it, she finished her fish in record time and soon was trying to sneak bites of his. Rowan snarled at her, but he couldn’t keep his lips from twitching into a smile.
After their late lunch, they sat at the edge of the docks and cooled by the water. They were mostly silent, instead listening to the sounds of the shipyards, seabirds and waves.
Rowan found that his thoughts kept sliding to Sam. He’d been just a boy when he died, barely eighteen. They’d had so little time together. And before Aelin had gotten a chance to deal with his death, she had been sold into slavery.
Rowan tried to find the words to ask her about Sam, about how she felt for him, but before he could, the sound of a whip cracked through their pleasant silence.
Aelin met his eyes, her face grave. Soundlessly, they stood and walked away from the water and back to the shore, where they watched as a cluster of chained slaves hauled cargo onto one of the ships. People who, no doubt, were captured and enslaved because of their opposition to Adarlanian rule. Rebels in chains, allies of Terrasen and its queen.
They watched, and could to nothing.
A cold, endless fury burned in Aelin’s eyes; a fury that made him want to call a storm of ice and wind so strong it would turn the shipyards to rubble, the slavers with them. But he couldn’t, and not only because his magic was locked inside his body. Instead they just stared. And swore to themselves that soon, perhaps very soon, those slaves would be freed.
He and Aelin wandered away, back through the market stalls from which they came, though now the silence between them felt heavy with darkness.
Now the wooden paths were full of the scent of roses and wild lilies, the ocean breeze sweeping petals of every shape and color past their feet as the flower girls shouted about their wares. Husbands leaned over bouquets to bring home to their wives, bachelors picked out arrangements for their intended, while girls giggled over daisies and shot the boys looks from beneath their lashes when they thought no one was watching.
Rowan stopped in his tracks. The smell, the laughter, the color – it was all so familiar that it made his heart wrench in two.
There was a woman across from them in the center of the square, a basket of hothouse peonies on her thin arm. She was young, pretty, and dark-haired, and her eyes sparkled with something hidden – twin to his mate of two centuries earlier.
Memories began flashing behind his eyes – a mountain home in smoke, arms digging a grave, blood running tracks down the backs of his hands. The face of a woman in a market across the sea, flowers in her arms and hair, a smile lighting up her face. Even the queen by his side couldn’t dull the screaming reverberating in his head.
Rowan didn’t hear what Aelin said as she turned to him, but he saw her face. Her eyes widened, and she clenched and unclenched her fingers, any words lodged in her throat.
Rowan just stared at the girl, who was smiling, alight with life and a vibrant energy that sliced through him like a knife. She smiled at a passing woman, holding out her peonies for a sale.
Rowan breathed, Aelin’s anxiety brushing past him with a wash of flickering embers. Truth. The only thing he could offer her.
“I didn’t deserve her,” he said quietly.
Aelin swallowed hard. A long pause. Then, “I didn’t deserve Sam.”
Rowan turned to look at Aelin, her eyes downturned, her mouth soft. He would do anything to keep that sadness off her face. Anything.
Rowan reached out to brush her fingers with his, maybe to hold her hand, or pull her body into his. But at the last moment, he remembered himself, and dropped his arm back to his side.
He must have invented that glint of disappointment in Aelin’s eyes.
“Come,” she said. “I want to show you something.”
They left the flower girls behind, moving deeper into the city, but Rowan was unable to completely let go of the pain wrapping his heart in ice.
···
Aelin scrounged up some dessert from the street vendors while Rowan waited in a shadowed alley, then she pulled him deeper into the city proper, until they darted into a side alley and ducked into a hidden entrance that led to a rickety wooden staircase.
Now, Aelin was munching on a lemon cookie while they sat on one of the wooden rafters in the gilded dome of the darkened Royal Theater, Aelin swinging her legs in the open air below.
The space was dark and silent, unnaturally so. As if the very seats and aisles longed for the return of the music that had once blanketed them. Sunlight poured in from the roof door they’d entered through, illuminating the rafters and the golden dome, gleaming faintly off the polished brass banisters and the blood red curtains of the stage below.
“This used to be my favorite place in the entire world,” Aelin said, her words full of a loving nostalgia. “Arobynn owns a private box, so I went any chance I could. The nights I didn’t feel like dressing up or being seen, or maybe the nights I had a job and only an hour free, I’d creep in here through that door and listen.”
Rowan finished the cookie Aelin had foisted on him, still just gazing into the dark space below. He still hadn’t said anything since they’d left the flower vendors, and he could smell the scent of Aelin’s worry wafting around them. Wanting to ease her tension, and to turn away from the icy marble deep in his chest, he turned back to her.
Aelin seemed to practically sigh in relief as he said, “I’ve never seen an orchestra – or a theater like this, crafted around sound and luxury. Even in Doranelle, the theaters and amphitheaters are ancient, with benches or just steps.”
“There’s no place like this anywhere, perhaps. Even in Terrasen.”
“Then you’ll have to build one.”
“With what money? You think people are going to be happy to starve while I build a theater for my own pleasure?”
“Perhaps not right away, but if you believe one would benefit the city, the country, then do it. Artists are essential.”
Aelin sighed, seemingly unable to handle another burden, small as it was. “This place has been shut down for months, and yet I swear I can still hear the music floating in the air.”
Rowan angled his head, studying. “Perhaps the music does live on, in some form.” It was almost as though he could feel its absence, in the taste of the air and the flutter of the curtains. The space wasn’t just empty, it was waiting.
A silver lining appeared in Aelin’s eyes. “I wish you could have heard it – I wish you had been there to hear Pytor conduct the Stygian Suite. Sometimes, I feel like I’m still sitting down in that box, thirteen years old and weeping from the sheer glory of it.”
“You cried?” he blinked, watching as the memories passed behind her eyes and wishing he could see them as she did.
“The final movement – every damn time,” she sighed, almost laughing at herself. “I would go back to the Keep and have the music in my mind for days, even as I trained or killed or slept. It was a kind of madness, loving that music. It was why I started playing the pianoforte – so I could come home at night and make my poor attempt at replicating it.”
“Is there a pianoforte in here?” he asked, looking back into the darkness without waiting for an answer, the ghost of a smile passing over his face.
···
“I haven’t played in months and months. And this is a horrible idea for about a dozen different reasons,” Aelin complained for the tenth time as she finished rolling back the curtains on the stage.
Rowan kept quiet, focusing on lighting the single candle he had found backstage. He knew that the space had once been grand and beautiful, but now, amid the gloom of the dead theater, it felt like standing in a tomb. The chairs were still perfectly arranged for a massive orchestra, though they were now covered in dust. No one had been in here in weeks.
Rowan turned and walked over to the pianoforte, which was near the front of the stage. He had never learned to play, his court lessons not extending so far as learning an instrument.
Rowan had been to his fair share of balls and events, but it had been a rare thing for him to have an opportunity to listen to music just for music’s sake. Much of those events had been heavily overshadowed by the annoyance of dealing with court maneuvering. And after Lyria’s death, he had avoided such things at all costs.
He could barely remember the last time he had been able to listen to any kind of music and just listen. To have the pleasure of experiencing the art, the magic of it. He ran a hand over the smooth surface of the instrument as if it were a prize horse, marveling at the potential the lay within.
Aelin was hesitating at his side. “It seems like sacrilege to play that thing,” she said, her words echoing too loudly in the space.
“Since when are you the religious type, anyway?” Rowan gave her an encouraging smile. He just hoped that it wasn’t too crooked. “Where should I stand to best hear it?”
“You might be in for a lot of pain at first.”
“Self-conscious today, too?” Maybe teasing would get it out of her.
“If Lorcan’s snooping about,” she grumbled, “I’d rather he not report back to Maeve that I’m lousy at playing.”
He just grinned as she pointed to a spot on the stage. “There. Stand there, and stop talking, you insufferable bastard.” He chuckled, and moved across to the center of the stage.
She swallowed as she slid onto the smooth bench and folded back the lid, revealing the gleaming keys beneath. She positioned her feet on the pedals, but made no move to touch the keyboard. “I haven’t played since before Nehemia died,” she admitted, the words heavy.
“We can come back another day, if you want,” he said softly.
“There might not be another day. And – and I would consider my life very sad indeed if I never played again.”
He nodded and crossed his arms. So get on with it then.
She sighed, but turned back to face the keys and slowly set her hands on the instrument, a great beast of sound and joy about to be awakened.
“I need to warm up,” she blurted, then plunged in, the notes soft and light.
It was just a random selection of chords and scales, but still, the music filled the hall with its caring whisper. The whole space seemed to breathe again, as if soaking up the music like light, or air.
And then she began for real.
The piece she played wasn’t merely happy or sad, calm or excited – it was far, far more than that. The complexity of the notes, the way they layered together and bounded off each other – it felt like the melody of life itself. Of the love and glory and pain and beauty in simply breathing.
It filled Rowan up with its warmth, and he felt Aelin’s fiery heat overflowing within each note. The music seemed to be made of her fire, and together they burned. All the while the music built, up and up and up and up, until the sound breaking from the instrument was like the heart-song of a long lost goddess.
Rowan stood and waited, letting the sound wrap around his form like a blanket, letting it slowly melt the ice around his heart. Aelin had always been able to do that, melt away his pain and resistance, without even realizing she could. And now she did so not with words, but with this music that flew from her fingers like small winged creatures, into the empty seats behind them.
Rowan drifted over to stand beside the instrument. He was drawn to her, to the fire that made him feel so alive. Then she whispered to him, “Now,” and the crescendo shattered into the world, note after note after note. The music crashed around them, roaring through the emptiness of the theater.
She brought the piece home to its final explosive, triumphant chord, and Rowan could feel tears lining his eyes. When she looked up, panting slightly, he just gazed at her, at the queen who had lit up his darkness, and marveled.
He struggled for words, but then finally breathed, “Show me - show me how you did that.”
···
They spent the better part of an hour seated together on the bench, Aelin teaching him the basics of the pianoforte – explaining the sharps and flats, the pedals, the notes and chords. At last when Rowan heard someone coming to investigate the music, they slipped out.
On their way back to the apartment, they stopped at the Royal Bank. Aelin went inside alone, having ordered Rowan to wait in the shadows across the street, impatient and pissed off. Luckily she only took a few minutes, returning with a bag of gold clasped to her belt.
“So you’re using your own money to support us?” Rowan asked, masking his irritation as best he could.
“For now.”
“And what will you do for money later?”
She glanced sidelong at him. “It’ll be taken care of.”
“By whom?”
“Me.”
He clenched his teeth, anger mounting. “Explain.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She gave him a small smile that drove him completely insane. Rowan made to grab her by the shoulder, but she ducked away from his touch.
“Ah, ah. Better not move too swiftly, or someone might notice.”
He snarled viciously but she only chuckled. “Just be patient and don’t get your feathers ruffled.”
Rowan clenched his jaw, stopping another snarl in its tracks. This conversation could wait until they were both home. Maybe then he would be able to convince her that he absolutely needed to be let in on her plans. It was the only way to keep her safe.
But would she listen?
Rowan scowled at that thought, and took off into the shadows behind Aelin, following her back to the warehouse.
···
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Hi! so. yeah. I'm really sorry. I had a very hard feburary and then a surprisingly difficult march. but i promise you - this isn't going to be abandoned, just taking longer than usual unfortunately. Please let me know what you think!
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A male, all in black, felt his muscles relax as the lights slowly flickered out of the warehouse across the way. As if someone was walking through the apartment, room by room, blowing out candles. The male looked until nothing more was visible through the darkened window, and a small sigh passed his lips.
A cold wind blew towards him, carrying his death-kissed scent back to the glass castle instead of towards the apartment before him and the Fae hidden within. Lorcan knew that Whitethorn and Galathynius were in the bedroom, but there was another – a male – hidden up on the roof.
The ancient warrior scoffed. It had been even easier than he thought it would be. Without magic, they were all completely helpless. Weak.
All he’d had to do was leave a false trail from the docks through the city and into the busy market square, then turn back to the harbor and wait. Wait for Whitethorn to appear, and guide him straight to the princess.
By that very night, he’d done just that.
Lorcan had to be careful to keep out of sight, to keep the wind at his back and his scent out of Rowan’s path, but before long, his quarry was in sight. That fire-breathing-bitch-queen, arrogant as ever. She was with two others; one, the male who was currently guarding the roof, the other, a human female, with a scent like figs and mint. Soon, the female peeled off from the group, her path headed towards that monstrosity of a castle.
While Lorcan didn’t follow her, he made sure to memorize that unusual scent to keep tabs on her later. Then he followed them back to this warehouse hidden deep in the slums, and the apartment hidden within.
It had all been so easy, so simple. He’d been the one who trained Whitethorn, after all. Lorcan knew how the male worked. He just hadn’t expected him to be this vulnerable without his magic. The idiot hadn’t even bothered to fortify the warehouse when they arrived.
Probably too distracted by the princess’ lips. Or her legs.
It hadn’t slipped Lorcan’s notice that when the lights had gone out, they were both in the same room. A room that contained only one bed.
Disgust rippled through him, disgust and fury. All Lorcan wanted was to slide off his perch, rush into the warehouse, and root the two birds out of their nest. But he had to wait, wait until he could catch them off guard, until there wasn’t a sentry to warn them of his approach.
For even now, without magic, Lorcan couldn’t be completely sure that he could overpower Whitethorn. The easiest way, the only reliable way, would be to separate them. To capture the princess and hold her hostage, ensuring that Whitethorn would stand down. While he negotiated for the keys.
In the meantime, Lorcan could scout out the city, discover its weaknesses and patterns and hidden pathways. So he could plan his attack.
So as the whispers in the bedroom quieted, and even the memory of candlelight had vanished, the warrior slid off the roof and onto the street below. Letting himself be consumed by the night and trying his best not to think of just how completely and utterly alone he was.
Without a nation, without a queen.
All he had left was his purpose, and he would follow it through to the bitter end.
···
Rowan awoke to an empty bed, Aelin’s scent swirling all around him, fresh and clean as the daylight streaming through the window beside him. He could hear her shuffling about the kitchen, filling a kettle with water and lighting the stove.
Rowan turned and stretched, his muscles pulling and tightening in all the right places. It had been wonderful to finally sleep in a real bed, with space lie down properly, instead of curled into that rutting wooden box.
His body and mind felt settled, comfortable, and it wasn’t just because he was finally well-rested. For the first time in over a month, Rowan had slept without a single nightmare.
There were no screams on his lips, no haunting images behind his lids, sweat on his limbs, bile in his throat. Nothing.
Rowan almost felt tears bud in the corners of his eyes, the relief was so intense. He wouldn’t ever let Aelin get away from him again. So long as she wanted him, so long as she needed him, he would be there.
Rowan listened as another set of feet entered the kitchen. There was a moment of silence as the two demi-Fae regarded each other, a moment where Rowan prepared to intercede if necessary. But then he heard Aedion say, softly, “There are mushrooms somewhere.”
“Good,” Aelin said, only the slightest edge to her voice, “Then you can clean and cut them. And you get to chop the onion.”
“Is that punishment for last night?”
A sound like cracking eggs, then, “If that’s what you think is an acceptable punishment, sure.”
Aedion’s voice seemed somewhat cheerier. “And is making breakfast at this ungodly hour your self-imposed punishment?”
“I’m making breakfast because I’m sick of you burning it and making the whole house smell.”
Aedion laughed quietly, then shuffled forwards, the sounds of a knife on a cutting board starting from the other side of the wall.
“You stayed on the roof the whole time you were out, didn’t you?” Rowan could hear the smile in Aelin’s voice, and he felt his lips twitch in response.
Pots clattered, and butter began to sizzle. “You kicked me out of the apartment, but not the warehouse, so I figured I might as well make myself useful and take watch.”
Rowan found himself nodding with approval. The male had crossed the line, but at least he had made himself somewhat useful. But remembering what he had said to Aelin last night…it was enough to make his hackles rise.
Rowan forced himself back to calm as Aelin said, “We both have atrocious tempers. You know I didn’t mean what I said, about the loyalty thing. Or about the half-human thing. You know none of that matters to me.”
It was definitely the best apology he was going to get. And far more than he deserved.
A short hesitation, then, “Aelin, I’m ashamed of what I said to you.”
“Well, that makes two of us, so let’s leave it at that.” There was a moment when all Rowan could hear was the scrape of a metal whisk in a glass bowl, then, “I - I understand, Aedion, I really do, about the blood oath. I knew what it meant to you. I made a mistake not telling you. I don’t normally admit to that kind of thing, but…I should have told you. And I’m sorry.”
Another tension-filled silence. Aedion was holding a knife…
Rowan kept himself very still, until finally, “That oath meant everything to me. Ren and I used to be at each other’s throats because of it when we were children. His father hated me because I was the one favored to take it.”
A pause was filled with more sizzling from the pan, now with what Rowan was pretty sure were fresh green onions. “There’s nothing that says you can’t take the oath, you know, Maeve has several blood-sworn members in her court.” Aelin said. “You can take it, and so can Ren – only if you want to, but…I won’t be upset if you don’t want to.”
“In Terrasen, there was only one.”
“Things change. New traditions for a new court. You can swear it right now if you wish.”
Against his will, Rowan felt his teeth grit together. This pause felt even longer than the others.
“Not now. Not until I see you crowned. Not until we can be in front of a crowd, in front of the world.”
Rowan couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved. He couldn’t begrudge Aedion the blood-oath, but still. He wanted Aelin to himself, for just a little bit longer.
Aelin dumped the mushrooms in the pan. “You’re even more dramatic than I am.”
Aedion snorted. “Hurry up with the eggs. I’m going to die of starvation.”
“Make the bacon, or you don’t get to eat any.”
Then the two cousins started to laugh, and this time, Rowan really couldn’t help the smile that sprang to his face. Their laugh was one of such old friendship, Rowan knew that he was no one to get between them. Knew that these petty disagreements were nothing to the depth of their relationship. The last two children of Terrasen’s throne. The two survivors.
Rowan breathed, then turned to rise from Aelin’s queenly mattress to see about some breakfast.
···
An hour later, they were all fed and watered and were now standing in a wide clearing among the stacks of crates, the late morning sunlight slanting through the windows near the high ceiling of the warehouse.
After breakfast, Rowan had finally gotten around to fortifying the apartment. Aelin had already done a pretty good job with it, heavy locks on all the windows, two types of barrier at each entrance, a carefully disguised exit down the back stairs hidden behind the kitchen, and a first floor that, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be that of a completely abandoned warehouse. There was no indication at all of what lay above.
From the inside anyways. There were six windows on the first floor, all half-width, and four more in the apartment above. Rowan was itching to scout the vantage points from the surrounding buildings, to check what could be seen from the outside.
But after spending half an hour carefully going over every lock and seal, Aelin had dragged him down to this clearing hidden in the center of the warehouse. And Rowan couldn’t deny that he was intrigued to see how Aelin had held up her training this past month, and to find out whether the northern wolf’s bark was worse than his bite.
Rowan and Aelin started with stretches, and after a few minutes she threw him a sparring stick and they started their routine warm up from those misty mornings in Wendlyn’s mountains, falling back into a pattern as warm and familiar as waking up in a bed suffused in her scent.
Sparring with Aelin was glorious. Even with the time spent holed up on the ocean, her movements were fluid and luscious and deadly. She flew between poses, the sparring stick a deadly extension of her arm.
Watching her move, their eyes locked together – it made him want to knock that sparring stick aside, shove her into a wall and peel off that tight black suit –
Rowan breathed deep, his eyes flickering shut for second. And the momentary distraction allowed Aelin to get behind his guard and rap him on the chest hard, her eyes glinting.
Rowan growled at her.
Aelin had always been a formidable swordsman – even during that time after he’d collected her from Varese, when she was drunk and dirty and so, so broken. However, she was now stuck in her human form.
So after a few minutes of easy sparring, Rowan executed a series of cuts and slashes that pushed her back into a defensive position, then when she was distracted finding her feet, Rowan knocked the stick out of her hands.
Aelin smiled wickedly at him, her eyes promising revenge as she turned to collect her sparring stick. Before she could unleash any of it on him, Rowan turned back towards her cousin, and after assessing his balance, strength and agility, began instructing him in a few complex maneuvers.
The male was tired, and clearly distracted by all that had been unveiled over the past few hours. And he was also in pain. He hid his grimaces as best he could, but every time a movement stretched his left side, his teeth would grit. And no matter how careful he was trying to be, his movements off his left side were slow and strained.
Rowan hid his exasperation best he could, even if he knew that Aelin had noticed the exact same details from across the clearing, and was not pleased with her cousin’s pigheadedness.
After half an hour with Aedion, Aelin stalked over from where she had been exercising and said, “I think that’s enough for today.”
Aedion stiffened, ready to make a rebuttal. Rowan held in his growl, his eyes flicking between the two cousins.
A moment passed in silence, then Aedion’s eyes narrowed, then turned back to Rowan. “I heard a story,” the young wolf drawled, “that you killed an enemy warlord using a table.”
Aelin spoke before he could, “Please,” she scoffed, “Who the hell told you that?”
“Quinn – your uncle’s Captain of the Guard. He was an admirer of Prince Rowan’s. He knew all the stories.”
Aelin’s eyes slid to meet Rowan’s, and he smirked at her, bracing the sparring stick on the floor. Her lips twitched, her eyes twinkling with surprise. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “What – you squashed him to death like a pressed grape?”
Rowan choked. “No, I didn’t squash him like a grape.” He shot her a smile. “I ripped the leg off the table and impaled him with it.”
“Clean through the chest and into the stone wall,” Aedion said.
“Well,” said Aelin, snorting, “I’ll give you points for resourcefulness, at least.”
Aedion rolled his neck. “Let’s get back to it.”
Aelin’s lips pursed, and she shot Rowan a look that said, Don’t you dare kill my cousin. Call it off.
However, Aedion wasn’t so slow-witted to miss the look that passed between them. The general’s jaw tightened even as his fingers tensed around the sparring stick. “I’m fine.”
“A week ago,” Aelin said, “you had one foot in the Afterworld. Your wound is still healing. We’re done for today, and you’re not coming out.”
“I know my limits, and I say I’m fine.” The demi-Fae’s words were tight, terse. Rowan found his lips spreading into a slow, sly grin. Aedion met his eyes, his brow tightening.
If he wanted to play, Rowan would play. The cub needed to be taught a lesson.
Aelin groaned, but kept her distance. Rowan found that he was grateful – if she intervened this time, it would take even longer for this to be resolved, and then who knows when it would finally be settled.
Rowan had nearly a full second’s warning before Aedion attacked, a simple feint to the right and swing low. Rowan dodged efficiently, deflecting and positioning to the offensive. Off-balance, Aedion swung his stick upwards on instinct, deflecting Rowan’s blow. Rowan let the young wolf hit the next blow, his lips tugging upwards almost against his will. This would be even easier than he had expected.
Rowan made to sweep Aedion’s legs out, but the wolf twisted out of the way just in time, stamping hard enough on Rowan’s stick to snap it in two and simultaneously making to swing his stick right into Rowan’s face.
Rowan ducked, grabbing the two halves of the stick in his fists and going low, swinging at the general’s legs. Aedion didn’t see the move coming, and had no time to react before he was flat on his back, gasping for breath and tears winking in the corners of his eyes as pain arced through the partially-healed wound in his side.
Rowan was already in place, one half of the stick pressed into the male’s throat, the other in his abdomen, a snarl echoing in his throat.
Aedion was just blinking beneath him, astounded. Rowan made sure his words were quiet enough that Aelin, with her human ears, couldn’t hear him. “Your queen gave you an order to stop – for your own good. Because she needs you healthy, and because it pains her to see you injured. Do not ignore her command next time.”
The muscles in Aedion’s jaw flickered, eyes blank.
Rowan’s eyes narrowed, fury licking at his bones. He pushed the sticks in a little bit harder. “And,” he added, “if you ever speak to her again the way you did last night, I’ll rip out your tongue and shove it down your throat. Understand?”
The general’s jaw seemed to relax slightly, the anger fading from his eyes. His words were hardly more than a breath, “Understood, Prince.”
Rowan stood and backed away, then whirled around as a bright, “Hello!” sounded from the doors to the warehouse.
A beautiful woman with piercing green eyes and flowing black hair was striding into the warehouse, her steps controlled and powerful, but not in the way of the warrior. More in the way of the wildcat.
This must be Lysandra.
Rowan relaxed slightly. Lysandra shut the rolling door behind her, boxes and bags in her arms. She moved like a cat too – soft and silent on the cobbles. No wonder Aelin was using her to spy on Arobynn for them.
She took two steps into the warehouse, then stopped in her tracks, her eyes meeting Rowan’s. Before they could do any more than look at each other, Aelin had stepped around him and was grabbing bags from Lysandra’s arms and steering her into to the apartment above.
Within half a minute they were both gone, the door behind them shutting with a soft click. Rowan turned back to Aedion, who was easing himself up from his sprawled position on the ground.
“Is that Lysandra?” Rowan asked.
“Not too bad on the eyes, is she?” The wolf’s eyes flashed.
Rowan snorted. “Why is she here?”
Aedion began prodding his side, checking to see if the stitches were still intact. “She probably has information about Arobynn.”
Rowan held in a grimace, shutting out the name of that bastard assassin to keep it from distracting him too much. “Yet she doesn’t want you to hear it?”
“I think she finds everyone but Aelin boring,” Aedion said, an edge in his voice. “Biggest disappointment of my life.”
But Rowan didn’t care about this arrogant male and his conquests. For the first time in a long time, she had found someone. Not a warrior, not a cousin. Someone she could keep for herself. He smiled, just a bit. “I’m glad she found a female friend.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aedion’s brow furrow, wondering at the change. Rowan let the softness fall from his face, turning his gaze back to the prince. “Aelin’s court will be a new one, different from any other in the world, where the Old Ways are honored again. You’re going to learn them. And I’m going to teach you.”
This was why he was here, he reminded himself. To form the foundation of her court. To make sure it would be strong.
“I know the Old Ways.” Aedion scoffed.
“You’re going to learn them again.”
The general pulled himself off the ground, his shoulders set back as his expression steeled. “I’m the general of the Bane, and a prince of both Ashryver and Galathynius houses. I’m not some untrained foot soldier.”
Rowan gave a sharp nod, a concession. This was a prince – he could not forget. “My cadre, as Aelin likes to call them, was a lethal unit because we stuck together and abided by the same code. Maeve might be a sadist, but she ensured that we all understood and followed it. Aelin would never force us into anything, and our code will be different – better – than Maeve’s. You and I are going to form the backbone of this court. We will shape and decide our own code.”
“What? Obedience and blind loyalty?” Aedion wasn’t taking the olive branch, but Rowan wouldn’t let the sharpness in his tone get to him, not when he was so close.
He felt the weight of his words as he said, “To protect and serve.”
“Aelin?”
Rowan met Aedion’s eyes, and the wolf’s did not quaver. “Aelin. And each other. And Terrasen.”
Aedion held his gaze for another moment before looking away, but Rowan knew that the young demi-Fae understood. That Aedion knew that what they were daring was something that no one had dared for a very long time. If ever. And that their success would require more than just strength or bravery or strategy.
That this precious, fleeting thing could be stronger than iron, than rock, than the very mountains thrust up from the depths of the earth.
But only if they forged it together.
···
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