Chapter 27
Arwen barely spared a second to use her arm and clear the sweat cascading down the side of her face before it reached her eyes. Her fists were raw, having purposefully used only half the bandage that she would normally wind around her knuckles and fingers.
That morning she had awoken with the sun and lugged her weight out of the bed. With the remnants of a nightmare still lingering in the back of her mind, she headed to her brother's room. Only, he wasn't there. Finding him was easy enough, as Rhysand made a ruckus in the kitchen putting something to eat together as the twin wraiths were sent elsewhere.
"Morning," she mumbled to him. He didn't respond. There was only a flare in his nose and a swift glimpse in her direction before he managed to get the stovetop to alight and moved into a search for their pans. He was just as terrible a mood as she was.
It wasn't until Cassian appeared no more than half an hour later that she learnt why. The letter from the Spring Court had come quicker than Azriel anticipated, and her brother received it right through the middle of his stewing fury. The fury that they let him boil in so when the letter was supposed to arrive a few days later, he'd be over it. Before Azriel had left to find her the night before, he had convinced Rhysand to not respond for a few days. Apparently, her brother tried anyway, the quill piercing right through the parchment and the ink bleeding across it.
Knowing it was best to let him deal with his thoughts alone, Arwen took Cassian's offer to join him for training at the House.
She punched his padded hands in rapid succession, eyes never leaving their target. Until she decided to take him by surprise and sent a low cut to his bare stomach. Cassian hunched a little at the blow, his brows arching. "You want a fight?" he asked, not even berating her for the jab.
Arwen stopped, then nodded. Cassian tossed the pads aside and braced his body into a fighting stance. She was certain, at that moment, that her Illyrian blood was no longer in hiding. It surged through her, seeking nothing but to punch and kick and stab and bite. Was this what the males felt every dayâthis uncontrollable need to break their bones against something? Or break something with their bones?
"You alright there, sweetheart?" he breathed out through a small chuckle. Ducking, he avoided her sharp punch aimed at his face.
"Stop talking," Arwen demanded. "I'm imagining someone else's face."
His leg swept out, catching on hers but she managed to fall into a controlled roll and return to her feet. "I think I'd rather you remember it's me with the way you're punching," he said with a slight grin. Nevertheless, he didn't say anything as they continued to spar.
Mor arrived on the rooftop near the end of Arwen's energy reservoir. She wore her own leather pants and a loose top, stretching and saying something about using a blade.
Arwen held up a shaking arm to signal the spar to end. Cassian stretched his shoulders and wiped his brow. A bruise was forming on his jaw, just by the corner of his mouth. "Get what you need?" he asked.
She nodded, too exhausted for words and looked down at her hands. There were small spots of red beginning to show through. Her hands hadn't taken that much brunt in a long time. Her fingers tremored as she reached for the binding on one hand, barely able to command herself to pinch the white fabric.
"Here." Cassian took her hand in his, gently peeling the wrap away. "I take it that wanting to fight means you don't want to talk?" The question was soft enough that Mor would not overhear from where she was stretching. Arwen continued to watch him unravel the fabric until it fell from her hand and revealed the gnarly forms of her knuckles and fingers. Bruises sprouted up and down her digits, the skin cracked over points of the bone and left open blisters that began to weep.
"I can't think of what you would want for your birthday," she said quietly as he took her other hand and repeated the process.
His lips quirked. "My birthday isn't for two months."
"Gives me plenty of time to hunt anything down that you would want."
Cassian bundled the soiled cloth and tossed it off to the side near her water bottle. "Two-hundred and seventy-seven. I think I'm starting to feel the age." Resting his hands on his hips, he leant back and opened his chest, flexing his arms. Adding a twist, the skin pulled tight at his stomach and emphasised the rigid muscle there.
Arwen huffed, smacking the back of her hand (regrettably) against his abdominals. "Stop being such a muscle-head." Her lips shot up into a tired smile at his grin. "I'll just buy you more shirts that cover it all to keep you level headed."
"Don't pretend that you don't drool when you stare."
"You're delusional. Now I see where the arrogance comes from."
"I was wondering when you'd show your face." Cassian and Arwen clipped their bantering short to glance at Mor who had her head tipped in another direction. Following the female's gaze, Arwen found Azriel wandering onto the rooftop, dressed in his fighting leathers.
He smiled at Mor.
Arwen's stomach shot through with a stab of something more painful than Cassian's fists.
Then Azriel looked towards her. Arwen looked back to Cassian. "I think I'm done for the day. Can you take me home?"
Cassian took half a step towards her, his gaze drifting from where it still lingered on the spymaster. "Yeah," he murmured. "Sure." He bent at the knees as she threw her arms around his neck, barely with the strength to hold on. With a strong flap of his wings, the rooftop grew further away. "Something happen with Azriel?"
Arwen settled her temple at the front of his shoulder, watching Velaris through the arching gap of his jaw and neck. "I don't care about him. Not anymore."
A few more beats of his wings passed before he said anything more. "He told me to come down and check on you this morning. Seemed to know you'd want my company."
"I always want your company, Cass."
The soft laughter through his chest warmed her. "That's nice to hear." She smiled as his nose nudged the hair near her temple.
He left her at the entrance of the town house, having his own work for the day already piling up. Rhysand was nowhere to be seen, which meant that he was holed up in his office. With her day free, Arwen retreated to the sunroom, her sketchbook in lap and spent hours crafting an image of Velaris from a distant memory. Though she couldn't be certain, she was sure that it came from sitting on the stairs to the House, looking over the city until sunset came and night followed. The slight citrus scent that accompanied the memory told her it was likely her brother that flew her. But it was so distant that it may only be a memory created by her imagination.
When the hour of lunch rolled around, Arwen placed the half-finished sketch aside and listened for any movement in the rest of the town house. Still nothing. Her bare feet padded softly downstairs, fingers curling around the cool silver knob to the office.
Rhysand sat hunched on his seat, his desk a host for what looked like a hundred pages of a book torn and strewn across it. She couldn't even be sure what he was currently working on. Arwen quietly moved around to his side, smoothing a hand across the back of his shoulders and leant down to his cheek to press a kiss. "Have you eaten yet?"
His shoulders lifted with a deep breath. "No," he confessed and slumped against the back of his chair.
"If you don't eat you'll never get through this. Food is for your mind as well as your body," she informed him matter-of-factly. Arwen leant forward, one hand still placed at his back, the other light scraping through the paperwork.
"I think I remember telling you the same thing once," he murmured distantly.
"And now I'm telling you." Thoughts of Azriel left. Thoughts of her nightmare left. Today it wasn't her that needed their hand held; it wasn't her that was being dragged down by the weight of their woes. "I'll make you something to eat if you organise this by the time I'm finished. If this is what your mind looks like at the moment then it's no wonder you're not getting anywhere."
Rhysand rolled his neck, a hand wiping down his face. She saw the makings of thoughts churning their way into words, then losing them. "Thank you," is what he settled on. Before she even left the office he was picking up the papers.
Arwen moved around the kitchen, cooking and slicing thin pieces of chicken then carefully layering it on some bread across two plates. Cutting an apple, she placed half the slices on either serving of lunch and then returned to the office. Fortunately, she could now see enough of the desk's wood to place the lunches down.
He groaned at the first bite. Arwen chuckled, sitting on the edge of the desk to face behind his chair where a frosted window shone with fractured daylight. "Is there anything I can help with?"
Rhysand sighed, holding the sandwich close to his mouth as he blinked towards his desk. "Nothing that needs to be on your shoulders," he said.
"Rhys," she said softly. "Just because I don't want to be titled beyond being your third doesn't mean I don't wish to help. I can take the burden of answering a few letters from Keir or the camps or looking at some contracts that merchants want reviewed."
Her father of course, never taught her any of this. What use was a female in the ruling of a court? But true to her prying nature, Arwen would be at her brother's side whenever he was at one of their homes. She would watch everything he did, point (and smudge) his writings as he learnt how to maintain a court until the day came he would take it from their father.
"It seems like you want the distraction."
Her lips tightened as her brother met her gaze. She hadn't admitted that fact to herself yet, but she may as well now that it had been announced. "It will help us both," she answered.
Rhysand regarded her answer for a moment then placed his near-finished lunch aside before picking up the top piece of parchment from the tidy pile. Arwen took it, noting the broken but familiar wax seal. Her heart sunk down and her legs tingled with lightness. From the Spring Court.
"I'm not sure what to do," he admitted. "I'm not asking you to... I don't know. But I want to know what you think."
She didn't answer, prying the two folds open. It wasn't the handwriting she expected. Her eyes jumped down to the signature, brows raising at the name. "Lucien," she hummed. "He's the Spring Court emissary now?"
"I know you liked him," he noted. She nodded in affirmation.
Lucien, speaking on behalf of the High Lord of the Spring Court, was requesting a presence with Rhysand in order to officiate any alliance or trade agreements between their courts. A very political courteous request. "How about he starts with an apology," she snorted.
Rhysand laid a warm hand on her knee. "If we do meet, I would demand one out of him in front of the entirety of Hewn City before he even thinks about talking politics. And I'd make sure he knows he is not forgiven. He never will be."
Arwen offered a tired smile and placed the letter aside. "Taking my feelings out of it, it might benefit to look at continuing our trade agreements. Our fathers had them even after the war because they knew it benefitted our people. They have the best produce and the price of flour has gone up here since we don't import it from them. Not to mention Keir has been on your back about it for months now."
He watched her carefully, the thumb of the hand on her knee tapping against the inside bone. "You think I should meet him? After what he did?" He gave a short and sharp laugh. "You must have a lot of faith in my restraint not to rip his head off."
"I thinkâ" she smiled and tapped her finger to the name on the bottom of the letterâ "that maybe it's worth inviting his emissary to visit the Court of Nightmares. You can have any discussion through him. Strictly on politics, no personal feelings need to get involved. You don't even need to acknowledge who he represents only what."
"You would be alright with me meeting with someone on his behalf?"
Arwen gave a soft, inaudible sigh and nodded her head. "You didn't burn the letter the moment you received it which means that you know the benefits of trade between our courts. Not to mention that Tamlin will be making moves with the other High Lords." Rhysand's eyes flashed with a startle at her use of the name. "You're a High Lord and in the game. Be a player. You will slip through their defences, crush their courts, and annihilate their bloodlines until only you remain as King of Prythian and eventually all the lands!"
Rhysand buried his face in his hands as he laughed. Arwen grinned, giving a few satisfied swings of her legs. "Alright," he said, nodding softly at the letter as his laughter softened. "Alright, I'll reply with the offer." He stood, placing the letter in a draw on the underside of his desk then drew her into an embrace.
Her cheek squished against the front of his shoulder as she attempted to return to gesture. "What's this for?"
A kiss was placed against her crown. "Sometimes you surprise me with how mature you are."
"I'm offended that it's not the general consensus."