Chapter 51
Arwen explored the bed. She ran her hands over every inch of the fabric, then of the lightwood frame. Letting every part of her hand touch it, the wood and fabric soon began to feel normal, if still a little strange and disconcerting. Her toes dug underneath the blanket, letting the weight lay on her calves and then her thighs. No one disturbed her through this time. No doubt an order given by Rhysand.
Arwen sat on the edge of the bed, the arches of her feet braced on the side panelling of the bedframe. With her arms wrapped around her knees, chin planted between them, she watched the sun set over Velaris. The translucent drapes were still pulled across so she could only make out the scattered glow of the sun, but Arwen had seen it enough times to be able to imagine what was beyond at that very moment.
She looked down at her wrists, thumbing the scars left behind once the shackles faded. They were uncountable, each one from when she had tried breaking the tether now weaved together in a mess of white flesh.
Three soft taps sounded at the door. Arwen glimpsed over her shoulder but did not move or answer. She could smell him. It had was a scent she hadn't encountered in so long that it hit her nose like a punch when she smelled the lingering traces of it across her room, detailing the map of where he had sat and leant and stood during her recovering slumber.
Azriel opened the door, the hinges making a soft whine. He had lost all signs of his battle wear, having it replaced with dark slacks and a long-sleeved shirt with no collar. He held a deep bowl with tendrils of steam curling through the air from it. He looked along the floor first, then up the bed, and finally on her.
Arwen truly felt something in her heart fracture as she held the gaze of her mate for the first time in centuries. She forced herself to look away before the fracture could grow. He moved silently across the room, crossing in her line of sight which was set at the window as he placed the bowl on her nightstand.
The scent of the soup struck her nose, making it shrivel. Food had been something she came to miss, just below sleep on her list. But now she wasn't so sure about the idea of actually eating.
Azriel took three slow steps back to her other side, then lowered himself onto the bed, leaving an arm's length between them. He linked his hands between his knees and stared ahead. She did the same.
"I never really said goodbye to you," he murmured, "so it doesn't feel right to say hello."
I never left.
Even when she wanted to.
"We fed you broth while you were recovering, but I thought you might want something a bit heavier. It's still quite hot so best leave it for a while." Arwen gave a small nod of her head. Azriel let out a shaky breath. "Arwen, I'm... Not really sure what I'm supposed to say right now. But I've missed you. We all have."
If their idea of missing her meant never speaking her name, pretending that she never existed, then she might need to rectify what her idea of missing someone was. She had missed them. Had told them that, had screamed it at their faces and cried when she couldn't touch them. They had stripped down her bedroom, taken down her portrait and stored away everything that belonged to her.
"I wanted to be here when you woke but we weren't expecting it for another few days and I had to see to something... Rhys said you didn't want to be touched?" He said it like a question, the unspoken part inquiring whether her restrictions extended to him. "Are you-does it hurt? I mean, is it because of what's happened?"
Arwen simply nodded, unbothered to explain otherwise.
Azriel sighed again. "I don't know what you've been told or how much you know, but it's been a long time." He avoided the phrase of her death, though she couldn't tell whether it was for her sake or his. "Some things have changed."
Arwen went back to watching the sunset. Spots of burnt orange now littered the darkwood floor, distorting as it stretched through the glass. She already knew of Feyre, Elain and Nesta.
"You can call for me, if you need anything. Or find me." The cartilage in his throat bobbed as he glanced at her then back away. "Cassian, Mor. I don't think I need to tell you that."
When was the last time he had spoken so much without another voice to interject between? The thought amused her. Was this Azriel's version of rambling? What part of this entire situation was the part making him so uncomfortable? Was it her lack of response or the fact that she was supposed to be dead?
"I won't overstay my welcome."
She cut her gaze to him and he waited for the coming seconds. Perhaps waiting to see if she would contend him. Ask him to stay. But she looked to his wingsâthe tears on them. She hadn't seen it happen, but had been there for the aftermath. It had been his name that she screamed as he carried Elain. Risked his life for her. Let her use Truth Teller. Arwen looked back away.
Azriel pressed and thinned his lips together. Hands to his knees, he rose from the bed and left her line of sight. The clicking of the door behind her flushed relief through her veins.
The sun eventually set over Velaris and the soup on her nightstand went cold, but she hadn't felt enough hunger to venture for it. Her bones called for something else. Taking a moment to collect herself, Arwen slid from the bed and let her toes touch the hardwood floor again, then her heels. She walked across the chamber to the only other door besides the entrance, this one painted soft, creamy pink.
The washroom was decorated to be the perfect match to the bedchamber. The tub had four clawed feet and the lip of the tub curled right back around on itself. Oils and other assortments of additives lined a tiled shelf above it. Arwen passed over them all.
She turned the tap and with a slight groan in the plumbing, water spewed from the gold-plated faucet. The smallest hint of a smile touched her cheeks as she moved her hand under the flow. It was the first true warmth she had felt.
As the tub filled, Arwen hooked her thumb under the shoulder of her dress and pushed it off. It wouldn't slip off her naturally, so she pushed it all the way down, over her hips and thighs. It had never deteriorated, even after all she did in it. It was like the fabric kept stitching back together, determined to be the exact way it always had been. But now a piece of thread splintered from the hem. It had probably come loose in her wild efforts earlier.
Arwen put her toes in first, a gasp lodging in her throat. It only took seconds before she submerged completely. The water lapped in small waves around her, each one felt upon her skin. She untied her hair and let that soak too. Her hands ran down her body, feeling every crevice, every sensationâgood and bad.
There was no telling how long Arwen stayed in that bath, not when the sun had set and the room went dark, giving no indication of time. Even when she could barely see her feet through the clear water, she stayed until the water went cold. Arwen removed herself from the bath and took the white towel from the hanger. It felt something between the blanket and the carpet, so she used it only on her hair, settling for an air-dry on the rest of her body.
Bending down, she picked up the dress and headed back into the main chamber. Arwen tossed it on the back of a chair. With a flick of her hand, the overhead candle lights became alight, dousing the room in its amber hue. Still had her magic, it seemed.
This was the first time she had been naked too, in two and a half centuries. Properly at least. Stuck in that dress, every time she peeled it off, the fabric rotted in her hands to dust, then reformed back on her body. Trapped in a constant state of existence.
Arwen looked back to the dress that hung so innocently along the spine of a chair. Her nose flared with a sudden fury at the sight of it. She let the towel drop from her hands and sat on the end of her bed, revelling in her bareness.
Heavy footsteps sounded from outside the chamber some time later. His name rang in her mind, so familiar by his gait alone, before he knocked. "Sweetheart?" Cassian gave it three seconds before opening the door. "I wasâoh, fuck."
His dark form faltered in the corner of her eye before he finally decided to continue inside. Cassian moved across to the wardrobe on the same wall the bed was pushed against, only able to tell by the sound of his shuffling. Coming back into her sight, he held the material in his hand. A thick, emerald robe. Warm and meant for the winter months. He pried it open and took a half-step closer in request.
Having already drunk in her own body in the bath and now feeling the bite of the night's coolness, Arwen made no move of resistance and allowed him closer. His brows pressed together, although not quite in a frown, and braced one leg on the mattress next to her, leaning in to situate the robe over her shoulders. The sensation of the soft fabric, new and heavy, sent a small fist to her gut. She pinched the slit down the front to hold it together, willing herself to ignore her body's reaction. It clung to her still-wet skin and it was only for his sake that she kept it on. For the sake of a male who did hold to her memory for far longer than anyone else.
Rather than stay seated next to her, Cassian moved back to his feet. Scrunching his nose, he scratched the back of his head. "Do me a favour and wipe this whole thing from your memory. I'm really not in the condition to be beaten up." It figuredâthat their first true interaction came with a tease. He was right thoughâa bandage peeped from underneath his shirt when he lifted his hand, and his wings were marred with fresh wounds. "For being dead for so many years you do look damn good though."
"I had a bath."
Arwen nearly threw herself into a fit of sobs. Her first words and she chose, "I had a bath." It hurt her throat and didn't sound like what she remembered her voice to be, but she couldn't tell if her memory was wrong or if it was simply different from decades of silence.
Cassian didn't seem to know whether to be more surprised, or amused. He showed a fusion of both, though he read her lack of mirth and choked down what might have been a laugh. "It's nice to hear your voice," he chose to say, softer and kinder.
She found it hard to believe. Cassian was the last of them to cut out her existence, Mor just behind him. But he had still done so. She wasn't angry anymore. No, she had spent years living through that anger. If living was even the word to use. Existed. Existed was the word she would use.
"I'm sorry if we overwhelmed you earlier. We weren't expecting you to wake for another few days we didn't know how to..." His entire body seemed to slacken. "Prepare."
Arwen let her neck loosen, her head slightly careening closer to one shoulder. "Wasn't your fault," she said. He nodded slightly, though she noted it didn't seem to be in agreeance, but more of a reluctance to argue.
She slid from the end of the bed and strode across the chamber towards the chair. Picking up the dress, she walked back to Cassian and shoved it into his chest. "Burn it," she said.
Cassian made the mistake of looking down at her before shooting his eyes back up to the modesty of her face. She was beyond caring for it. He could look. Looking meant he saw her. He coughed and took the dress. "Burn it?" he repeated.
Arwen nodded once firmly. "Burn it."
He made a contemplative pouting of his lips. "Alright, burn the dress." Satisfied, she moved past him to return to the bed, climbing onto it. Cassian sighed as she turned herself back around to the same position as before. "Look, sweetheart, I'm really not good at... This type of thing. Never really had experience talking with the dead..." He licked his lips as the awkwardness intensified. "But I have missed you so damn much."
It seemed like it would be a common thing she would be hearing. Would they learn to come up with something different over time? The truth, maybe.
Cassian squatted by her feet. "I'm not going to pretend I understand how hard this must be for you, being tossed back into this world." She didn't bother telling him that she had been stuck in it. "But you've got me no matter what."
Arwen steeled herself against giving any response. He waited through a minute of silence before rising. Stinging grew in her eyes and she silently begged for him to leave. Fate allowed her that one thing, the door quietly clicking behind him.
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