Chapter 52
Arwen hadn't kept her first meal down the next day, or the second at lunch, even with much coaxing and encouragement from Cassian. They had sent Cassian both times, her responding to him meaning that he had suddenly been delegated as her caretaker. But she still couldn't stand the idea of being touched. Not by the heat of someone else's skin. She had grown too used to being without it.
She had built a fortress around her mind permanently. Rhysand's training from her childhood hadn't left her and the only time he would ever see into her mind is when she allowed it. Which, at the moment, was never.
A knock on her door barely roused her. Swathed in her soft throw rug that had come to be her favourite thing to feel, settled in the chair pushed close to the window, Arwen had no intention of leaving it to answer the door. She couldn't smell food. When the door did open, it created a small draft and her brother's scent wafted through her room. He closed it behind him.
Arwen dug her nose into the blanket and pretended to ignore the fact that she could see a shadow creeping its way out from behind the opened curtain, in a spot that a shadow should not be.
There came no greeting from Rhysand, even as he wandered deeper into her small chamber, even as he picked up the chair that remained at the modest table and pulled it next to hers. He angled it to face her rather than the view.
"I knew you would like this room," he murmured. "Your old chambers are empty if you want to move back into them. It's bigger of course, but this one always had a better view."
Arwen's rooms had been cleaned out. There was no point in moving from one room to another just for the space she didn't need. There would be no familiarity in them and the one she currently resided in did perfectly fine.
"I brought you something."
Arwen didn't turn her head, but peeked out the corner of her eye as he held something out to her. In his hand were leatherbound books. Four of themâtwo that she had read and loved before, two that she had only seen on the shelves in the town house. Reaching out of her sea of blanket, Arwen took them and pulled them into her lap. The leather was soft; easy to touch. She had missed books dearly and had often resorted to reading over the shoulders of others, but it usually only resulted in glimpses mid-story and people never stopped reading where she wanted them to.
Once his hands were empty, Rhysand kept bent forward, forearms braced along the tops of his knees, hands loosely clasped between them. He looked impeccable as always, in his neat assortment of a black tunic and trousers, polished boots rising to his knees. The High Lord he was always destined to be.
What was she destined for? Maybe she wasn't destined for anything and that is why she died before her life meant anything. And then she defied destiny by clinging to this world and now it would torment her for it. Her punishment for tethering herself, was that she was forced to stay. Unless she chose a way out. That was possible now.
"If you want different ones, or something new, let me know. I'll get anything for you."
Her nose flared with an indignant huff. It may have been a long time since they had spoken, but she did not forget the last words he said to her. What a burden she had been. Arwen wasn't stupid enough to put herself in that position again.
Tightening the curl of her legs, she forced herself to ask in something just above a whisper, "What do you want?"
"I want you to talk to me," he breathed, his tone suddenly turning to something more desperate. When she didn't respond, he continued. "Please, Arwen, I've just gotten you back."
Tracing her fingertip over the embossed leather, she said bitterly, "I'm not a lost toy. You don't get to claim my oh-so glorious return as yours."
"That's not what I'm saying," he snapped, before sucking in a breath and repeating in a calmer tone. "That's not what I'm saying at all, Arwen. But you're my sister and I want to know what you're feeling. What you're thinking. If there's something I can doâ"
"Leave." It would be best for them both. She wasn't interested in arguing with him and trying to prove a point or listening to anything he had to say. "I want you to leave."
Rhysand shook his head vehemently. "No," he said. "No, I'm not just going to walk away from you."
Fine then. Arwen buried herself into the cushioned seat, placing the books near the chair's legs and bundled her arms back underneath the blanket. She brought the material to her chin and set a hard gaze in the direction of the window, letting her mind wander. He prodded at her for a few minutes longer but she wilfully ignored his voice.
When he gave up, he bowed his head, ran his hands through his hair and rested his chin on his interlinked fingers. He looked out the window as she was. "If you want more books, the library underneath the House is quiet."
Arwen took it into consideration.
Rhysand rose from the chair but crouched in front of hers, resting a hand on the armrest. "Can you tell me what the scars on your wrists are from?" he asked. Underneath the blanket, she pulled them closer to her stomach. "I know you didn't have them before."
"I don't know," she answered, straining to keep the wince off her face from the echo of the pain that came in her memories.
He turned his palm to the ceiling. "May I have a look?"
Arwen meant to give him a firm 'No', but the word wouldn't rise from her throat to her lips. She glimpsed down at his hand and saw the ghost of her tether still linked to him. Her wrists burned as they had when she refused their pull and they left the scar of magic's cut. Arwen squirmed on her seat and Rhysand took his hand away.
"Would you let Cassian have a look?" he asked quietly. "Azriel or Mor?"
"They're scars, not wounds. They don't need looking at."
"Not medically," he reasoned, ignoring her biting tone. "But they're a sign of infliction and I would like to know what caused them. What hurt you."
Arwen rubbed at them. "I was dead, Rhysand. Nothing could hurt me." A lie. A lie that she told herself was to just end the conversation, to protect herself from having to divulge the truth. But the little piece of truth knew that it was also for his sake. So he didn't have to carry another burden of hers.
"I want to believe that," he murmured. "That nothing could have hurt you."
He left shortly after that when she refused to entertain any more conversation. Arwen took a bath, this time adding oils and lathers, relishing in how it felt to be stripped. How it washed away what had built throughout the day, both physically and in her mind. She slipped into a set of silk nightwearâher favourite fabric. They weren't her old ones, but they fit and were comfortable. With autumn's kiss in the air, something she hadn't felt in so long, she was beginning to contemplate finding something of cotton instead though.
Sunset had passed as she bathed, but the choice was still worth it. Cassian would be by soon with her evening meal. Arwen sauntered through the chamber, dusting her fingers over the furniture, trying to relearn each texture that her mind had forgotten. The vanity held numerous assortments of tools for pruning appearances. Arwen stopped at it and picked up the comb. The ends of each pike were rounded and soft, meant for gently scraping down her scalp but another image came to mind. Twisting it around, she placed the end one to her thumb and tightened her grip on it. The spike's tip dug into the pad of her thumb, pressing deep down into her flesh.
Arwen closed her eyes at the sensation of pain.
Pain had followed her since that day. But it had always been the sort of pain that was unbearable to withstandâthe one that came from inside. Unable to escape from. This pain, the one that came from something outside of her, was new. And it was bearable.
The comb clattered back to the vanity at the sound of more knocking. Arwen released a shaken breath as the door opened. They still didn't expect her to answer it. Well, she had risen from the dead and awoken less than a day ago, so perhaps it was expected that she wasn't in the mind to be running to the door each time.
It was Azriel that careened through the door. He wore something similar to the day before; comfortable house wear. But she didn't doubt he had been working endlessly with the war just behind them. He held a steaming plate.
He stood in front of the door, letting an awkward silence linger. "Cassian was caught up with work," he said to explain her sudden change of deliverer. "Mor offered to bring it but I..." He trailed off and Arwen didn't make the effort to fill the gap of returning silence. With a sigh, Azriel walked over to her nightstand and placed the plate down.
Arwen closed her eyes and swallowed the pit in her throat. "How are your wings?" she asked in a single breath. It was the first words she had spoken to him.
Azriel spun back around to her, his lips parting as he seemed to take in the fact just as she did. Then he blinked hard and realised she had asked something. "My wings?" He half-turned his head back to glance at them. "They're fine. Healing." She nodded and chewed on her cheek. No one had attempted to tell her of the war, despite the fact they did not know she already knew of it. "How are you feeling?"
Fine didn't seem the right answer. So she shrugged.
She felt like a stranger to them. Like they knew nothing about her yet she knew every detail of their lives. Things that they might not even realise about themselves. It had felt that way for a long time now, but it was being hammered back down into her like a nail into wood.
"I was hoping you might let Madja come take a look at you," he said. She stiffened. Had Rhysand put him up to this? "Thesan said that your body was fine but now that you're awake I think it would be best to have someone else make sure you're okay. You're..."
Arwen heard the word, yet he refused to say it. So she did. "Different?"
He nodded solemnly. His fist furled and unfurled at his side and shadows curled tightly to his frame. She couldn't tell if he was glad she said it rather than him, or if he would have rather she didn't know that is what they had been thinking. "Nobody blames you for it."
Ire gushed through her. "Good. It wasn't my fault that this happened." The tether... Yes, that was her own naivety, but coming back hadn't been her choice.
Azriel let out a breath. "Of course not."
Arwen turned away from him. The city remained alive, small lights making a sea of stars along the earth. Some of her favourite timesâif anything could have existed in such a stateâwere when Rhysand was down in the city. The tether allowed her to wander through the streets and sometimes she could just pretend. Pretend that nobody looked at her because they had seen her face a thousand times, pretend that she could feel the sun on her skin and that she was on a quest to find a gift. Then she would find something and be kicked back into reality at the simple fact that she could not pick it up. Or feel it.
"I don't want to," she said, answering his request. "I don't want to see Madja." There was nothing the ancient female could do for her anyway. Arwen knew exactly how she felt and what it meant. She knew the reasons and in a morbid way, she knew the cure. There were enough people poking their heads inside her chamber to examine her as it were.
"Arwen..." She meant to merely glimpse at him, but the sight before her had her eyes glued. Azriel looked down towards his feet, eyes sealed shut as he collected himself. He lifted his head and stared her straight in the eye. "Please let someone make sure you're okay."
"No."
Azriel left without another word.