Chapter 82
Arwen's hand moved loosely around the smooth parchment, listening intently to the soft scratching of her pencil against it. Honeyed light blanketed the small sunroom, stretching in from the three windows that made the walls of the alcove to her small chaise that gave her a view of the garden below. Her eyes were set beyond it today though, the light lines on the page forming a rugged mountain horizon.
Arwen had come to the sunroom to forget. For the time that she belonged to nothing but the earth, she forgot the looming decision, forgot the turmoil that she forced herself to shed before entering.
But she was also trying to remember. Remember what it felt like to be aliveâtruly alive. The type of alive where simply feeling the kiss of sunlight and hearing the song of wind was a beautiful thing. Because as much as she did want to forget, Arwen needed a decision. She just hoped it would come to her.
With the scraps of her drawing done, Arwen returned to her room, tossing the new book on her bed. Sitting at her vanity, she brushed out the messy of her sleep hair since it was well near mid-sun already. Having thought nobody was at home, the gentle knock at her door took her by surprise. "Come in."
The shock weaned when it was Rhysand that appeared. He smiled at her, closing the door behind himâit had only taken three years' worth of scolding for him to have the action finally ingrained into him. Arwen's caution bubbled at his placid composure.
Wandering around her bed, he caught sight of the drawing pad and inspected it. Arwen watched him from the vanity. "You should let Feyre take you down to her studio," he said, flipping to the page before which she had left blank. "I know you don't usually paint, but who knows, maybe you'll like it."
"I don't mind painting," she said. "I just hate getting paint on me. Feels gross." He snorted at that, though she didn't catch the reason for it. "Are you here to look at my masterpieces or just check that I'm alive?"
It struck something in him as she received a quick, "Neither." A pause, then, "Both. It's good to see you drawing again." It hadn't really been a conscious choice. Arwen had just picked up the book with the intention of giving her hand something to do and those lines became what they did on their own. "How do you feel about going to the theatre tonight? Feyre wanted to get Elain out of the house. I don't think she's convinced but I thought it would be nice to have a family night out anyway."
"I don't know if I could sit through a two hour performance," she admitted. Theatres had never been of much interest to her. Arwen was sure the stories were fascinating and the actors terrific, but could never sit through one without nodding off or becoming so disassociated that she may as well have been sleeping.
A corner of Rhysand's lip reached higher. "Well if you fall asleep, nobody can judge you. We'll go for dinner too. A proper night out."
Twisting her lips, she traced the grain of her vanity's wood. "Is there a specific reason we're going?"
"As I said, Feyre wanted to get Elain out. But I thought it would be a good idea for us to spend some time together out of the house."
He was ignoring well what she knew was plaguing both their minds. Whether for his own sake or for hers, it didn't matter. Still, she couldn't help but feel this was an attempt to lure her out of a shell. If their roles were switched, Arwen certainly wouldn't be making conversation about family night whilst her brother was nearing his deathbed. "What time should I be ready by?"
He smiled. "Seven."
~
It was seven and Mor and Cassian were late. Arwen waited with Feyre as Rhysand and Azriel talked in another room. Amren had something else to attend to. And by that, Arwen guessed it was something on someone named Varian. Mor and Cassian showed up just a little past seven.
"I couldn't find my nice necklace," Mor said to an annoyed Rhysand, fingering the large pearl pendant hanging from the gold chain around her neck. "Are we winnowing or walking?"
"Winnow," Rhysand answered, with a glance in Arwen's direction.
"Actually, can we walk?" she asked, motioning to the window. "It's a nice night."
He bowed his head slightly. "Walking it is."
Since they left, Arwen presumed that her brother was right in his assumption that Elain would not be joining them. She doubted Nesta was even invited, or would accept if Feyre extended one. Arwen buried her hands in her thick, black coat, grateful for her choice of flats. She did, however, feel the cold on her feet as well as the soft dips and rises of the cobblestone road. The walk remained quiet for a while as they all fell into pace and choice of company. Arwen lingered behind by a few steps but was soon joined by Cassian. The general did not speak upon his arrival at her side and she sensed the hesitancy in him. They hadn't left in a great spot. Reaching for his hand, she slipped her fingers through his. He squeezed hers almost immediately and whatever small rift between them existed, healed over with that gesture.
They went to a restaurant that Arwen hadn't eaten in before but knew of. It was a well-to-do place, with low, golden lighting and servers in prim uniforms. Still, the other patrons were lively and soft music played from a three-person band. In the hurdle to get a seat, Arwen found herself planted between Mor and Azriel. Even the cutlery was unbelievably polished, reflecting a distorted version of her face back at her.
"Dinner is on me," said Rhysand. "So small stomachs please."
Cassian grinned up at their server. "I'll take one of everything."
"Food and drinks," added Mor, saluting with her empty glass.
Soft laughter infected the table. They each took their turn to order. When it came to Arwen, she simply shook her head, hands clasped together between her knees. "I'm not hungry."
"The lamb dish," said Rhysand. For her. He had already ordered. "Same drink as me." Azriel ordered next.
The food was placed in front of them so quickly and Arwen wasn't sure whether it was because the restaurant knew they were hosting their High Lord and Lady, or if their service was just that naturally good. She prodded at the cut of lamb, watching as the juices squeezed from it. A hunger sat in her stomach, enough to make her investigative of the meal, but a weariness kept her from anything further.
What was meant to be a scant glance around turned into a stare as she eyed the bowl of lentil soup on her left. Of course it was Azriel's meal.
Arwen tried to tear her attention away from it, but he caught her. "Would you like to try some?" he asked, voice low and soft.
She nodded. He offered her the spoon. Leaning on her elbows, she carefully spooned a mouthful of the thick liquid and brought it to her lips. It was hot enough that she winced on instinct, but found that it was a perfect temperature to devour. She let the soup slide across her tongue then down her throat. It trickled down like silk.
She went for a second spoonful.
Azriel was already reaching for her abandoned plate, placing it in front of himself and edging the bowl closer to her seat. Arwen perked. "Are you sure?"
"I think I'm actually in the mood for lamb anyway," he said, already cutting into the lean meat.
By the time that Rhysand was organising their payment, she had finished halfâenough to more than satisfy her. Azriel had finished her meal but declined when she offered him the rest of the soup. She had a feeling that he didn't really want the lamb.
Arwen went back to Cassian's side, between him and Mor as they wandered across the city to one of the nearby theatres. "What are we seeing?" she asked. Cassian opened his mouth to speak but fell short when it came to having an answer.
"Vagabonds of the Mountains," Rhysand answered from behind her, hand in hand with Feyre.
Arwen's eyes widened. "Really?" It was the one play she had lovedâa comedy and a tragedy and a romance all in one. "I thought they stopped playing that years ago." Rhysand only smiled and shrugged. A small sway came to her step and she was suddenly reminded of Cassian's observation. She did dance a little when she was happy. "It's a shame Elain couldn't make it, she probably would have liked this one," Arwen said back over her shoulder to Feyre.
Feyre arched her fair brows, lips rounding. Before her answer came, she glanced at her mate. "Oh." Back at Arwen. "Perhaps she will come another time."
Arwen nodded and looked back to the road once more. Upon reaching the theatre they were promptly escorted inside and guided to a private box with a wonderful view of the entire stage. There were two short rows of cushioned chairs. Cassian and Azriel were taking the second row, their wings obstructive to the view for anyone behind. Rhysand gestured to the seat next to him for her to take along the front. But Arwen shook her head. Nothing like the actors looking up and seeing a notable guest nodded off. So she took the middle seat of the second row, comfortably situated between the Illyrians and Mor took the remaining front row seat instead.
Leaning back into her chair, they waited for the rest of the theatre to fill. In her impatience, she kicked the back of her brother's chair. Her lips inched upwards as his head gave a slight cock. She kicked it again. He tilted his head enough so she could see his ear and the sharp plain of his cheek. Arwen kicked his chair once more, giving a short squeal when his hand snatched her ankle. Still facing forward, Rhysand wrestled to pull her off her seat, yanking her ankle under his arm.
An echo of a childhood memoryâwhen she was bored and restless sitting in the theatre for hours on end at her father's behest. Now he wasn't here to tell her off and slap her wrist.
Rhysand's laugh came when she finally slipped off the edge of the seat she had been teetering on, letting her ankle go. Settling back into her seat, grinning at an amused Cassian, she was just in time as the crowd grew quiet and the show began.
Arwen's full attention narrowed on the stage, and she was on the edge of her seat for another reason. But even that couldn't stop it. The looming heaviness came first, weighing her down, followed by the sinking sensation in her stomach. She blinked the weariness away but that only turned into her eyelids fluttering. Cold hands gripped at her consciousness, tugging her down, down, down.
Cassian's hand planted on her chest, stopping her from tipping forward off the chair. The world became a bit blurry around that time.
~
Azriel kept Arwen to his chest as her head lopped against his shoulder. He hated itâeach time he had to watch her eyes roll back. He hated this night, the false smiles under the pretence of a family night. He hated how he had to act, under Rhysand's firm command, that nothing was wrong.
He hated how frail she felt in his arms, how he knew that if his hands tightened the way his mind urged him to, her bones could break under his fingers.
He carried her to the short, dark corridor that linked the viewing box to the outer hallway, sinking down to the floor against the wall. Azriel could still make out the silhouetted heads of his family, a few peeking back at him. Keeping Arwen in his lap, he readjusted her head against his shoulder and stroked her hair. Her breathing was turning hoarse.
At least he didn't have to pretend to watch the play anymore.
Rhysand came by soon after he sat, crouching by the shadowsinger's side. Azriel restrained himself from glaring at the reaching hand that brushed threads of black hair away from Arwen's tired face. "I don't like the sound of her breathing," he muttered.
"We should have winnowed," Azriel said. Rhys pulled his lips between his teeth, telling Azriel that he knew that too. "Go, I'm watching her."
It took a few moments, but Rhysand obliged and went back to his seat, keeping a door open between their minds. Azriel rested there for what might have been half an hour, only nodding when Rhysand came by to check again and snarling when an attendant wandered too close.
He felt her rousing before violets peeked through dark lashes. Azriel watched her face animate, the way her eyes explored the situation, felt her chest press against his as she lifted herself to a straighter angle. "How do you feel?" he asked quietly.
She didn't seem to hear him, looking out beyond to wear the silhouettes of their family were. With an inaudible sigh, Arwen let her head fall back down until it rested on his shoulder. Azriel adjusted his hold to support the position, his thumb running up and down her spine, marking each of the ridges like he was memorising a route, not letting himself think of the way her breath brushed against the hollow of his throat.
Arwen remained quiet for some minutes after that, then a soft, "Az?" He hummed to acknowledge her call. She shifted. "I think I'm going to throw up."
Azriel was on his feet. He careened into the hall, making it to the washroom just in time for Arwen to throw her guts up into the toilet basin. He grappled the end of her hair, twisting it around his hand like a rope as she heaved. The off-scent of his soup wafted through the air, but mixed with something even more distinguishable. Azriel didn't have to look, but he did. As Arwen wiped her mouth and leant her head onto her arm, he saw the blood smeared on the ceramic, mingled with the vomit.
He pulled her away from it and she slumped against his front, heaving out a dry sob. He extracted a piece of cloth he always carried and wiped her mouth clean, getting a murmur of protest but she was evidently too weak to stop him. Instead, she put her energy into whispering, "Don't tell Rhys."
Azriel didn't promise anything because Rhysand was still in his head, watching the entire thing.