The moment she came home and locked eyes with the little child that was the light of her life, Arwen ran to him and pulled him into her arms tightly. She wept for a long time, and in return the little boy cried too when he saw her nana wept so much.

“Don’t cry, nana,” Tham pleaded softly, big green eyes moist and rimmed with red as he sweetly tried to wipe tears from her cheek with his little fingers.

Arwen smiled—a first genuine smile that actually reached her wet eyes ever since her captivity.

“I will not anymore,” she promised through her trembling voice, her smile bright as she gazed at her son. “Gi melin, malthen lass nín (I love you, my golden leaf).”

Thamrin had looked at her warily through his own reddened eyes, silently wondering and was a little scared that his nana had cried so much. “Gi melin, nana (I love you, mummy),” he replied nonetheless and cutely wipe his small nose with his hand.

Arwen let out a small chuckle at the way Tham attempt to speak her language. She planted a loving kiss at his forehead. A thought suddenly occurred to her, a second instinct that always came to her whenever she met Thamrin after quite a long time in his absence. “Have you eaten? Are you hungry?”

The small Illyrian boy nodded innocently as he watched his nana carefully. He saw the bruise on her cheek, but did not understand how it got there. He was too scared to ask her, somehow afraid his nana would cry again if he does. Arwen was immediately on her feet again, suddenly having a lot of energy as she did her best to find anything that she could make to feed her son.

The High Lord and the member of his court kept their promise.

He let them both live in peace, treating her just like they would to the rest of the people in Velaris.

She had dreaded the thought of trying to get back to normal life again, but relief soon washed over her the moment she realized that for some reason the people around her didn’t remember the day she was taken captive by the High Lord like some sort of criminal, let alone her being King Hybern’s Heiress. Nothing changed for her and her son, except the fact that she needed to explain to people why she now looked different; that it was a glamour she put on herself for a while ago until she was sure that she was safe.

That explanation alone is acceptable, for some people in Velaris were indeed a refugee like her. Some knew how it felt like to be hunted and not feeling safe, especially those who had a brush with her father’s kingdom.

It took a while for the people that she knew to get used to her true form. The stares didn’t bother her. She thought, eventually, it will wear off.

Although grateful for the new life given to her, Arwen never talked to any of Rhysand’s inner circle again. And if they ever met on the street or the market, they looked, but never attempt to approach her. And at those rare occasions, Arwen would always make a point to hasten whatever business she had so she could leave as quickly as possible.

Especially if Thamrin was around.

Little Thamrin didn’t remember much about his past except for the memory of the pain that he had when his wings had been clipped by his fellow Illyrian. At times she would catch him peering up the sky, watching as either of Rhysand’s family members would fly across the sky to the House of Wind. Deep down she was worried how it would be for Thamrin, growing up without the wings that should have been a part of his life. She wondered if having no wings would be like losing a limb for him, where the missing part of him would always haunt him.

Like a phantom of a missing limb. There, but not there.

“What are you looking at, ion nin (my son)?” she crouched to get to the same eye level as him, smiling, “The stars aren’t out yet.”

For indeed, the best part of Velaris wasn’t the bustling life of the daylight—it was the nighttime, when myriad of stars laid blinking throughout the dark night sky like a blanket of eternal light victorious upon an endless void.

Thamrin pointed out one small, pointed finger towards a silhouette at the sky, “They’re doing tricks in the air.”

It was the High Lady and the Illyrian general warrior. The male and female seemed like they were doing some sort of aerial trust fall. Feyre, she noticed from afar, had used her magic and made her wings disappeared mid air and was now free falling to the ground. Cassian rushed to her, caught her hand but somewhat seemed to lose his grip. Arwen gasped, a hand to her heart when the High Lady fell too close to the ground—before suddenly shot up to the sky, dark wings flapping mightily as she flew to chase and tackle the Illyrian general, who apparently had on purposely let that accident happened.

Arwen could almost imagine the brute Illyrian howling in laughter mid air.

Beside her, Thamrin giggled in amusement, finding it funny while Arwen had blanched slightly at the silly prank that the too casual Night Court members had done between themselves.

“Promise me you’ll never do that sort of thing with your friends,” Arwen said with a frown, looking concerned.

Thamrin let out that adorable little boy giggle again. “I will try, nana,” he answered with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Arwen sighed. “Not a promise, I see. But remember, we cannot afford to buy someone a new leg. Or arm, if anyone breaks theirs.”

Tham looked down as if in deep thought. “But you can heal them. Like you healed me,” he suggested cleverly.

Arwen almost replied that she had failed to save his wings, but refrained to do so and let the matter go.

“Tolo ar nín, ion (follow me, son),” she beckoned. He was quick to fall into her arms. “You need a proper bath soon.” Arwen gently lifted him, and made a noisy sound as she kissed the little boy’s nose and crinkled her nose playfully, “You stink.”

His adorable, child’s giggle was like a life-giving-balm to her soul.

Arwen still feared the darkness, and since her captivity she couldn’t afford to sleep without a light and not opening her windows. No matter how bone chilling the autumn night air might be.

Night terrors about Keir’s cold hands and lips on her skin, or Rhysand’s sharp, horrific talon clawing against her mind shield often woke her up forcefully with a fierce headache. She trembled slightly as she made her way to her small living room, reaching open a wooden cabinet across the fireplace. Her hand reached for a vial containing the dried Athelas plant.

All she needed to do was just crush it and mix it with water to give her the instant relief she needed. But Winter was approaching, and Athelas was getting harder to come by. Almost all salves and herb drinks that she sold at the market contained the plant. Athelas was unknown to the people in this Court, or age for that matter, because the knowledge of its healing properties was long forgotten along with her people.

Well, her mother’s people. She wasn’t sure what category she falls into in that matter. Especially with her father’s blood running in her veins.

She put back the Athelas into the drawer along with other herbs and roots for her medicines and retreated to lay near the dying fire of the hearth in her living room. She kept the windows open, but making sure that the door to Thamrin’s bedroom was shut to prevent the cold air from seeping in.

Placing her head on her hand, she willed herself to sleep, ignoring the pain in her head. She probably only drifted off to light sleep for a few minutes when she jolted awake, feeling eyes watching over her.

Arwen peered into the shadow, at the corner of the living room that was not lit by the candle. She focused her eyes and sighed when she realized there was no one but her. She rose to quietly peer into Thamrin’s room, watching the boy snored softly.

Nothing was amiss, but she didn’t fall asleep again that night.

***

Azriel and Rhysand had, both, at their own discretion, tried to help Arwen whenever they can. Either out of pity or guilt, both had tried to make her life a little easier without her knowing. They would buy all her herb products on some days. Even Feyre and her sister, Elain, had grown fond of the herbal tea mix that Rhys or Az would bring home.

In result, Arwen got to get home early on most days and spend more time with her son. Buy him new clothes, treats and toys. With so many people getting to know her products, she could even save in order to little by little fixing and redecorating their house.

It was still a tiny house with only two small bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen and living room. But it was clean and warm. And with Tham running around, it was home.

On some days, she wouldn’t have enough herbs needed to make her usual batch of products as Winter had made it harder to find some. So she would take a part time job helping a seamstress in her shop before picking him up at Raisa’s house, a close friend of hers.

Azriel, being a spymaster, was no doubt sparing every chance he gets to somewhat look after her. Unseen.

Everyday he would get a look at her and grew to love her each time he left her. He had seen what his stupidity had caused her: beautiful, but still gaunt face, hollow eyes would stare off to nothing whenever no one was looking. It was bittersweet to watch her smile at her son, as if the world was good and well as she speaks her endearment to the boy in that most strange, beautiful language of hers.

It was Sindarin, Azriel remembered Amren told him. It was the language of her people, from her mother’s lineage. A lost language since the moment Hybern decided to wipe her race off of the face of the earth; taking its queen as his wife. Arwen’s mother.

Azriel sometimes caught himself smiling when he saw her and her son. Lucky child, he often thought, for he had never had a childhood as beautiful as Thamrin. Never had a mother who loved as fiercely and as sincerely as Arwen did. Neither did his fellow Illyrians.

The Illyrians knew so little about love, even as children. For males, it was all about survival. For females, they meant nothing but for the daily chores they’re expected to do and to bear children. The ones who dared not follow along that line were either end up being clipped of their wings, or dead.

That old ways the Illyrians see things were still something that Rhysand and Cassian tried to work on. They tried to give the Illyrians females a chance. To learn how to fight as an equal to their males. But Azriel had always hated being an Illyrians; he wanted nothing to do with them. Not after he spent most of his childhood locked up in that dark cave by his stepmother, with only an hour allowed out for sun every week, then an hour to see his birth mother every month. He couldn’t fly, never learned until later in life despite the deep urge within him to do so.

Until he met Rhysand and Cassian. Pricks they were and still are, but they did taught him to fly and were closer to his heart than anyone he ever had. They were his family.

Despite the growing love he had for what supposedly his mate, Azriel never acted on that feelings. Never once approached her. He knew that he didn’t deserve someone like her. So loving. So beautiful. So full of light.

He was the monster who put her into that dark prison cell. The one who separated a mother from her child. The one who caused her nightmares that forced her to sleep on the cold floor of her living room by the hearth of that dying fire.

He was darkness and shadow. He didn’t deserve her. Even if she ever forgive him, he still didn’t dare touch her.

Azriel knew that watching her was self-destruction. He should just leave her alone. Do his job. Protect Velaris—protect her and her son. But he couldn’t deny the need to see her.

Just see. Make sure she and the little boy were safe.

Weeks after finding out that the intel he gathered had been false, that it had led to Arwen to throw him off his enemy scent, Azriel still couldn’t figure out anything on that case, or even verify if there was indeed a siege planned against Velaris. Not even a whisper from his shadow.

But despite the peace and the lack of conflict between the courts, Rhysand had taken extra precautions. Adding a few more layers of wards around the city, tightening his rein on the steward of the Hewn City—after Azriel decided half heartedly to not killing the bastard for putting his hands on Arwen that night.

Though it didn’t stop him from returning to Hewn City to break a few more of his bones and ordering him to not see a healer for it. Rhysand didn’t stop him.

Azriel clenched his fists at the simmering hatred from that memory. The sound of Cassian’s rumbling laughter pulled Azriel back to reality.

“Where’d you off to, Az?” he mocked, grinning like piece of shit as he watched the Shadowsinger, a fine wine that he raided earlier from Rhysand’s collection in one hand. “If you didn’t come here tonight for dinner, we would have understand. You’d be there tonight to play hide and seek with Hybern princess anyway.”

Mor kicked Cassian from under the dining table and the table jolted as Cassian jumped slightly at the hit on his shin. But his grin didn’t falter, and Azriel never wanted to strangle someone so badly before.

While the teasing in Cassian’s words was evident, Elain did not find it fit to be a joke. Especially at the way Cassian had mentioned Hybern’s name.

“You still haven’t talked to her?” she asked softly. Though Azriel didn’t appreciate anyone even asking that, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad at Elain. Not when there was no teasing nor joke in her voice. Only concern.

“No. I don’t plan to,” was his only clipped answer.

“Why not?” asked Feyre, who failed at her attempt to look only interested a little at the topic.

“Sometimes a bond between mates don’t go well. Some, I think, don’t need to be acted upon.”

Elaine’s face fell at that statement, and Azriel cursed inwardly at his own stupidity. His words had hit too close to home with her. Ignoring the slight guilt at Elain’s crestfallen face, the Shadowsinger turned to Cassian and Rhys, refusing to let anything out of his expression.

“I’ll still monitor her as per your command. And I hope to never talk about this again unless necessary,” he said rather coldly, “Thanks for dinner.”

Azriel, as if made of shadow himself, began to turn his back on them. Unbeknownst to him, Feyre made a move as if to stop him, but Rhysand shook his head, probably telling her to leave the Shadowsinger alone for the time being. As Azriel walked away, his form dematerialized into nothing but shadow before disappearing completely.

“Could you be a worse jerk than now?” glared Feyre at Cassian, who just shrugged his shoulder and took one more swig at the fine wine in his hand.

“Who knew Az turned to be as broody as Rhys when he finally realized you were his mate.”

Rhysand, for once, didn’t return the Illyrian general warrior’s remark with a sarcastic one of his own. He knew just how excruciating it was to be hopelessly in love with someone while the feeling could have been not reciprocated because of an unforgiveable action.

Feyre slid her hand against his arm, a gentle, comforting caress through their mating bond.

I see you, reminded Feyre through their bond. And I love you. Who knows, maybe someday Az can understand and see what we have for himself.

Rhysand smiled at her, violet eyes gentle and loving as he gazed at her.

To the stars who listen and the dreams that are answered, Feyre darling.

***

[Author’s Note: I don’t know about you, but that quote is such a beautiful way to d this chapter—a sweet, secret prayer for their dear friend—and hopefully is going to be answered soon. Find out in the next chapter. Or the one after that. Or the one after that one. As usual leave a comment (I’m dying to hear your opinions) and vote if you love the chapter. Love ya, preciousss! ❤️]