Chapter Text
Rhys’ first coordinates were perfect. Picking her scent up there was easy. It was as if the mountains and winds wanted them to find her as quickly as possible.
They had heard the call of the callushorn when they landed the second winnow on the south face of a mountain. An empty camp with stew pots still sitting above flames was all they found. The elders did not dare leave the safety of their hovels, even as they promised they were only seeking to help.
Preparing for the next jump they were hit with a wave of magic that seemed to move through the mountain.
The second call of the horn happened then. Whatever candles had been lit in the homes were extinguished as the soft cries of children were hushed, promises of the “bad males” leaving soon could be heard.
The third horn one went off when they picked up her scent again–landing outside a small cabin. Stoneware filled with herbs lining the stairs, a small but abundant garden hinted at it being occupied.
Eris hissed in frustration, both the smoke and magic permeating the area was throwing them off as to exactly where the next winnow should be.
Gwyn’s scent seemed to have become the very air around them.
The cabin door cracked open and a female held a shaking crossbow at them as the hounds sniffed the steps, barking at Aelvar when they all pointed their faces in the same direction.
“Who are you?” She demanded. Her voice would have betrayed how terrified she was if Eris had not smelled her fear. Red rimmed brown eyes sunk into her clearly tired face–he picked up the scent of labor–and those eyes narrowed on him, a flicker of recognition had her lowering the heavy weapon.
Lucien braved a closer step, “My Lady, I am Lucien. This is my brother Eris, Aelvar our family gameskeeper,” Eris chuckled at his brother’s courtly behavior even at a time such as this, “We seek our kin, The Valkyrie Gwyn. Rhysand, your High Lord sent us.”
Rustling to their left produced a flushed youth running towards them–dagger at the ready. She was followed by other Illyrian youths of various sizes, some who seemed to fall out of the trees like acorns.
All armed.
Eris produced a small fire circle. Enough to keep them at bay, “Gwyn is my granddaughter. We suspect my father has taken her.” He explained, losing even more patience.
“How do I know you aren’t one of them? You all look the same–” The flushed female, obviously the leader of this kinder-gang demanded.
“You don’t. But if we were working with them, wouldn’t we know where they are?”
The female’s head cocked to the side and then she sheathed her dagger, “You may be too late.”
With a confidence that was clearly an impersonation of his Gwyn, the child crossed to the front of the small cabin. She was determined to protect those inside.
The gang of youth tightened their circle, playing their parts as a makeshift night watch. Reminding him of a tale his mother read to them about lost children living on a magic island.
They had a fearless leader too.
The girl spoke again, “She did that thing that moves you from place to place and then left to go back. I used the horn for the meeting place, they answered–the third horn you heard means they reached Lachlan’s homestead.”
“Who?” Lucien asked in a tone far nicer than he would have used, there was no time for this, “Who reached the homestead?”
“Those that live on the mountain. Gwyn has cared for them since she arrived here, the males and females that could fight,” She shrugged, “Well, they went.”
“She saved us,” The new mother said. A small bundle had replaced the weapon, “She winnowed us out of the burning cabin,” exhaustion laced the sobs that followed, the younger female, now at the top of the steps, arms around the mother and child.
Tilting her chin up, she gave them what they came for. “Lachlan’s homestead is directly below this one. One crest down. Facing north. Looking over Ramiel.” She pointed to the dark towering mass across from them.
Aelvar and the hounds winnowed out first.
Lucien followed.
“If you hurt her we will find you and kill you all.” Came a threat from a young male, spreading his wings like a beautiful fucking little peacock–Ah, Eris could not help but smile at the display.
Clearly meant more for the the attractive young female at the top of those steps than to truly frighten them.
He knew it, the young Illyrian male knew it.
“I should hope you would, Gwyn deserves nothing less than that level of wrath.” He said with a dismissive wink, he winnowed out last.
A night that should have been dark and cold had been replaced with heat and light as the Illyrians began setting up torches along the perimeter.
Though most fae had excellent vision at night, what had taken place here needed to be seen. Fully. And it could not wait till morning.
Eris circled the blackened shell of a structure that had been a home. A heat warped window bowed in reverence to a porcelain sink that still held unwashed pots and dishes, the cast iron stove’s flue buckled under the unsupported weight of the remnants of the outer wall.
The decorative tiles around the fireplace could still be admired.
Bell Heathers, a bunch in the center of one tile, a string of the unmistakable pink along the edges of the next.
The barn, visible from where he stood because the cabin was no more, was still intact.
A testament to whichever carpenter was responsible for its build if the trees downed so violently that their roots could be seen was any indication of what had happened here.
So many scents to riffle through, he thought to himself as the males he had once dismissed as mongrels dropped shackled fae into the paddock that had become a makeshift holding pen.
The aroma of death had already settled over some, the blood of others sat above it. And on top of it all was her. Whatever magic she had expelled, a scent that caused not only his magic to pulsate, but his brother’s as well.
It was answering its kin.
Eris knew he was arrogant about the gifts the Mother had bestowed upon him, starting with his face. His scenting was another. He found exactly where she had been when this all happened and from this advantage point he mapped who may have been where.
He could smell that bastard Beron. His smell lingered. There was Ulrik’s as well–he marked Autumn males known to him, a scent that reminded him of that Priestess who Tamlin was so fond of–Mother, how did they not realize what was happening?
And what had taken place that it drove his sweet girl to do this?
Running his hands over his face, his own heart needed the memory of her bouncing up and down with such happiness in her new suit–he banished the thought that Gwyn had not survived this.
“God’s spare us all.” The sound of that mechanical eye did in fact spare him, spared him from where his mind was taking him.
Lucien tapped his upper arm with the back of his hand twice to draw his attention, “Faebane shackles,” Eris followed his brother’s pointing finger.
From where they stood the shackles looked as if they had been bent backwards.
As if a mighty pair of hands freed whomever the wearer had been.
He followed Lucien, and what they had both originally dismissed as a mound of upturned roots and earth–rippled and then–moaned--moaned again as it shifted.
Lucien pulled a short sword from his hip, shooting his other arm out to protect him as the mound began to split open from a seam somewhere. Dirt and debris sliding off what was actually a huge pair of wings and two Illyrians, one male, one female were revealed to be safely held in them.
“Ina—” the small battered voice of the female wept out as the male wheezed in a voice filled with anguish, “they took them—Gwyn—Bo–”
“Water! We need WATER!” Lucien ordered. A young Illyrian male appeared with a mashk slung over his shoulder, tin cups on hooks were quickly filled and handed over as Lucien began his examination. His hands glowing warmly as he healed what he could, the two quickly taking another round of the water before speaking again.
“Take your time. We don’t want you to vomit up the water.” Lucien warned as the male shook the cup for a refill.
Coughing and clearing himself, the male got himself up on his feet. Straightening himself, and his wings before aiding the female to her feet. He pulled the female to him, holding her as she continued to gently sob.
“Can you tell us—” Lucien’s first question was left incomplete and unanswered when it sounded as if someone was tearing the sky open above them.
For Eris this was but a repeat of that fateful night on the frozen lake in Winter when Cassian and Azriel landed, saving Feyre and Lucien from his brothers. From him.
Tonight those landings were a quick succession of Cassian, Azriel and then Rhysand–Shaking the very mountain, the night sky and all the stars in it–a Trifecta of terror prepared to destroy.
Fury and rage wafting from all three.
Whatever creatures had been brave enough to return to the trees not downed, fled again as the three massive males that seemed to be made of wings, leather and weapons had their first look at the scene.
There was no more chittering, from animal or Illyrian. All stood in silence, some giving a small bow in reverence to each.
The three stood in a calm so eerie that even Lucien seemed ill at ease.
But it was those Shadows--those Shadows that Eris had never witnessed being so–so–unruly, they seemed to pour both out of and from Azriel, diving into the forest in every direction they could.
It was the Shadowsinger himself that was the first to stalk towards them. A male on the edge of a rampage, was all Eris thought as he did so.
And not for the first time in his life Eris saw that it was Rhysand as the one attempting to rein his brother in.
Cassian halted, bending over the body of a male. Another one of the dead Eris had ignored.
“Who the fuck stabbed Malcolm in the neck this violently?” Cassian asked to no one and everyone.
“Bodil,” answered the male they had found, “Rhysand, Azriel, Cassian–” he greeted each with a nod as Rhysand put his hand on his shoulder, comforting the male. “Lachlan, I am so sorry this happened—tell us what you remember,”
Eris would never have witnessed his father being so tender towards a member of their Court. Even in a time such as this one.
“When you are done, I will ask for permission to enter your mind to see it fully, if you are comfortable with that?”
Nodding, Lachlan took a deep breath, focusing all his attention on Azriel he got out, “She’s alive. I will begin there.”
Azriel released the breath he must have been holding since he landed.
“Over here!” Aelvar called from 30 or so paces past the downed tree line.
Half the hounds darted towards him, to Lucien, proud they had recovered something. Anything.
They then found one of their favorite hunts, Azriel. Circling him, but unlike when they play their game of find the Spymaster, there was no barking. No growling. No attempts to nip.
This time they sniffed and whined, pointed snouts pushing at his scarred gloved hands, Cruin–possibly the meanest of the bunch, forcing his hand onto the top of his head and Setanata making it very clear that Azriel was meant to follow them back by darting to and from, to and from.
“That's Aelvar,” Eris said as they arrived to where the male stood, pointing to another leathery ball that was wedged under a tor of smooth pale rocks.
"Someone else?" Lucien asked as he kicked at rocks to clear the way for them. And the males, too many hands Eris thought as he stepped back, jumped into action.
Cassian stabilized the rocks and Azriel, Aelvar, Lachlan and Rhysand worked as delicately as possible to remove the body.
“Careful, careful–” Lucien ordered as he prepared himself for the delivery, kneeling to clear more ground of rocks and debris, he motioned where he wanted them to place it. Patting down, “I’ve got it,” his warm glow, his gentle hands moved over the wings–torn and ragged, bent and twisted all the wrong ways.
He opened them, slowly and there was blood–so much blood pooling in them.
“No, Maisie–don’t look,” the male Lachlan was back on his feet. Once again shielding the female they found with him.
Cassian’s hand moved to Rhysand’s forearm, “I know, Cas. I know.”
Rhysand’s eyes shifted to Azriel, who had yet to speak a word. Who only took it all in. Those cold cold eyes returned, the look of desolation that had been his mask before Gwyn, it returned to where it lived for 500 years.
That look said Fae would die for this. The creature before him had the three males reacting in a way that promised many fae were going to die.
“Lucien,” Cassian fell to his own knees near his brother, “What can I do?”
“This isn’t how you go, Ina.” The command came from Rhysand, “You want Gwyn angry with her Uncle?”
“Come on, come on–” Lucien laid the Illyrian female onto her back, dried black blood caked the front of her furs and clothing. Coarse white hair sticking straight up, blood coating that as well, giving her the appearance of the red dogwood bushes found throughout Autumn.
Lucien’s hands were around her neck as if he was choking her, lighting her up as if she was a living faelight. Shadows casting themselves across her face, a death mask made of healing, “Gwyn shall not forgive me if you do not hold on–” his brother begged, every word coated in frustration, “Mother, please. This cannot stand to pass.”
“Mother, please. This cannot stand to pass.” Echoed Cassian as his massive hand brushed the hair back from the pale face of the female.
"My Lady, I beg you--" Lucien called to her again.
Two deep hazel eyes popped open.
Rhysand chuckled, a snort of relief followed, “She said she is no lady, good sir.”
“Ina!” Maisie yelled as she too kneeled in the dirt, Lucien again calling for water–Cassian gently lifting her into his arms. Walking her to where others with more aid had arrived.
The dogs followed.
Except for Cruin. He sat with Azriel. Head still under a gloved hand. Scarred fingertips gently scratching at an ear.
Aelvar stopped on his way to following Cassian and the others, his hand gently brushed Eris', “I’m going where the pack is.”
Azriel had turned, he could not tell if it was because he sensed something, was listening, wanted to give them a moment's privacy. It did not matter, he waited till they were alone, “My shadows say they traveled east from here.”
His eyes were in that direction, as if he already knew, “When they return, I am leaving. You are free to accompany me.”
“Shouldn’t we stay to hear what happened?”
Shaking his head, “No. I know what happened.”
Eris raised an eyebrow. He waited. Azriel made him wait. But for a moment.
He scratched at Cruin’s head again, “What’s this one’s name?”
“Cruin,” Eris picked up a stick, tossing it, Cruin took off after it, “He’s the meanest one. Him liking you is of no surprise.”
Azriel gave a quiet laugh. He then gave a piece of himself to Eris that he was not expecting. “Ina, she attended my own birth.” He nodded in the direction Cassian had carried the injured female.
“Ah. Perhaps that is also why Gwyn is so fond of her?”
He shook his head, “That female. What they did to her,”
The moment Eris first thought was all about their little power struggle all these years was not that after all. Azriel was hurt, “She has treated Gwyn like a daughter since their first meeting. What happened here was Gwyn reacting to what they did to her.”
He motioned to all the destruction, “What I cannot figure out is how the power that she has–did this.”
Cruin returned with the stick. Dropping it in front of Azriel. Eris again raised his eyebrow but Azriel only shrugged.
Eris would go with him. They would work together to get Gwyn back. But he wanted him to go knowing who he was saving. Eris has witnessed mates going insane, he has watched them wither away, he has seen them kill in a fit of rage. He could not, would not risk that on this mission.
Recalling what Azriel's rage, his hate, his anger, his power truly felt like, Eris said, “Her power matches your own, Azriel. That’s how mates work.”
The Shadowsinger picked the stick up. Tossed it twice as far as he did, “I know, Eris. I know.”
Hò i hò i hì o hò i
Hò i hò i hì o hì
Hò i hò i hì o hò i
We are daughters of the sea
Hò i hò i hì o hò i
Hò i hò i hì o hì
Hò i hò i hì o hò i
The streams, the rivers will carry thee
Hò i hò i hì o hò i
Hò i hò i hì o hì
Hò i hò i hì o hò i
To our true home, where he will be
Hò i hò i hì o hò i
Hò i hò i hì o hì
Hò i hò i hì o hò i
My love, my love he waits for me
She rocks us while singing. In her lap, Catrin’s hand in mine. My sister’s steady breaths, the rocking of the chair, they keep the time.
I open my eyes, looking up at her face that is so like my own now. Large eyes, freckles, a warm smile, “Hello my pure joy,” her nose crinkles as she shifts us, making us comfortable in her arms.
“Tell us about our papa again, please?” I beg as Catrin rolls her eyes. My sister pretends she is too old now, too old for these stories of love and battles. I shall never be too old. Not for this. My mother’s lap, her love, their love.
Mama rolls her eyes too, as if this is bothersome. So like Catrin. Pretending she does not glow like the moon when she speaks of him. As if it had only been one lying together the night the magic was poured back into the land.
As if he had not come to see her, stealing moments away by stealing her from this place, “If I must–but you know that the memory will be gone when I sing the song that takes it?”
My eyes burn because I want to hold on to it, I know she has told us before. She says she has. In songs, in tales, but she must take the truth. Each and every time.
“I know mama. I know.”
“They will come for you if you know.” She takes my little hand into hers, counts out my fingers. Kisses each one.
“Catrin will fight them. She is going to train as a warrior. I will be a scholar.” I poke my sister’s nose and she giggles. Mama should know that Catrin will always protect me. Always.
“That may be, that may be,” Mama sighs, “It is time to wake, Gwyn.”
“You haven’t told us yet!” Lifting myself off her, she runs her hands through my hair.
“Oh, but I have, dear girl. I have. And they have come for you. Wake up.”
“Wake up my joy.”
“Wake. Now. They have come for you.”
Her voice is fading as is the room, the chair, Catrin—Catrin–Mama! They took Catrin!
They took my Mama.
I’m alone. In nothing.
Rocking.
Rocking.
Rocking.
Into the darkness.
Another voice calls to me, I know her. My friend. I hear her, she is so so close, at the edge of the darkness—“Wake, Gwyn. Gwyn—You’ve got to open your eyes. Gods, Gwyn. They are coming.”
Gwyn wakes and smells the sea.