Welcome Home, Hero

Obsidian eyes fixed themselves on the warrior, ancient, ethereal, and devoid of emotions, except perhaps a faint glimmer of greed and satisfaction, a certainty that they had won, that they had obtained something it had sought for years, decades. (How long has she been alive? How long has he breathed? For a very long time... yes, they had both been alive for so long...)

"You've been wallowing in this grief for far too long," – again, that expression, as if she knew something no one else in this world knew, something that would end everything, that would destroy so much, and was amused by it – "fight for Doranelle, as my prince, my commander. Follow me."

'Mine.' And he knew what that meant, he knew what awaited him if he agreed. Endless wars, battles, and perhaps that was what he was looking for. Perhaps, if he followed her, he would find what he desired so deep within his being, but could not be allowed to do so. Serving the Fey Queen with a spider's smile before him would lead to death. And, if he could identify any feeling in himself besides sorrow, he would recognize how he had been waiting for this.

Rowan recalled the moment, years ago, when he had sworn a blood oath to the queen of Doranelle, walking across the bridge that led to the City of Rivers. The moment he had surrendered himself to Maeve, in the hope of death. In the hope of the one who had yet to claim him.

The stench of blood on his clothes clashed with the various aromas of the city, amidst the fey who danced and sang in the streets, celebrating nothing in particular, perhaps the grace of Mab, in the moon that shone brightly in the sky, or in the successful hunts of that month; and, although he seemed to go unnoticed, he felt the presences on the rooftops of the houses and the hidden eyes in the alleys, guarded by the darkness of the night.

The gazes that followed him all the way to the stone palace, ensuring that he would not escape his punishment, did not please the male. Everyone knew that he could never escape the hands of his queen, even if so he desired. He knew what would follow the instant his eyes met hers, seated on the throne with a smile. He knew well the theater that would take place, which would begin the moment his presence was recognized, the speeches she would proclaim, the role he had been given.

And he allowed it to happen as he knelt and gave his greetings to the female before him. And that it continued as he heard her voice utter his name.

"Rowan. It seems you have returned from the battlefield victorious once more, as reported by Gavriel." Maeve said. "I happened to have heard quite interesting stories about the kingdom that was massacred this time. What did you think of the inhabitants of the Eastern continent? Are they truly barbarians as is said? I was told that it is their tradition to hang the corpses of their enemies in the conquered cities. I can only imagine their reactions upon seeing their men suffer of the same fate."

The violet eyes sparkled, and he disconnected from Maeve's monologue. It was common to go out on campaigns under the name of Doranelle, punishing fey who caused problems or confronting kingdoms that possessed something the queen desired; be it information, knowledge, or material objects. And, whenever he ended up doing that, this reenactment happened.

He could feel the presence of the twins in the shadows behind him, both in the form of wolves, awaiting orders. This time it would be them, then. They could go unnoticed by any other, but not Rowan. He had trained the males by his side, after all.

"...right? Don't you agree?"

The female's voice brought him back to himself. The warrior remained silent, despite the question posed.

"I'll take your silence as a 'yes,' then. As always, I must say I'm impressed. Knowing what would happen, you still spared the life of a child. Why do that, knowing the consequences?"

Again, the image of the human girl crossed his mind. The green eyes – his eyes – and the wavy hair, her smile... like Lyria's. The smile he would never see again. Without realizing, he was already on the ground, knees pressed together, and he didn't need to look to recognize the twins, his companions holding him.

His mind wasn't there. It was in the past, as it had been in the past few years. In the small hands that could have belonged to his daughter... and in the cold, thin hands, with proeminent bones and pale skin. So pale... no, it shouldn't be like that; it shouldn't be like that. Because...

"Fenrys, Connall."

A voice in the distance, followed by a familiar dragging sound.

But that didn't matter at the moment. Her hands, why were they like that? He would take care of all the work if she asked him. She didn't need to hurt herself. He would do everything, and she wouldn't have to do anything, and he would destroy anyone who thought otherwise, because she shouldn't get hurt, and those hands shouldn't be so cold, but he would warm them for her, he...

A snap and a sudden pain in his back cleared his head. 

'Ah...'

'She's dead.'

Another snap, and the fabric of his shirt had already given way to the iron tip of the whip.

That's why her hands were so cold. He remembered.

'She's dead.'

Quick slashs so that Rowan wouldn't have a chance to recover.

'She's dead.'

'She's dead, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead...'

And it was his fault.

Another snap, and he remembered the reason for the punishment. The little girl who looked so much like the two of them, who could be their daughter...

But she wasn't, because the baby died before it was even born.

It was killed by his arrogance.

He failed to protect them.

The blood dripped on the stone floor, coloring the gray palace.

"It's your fault. You failed so deeply with them, and you can't blame anyone but yourself."

And for minutes, or hours, he accepted his punishment willingly. Every slash of the wip.

And again, and again, and again and again.

Again, again, again and again. 

He heard the voices of the woman and the child who hadn't even breathed in this world, whispering in his ears. 

"Traitor."

He knew.

It was what he deserved.

After what seemed like ages, the lashes stopped.

Rowan wanted to ask them to continue, beg, but no longer had the strength to speak. He looked up, blinking to wipe away the tears he hadn't realized had fallen, and observed the shadowy queen who smiled at him. It was an honor to serve her.

"You're dismissed. Go."

"Yes, Your Majesty." It was no more than a murmur, but he was sure it had been heard.

For today, it was over.

At least for today.

He dragged himself, almost stumbling, out of the throne room.

"Rowan."

The male fey stopped, two steps away from the large wooden door that gave access to the chamber and turned.

"Your Majesty?"

Framed by bright red lips and sinister eyes, Maeve opened another one of her spider smiles.

"Welcome home, My Hero."