107 Stories of Rowaelin

1: Vocabulary Competition

I just love Rowan. Just so much. This is about when Rowan gets shot by the witches.

"Eat this soup."

"I hate soup."

"Too bad."

"Fine."

He'd do whatever she asked. Not just because of the blood oath. But because... well. Fine, fine, because he was in love with her. No. Stop, Rowan, you god-damned son of a bitch idiot. His heart hurt whenever he thought that. No one had ever made him feel like this. Not even Lyria, though the gods knew he loved her. His mate. But what if-- NO. He wouldn't let himself think that. How could he-- 

His reverie was snapped when Aelin looked into his eyes. You OK? He kind of, well, maybe more than kind of, wanted to kiss her. You're staring. Godammit he was. He blinked a couple times.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine princess. I'm totally not shot with an arrow or anything." She grinned, and nudged him gently. Even this gentle bump sent a jolt of pain through his body. He winced. Her eyes immediately grew wide with concern. 

"Sorry! Do you need anything? Pillows, blankets, anything?"

"You're adorable when you're concerned, you know that? I'm fine."

She raised an eyebrow. He needed to learn how to do that. "The prince of the Whitethorn house knows the word adorable?"

"The 'Fire-breathing bitch-queen' doesn't know I know the word adorable?"

"Alright then. I challenge you to a vocabulary competition." Her words were stern but her hands was kind as she helped him gingerly sit up.

"Does that even exist?" he wondered aloud.

"Does now. You first." Her eyes danced. Prince, I'm gonna crush you so hard that you'll still be peeling yourself off the ground as the continents break apart.

In your dreams princess. Aloud he said, his eyes dancing with wicked humor, "The biggest word I can currently think of is my d-- "

She cut him off. "Since you've been shot and all that, I'll pretend you didn't say that."

"Fine. I'll start small. Adorable."

"Vocabulary."

"Planetarium."

"Accoutrements."

This went on for some time. It was easy for Rowan-- after all, he'd had hundreds of years to pick up new words. He knew he had her.

"Pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism."

He had her cooked.

"Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis."

"Um... What?"

"Do I win?"

You do. She smiled at him, not her challenging smile but her kind, genuine, radiant smile. The smile that was only one of the things he loved about her. But the contest had tired him out. He could feel his eyelids drooping as she bustled around, building up the fire, getting him more blankets. He was so tired. The last thing he remembered before the warm velvet of sleep claimed him was Aelin's hand in his.

My heart melted when I wrote that last sentence.