Sword of Ice (A Throne of Glass Fanfiction)

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Rowan Whitethorn, Prince of Nothing, was on his knees.

He has been on the same position for a day now, his whole body unperturbed by the stillness no man could ever match. But he was no man. And never will be. A body honed by blood baths and wars for over three centuries would've found it easy to remain motionless, despite the bitter cold biting on his rock skin.

But it wasn't his body that mattered so much than his mind.

He's accustomed to the natural whirl of the wind. He knew where two ends of the wind collided in a single point of contact, weaving a tornado of their own. Yet it was different now. He was in control. In contrast to his stillness, his mind weaved the wind into a flurry of grief, blowing with it the silent song of a woman.

A woman dead for more than half his lifetime.

Rowan was aware of the time. He's been subconsciously counting down to the smallest second ever since he found Lyria in their mountain cabin. Sprawled on the floor. Echoing a deafening scream for help reduced into silence. Their child, gasping for breath and a glimpse of the world he was supposed to enter during the last moments Rowan was unable to be there to save him.

A lifetime lost ages ago. But felt fresh with the scorching pain still here, even fresher now as he stared down at the gravestone carved with words that pierced sharply through his bones.

Lyria Whitethorn and Baby Whitethorn.

Beloved mate and mother.

Beloved son.

The words were simple and clear. Common and un-styled. Which made the pain even worse, sharp and focused on hitting the bull's eye of Rowan Whitethorn's unmended soul. The words screamed at him louder than his wife's plea for help. Louder than the heartbeats of his son which Rowan heard clearly even when he was on the other end of the world.

That was the cause to begin with. He had been too far in those agonizing moments. He couldn't cut the distance no matter how hard he tried.

Too far. Too late.

A cruel irony to the life that laid ahead of him. With him alone and perpetually crawling every corner of the world in darkness and grief. It was more a curse than a blessing. Over three hundred years of existence. Pale in comparison to the others before him.

The wind rushed heavy, the bitter cold now turning into ice. His body remained stilled, but his mind answered every gust with more sting and bite. Even the peak of the mountain where he was trembled, not in fear, but in understanding. It remembered. What happened here. It was the only silent witness of a cruel slaughter.

He had a story to tell. It was inked deeper than the skin on his face. But he could not speak of it. He couldn't bear the loss.

And so Rowan Whitethorn knelt, stared at the words as if they would change. As if he could drift away with the wind that would lead him to a different lifetime.

A lifetime where he didn't have to feel so broken.

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The Prince of Nothing only stood up when dusk has fallen.

There was a certain calling to the wind for reprieve. It was enough remembering Lyria and their son for over a day. Enough that he visited this same day once every year. He couldn't bear to do so often for reasons more than his grief.