STOP!!!! FIRST LYRIA NOW AELIN! I CANT HANDLE THIS!

STOP!!!! FIRST LYRIA NOW AELIN! I CANT HANDLE THIS!

Rowan and Lyria

warning : meant for feels, high feels, be careful 

song you should definitely listen to while reading this : Take Me To Church - Hozier

please enjoy this heart breaking tale of Rowan and Lyria

–

Rowan smiled at his mate. His world. His everything. She was perfection incarnate and he could ask the gods for nothing more. Her eyes twitched and the smile that grew on her face when she saw Rowan, made his day just that much better,

“Rowan” Lyria smiled and she gestured him through the threshold. Her smile could light up the deepest pit of Darkness and Rowan was glad she was his.

Rowan walked through the threshold of their home. It wasn’t a house. Without her it would have been a house. With his mate, it was a home. Rowan slowly stripped himself of his blades and he sat behind his mate.

Wrapping his lean arms around her like a spell of protection brought warmth to both of their hearts. He held her chin gently and kissed her smiling. He rubbed her temple and Lyria hummed softly.

“Lyria, don’t do that” Rowan pressed his thumb to her lips. Lyria grinned and she bit the tip of Rowan’s thumb and that was all it took the Fae Prince to growl. And to blow out the candles Lyria had previously been looking at. 

—-

Rowan Whitethorn smiled as he brushed Lyria’s tawny hair. His mate was still panting and it made him growl in satisfaction. He sighed and placed one hand behind his hand and stared up at the night sky.

In between the many private rounds with his mate, they had somehow ended up outside. Lyria smiled and she kissed Rowan’s chest and pointed out the constellations. “Do you ever wonder, Ro, what it’s like not to be able to see everything differently?” Her mind was deeper than Hell and it made Rowan smile. He kissed her temple and he thought for a moment. Her questions were always hard to answer, but he liked them that way. “Through Fae eyes, you mean? I think everything would still hold colors. But it would seem a lot grayer” “I think it would look white. Peaceful but bland” Lyria smiled. She kissed Rowan slowly and ran her fingers through his silver hair. Lyria laughed as the Fae Prince growled again and rolled them over in the grass and blankets. 

“Is Gavriel still joining us for-” Lyria laughed at the look of dominance that passed over Rowan’s face. She kissed him softly and rolled over, her smooth back gracing the stars.

“I know” Lyria gave a huge sigh. She bent down and kissed Rowan again, then brushed his soft lips. “Not other male’s name on my lips when we do this” “Correct” Rowan couldnt help but smile as he took his mate under the stars. Then the rising sun. He could live his immortal life when Lyria by his side. And he would.

—

At least Rowan thought he would. Maeve called him in more and more. Lyria got more and more distant. He tried to come home every night, but some trips lasted weeks.

Like his last one. This one had taken two months. And every waking and sleeping moment he had thought of his mate. Gavriel teased him whenever he wasn’t in brooding mountain lion form. 

Lorcan was a silent brood. Vaughn and the twins were rarely around. It was torturous. His friends were his brothers. But his mate - she was everything. Rowan watched while his brothers needed every woman who gave them two looks and three shakes of their hips.

He watched as his brothers drank everything with a tang. He watched his brothers have fun. But he knew, he knew because he had one himself, that mates made it truly worth winning.

“Stop sulking” Gavriel had wrapped his arm around Rowan’s neck. Rowan turned his nose up and he shrugged him had. He sent his friend on his way and watched him disappeared with a dark skinned beauty.

Rowan had sighed and he had counted down the days until they were finally down taking down a anti-Maeve rebel group from the inside out. So when it was sunset and Rowan walked up to his threshold, he waited for his mate to hum and whisper his name.

And when she didn’t, Rowan carefully stepped through the threshold. “Lyria? Lyria?” He dropped his weapons down on the table made for them. He undid his weapons belt and dropped it on the ground. 

Silence. It was too quiet. “Lyria!” Rowan’s voice raised with worry. He walked over to before their fireplace and didn’t see his mate. He stomped around the house, screaming for her.

Rowan felt his heart and all his internal organs jump through his throat when he saw her. “Lyria…?” Rowan knelt before her. He held her chin, her too cold chin, in his large palm. “Lyria…wake up?” 

Rowan paled when he looked down. He held back a horrible sob. How had he not noticed? How had Prince Rowan Whitethorn not noticed his mate was pregnant?

—

“LYRIA” Rowan screamed. He’d been screaming since the sun had set. Since darkness over took him and his dead mate. And his dead unborn child. The horrors done to his world were too terrible to ever speak of again.

As the sun rose, Rowan picked up his mate first. He had no bile left in him to retch up as he saw his unborn child. The bastards that had done it had carved out his child and then tortured his mate.

Rowan’s arms shook as he carried Lyria around their home. He fell to his knees once he was a few meters into the forrest. His silver hair was matted with bile and blood. Lyria’s blood.

“Lyria…I’m so sorry” Rowan’s voice cracked. And he began to dig. He dug for hours and hours. Hours until he was sure this was what his mate deserved. Scratch that. Lyria deserved to be alive. To be holding their child as Rowan made sure she was okay in every sense. 

Instead he had been on Maeve’s orders, halfway across the country. This was his fault. Rowan whispered those four words as he lowered his mate into the ground. He made sure her beautiful body was wrapped in her favorite blanket. 

He bent down and kissed where her eyes were hidden under the blanket. He brushed her forehead gently and he sat there for a few minutes, praying to whatever gods he could remember to have mercy on his mate.

Then Rowan Whitethorn went back for his child. He was able to retch again and he nearly passed out at the sight. He tore a blanket into four pieces. He slowly wrapped his child and held him as if he were alive. 

Rowan brushed where his eyes should be as well. He held his child for ten minutes as he sat in Lyria’s rocking chair. “I name you Eleos. I name you after the god of forgiveness. I hope one day you and your mother will forgive me” Rowan kissed his son’s head and he got up. He went back to Lyria’s burial and he place their son on her stomach. He kissed Eleos one last time. He looked away as the wind blew and covered the hole with dirt. Rowan cut his palm and he let his blood flow.

Rowan Whitethorn struggled to his feet. He stumbled back to his house. It was no longer a home. Rowan knelt down before all he had hoped for in life. And he set it into flames. He stood on the threshold as he watched his house burn into ashes.

And then he made them blow away. They were gone, along with his heart.  —– Rowan strapped his weapons belt around him tightly. He flipped his blades as he strapped them onto his body. He shifted into a hawk and circled around the barren stretch of land. Then he loved and soared all the way to Doranelle. To Maeve. His Queen.

An hour later he knelt before Maeve and begged her to take away the pain. The beautiful Fae Queen knelt before Rowan and kissed his cheeks. “Let your pain be gone my brave warrior. And let you forget this with due time. Join me?” When Maeve held out her hand, Rowan took it. Sealing his fate. 

—

Rowan looked at his worn green eyes in the mirror. He took a shaky breath. Maeve had promised no more pain. She had promised he would forget. Rowan did not want to forget. Did not want to forget what his carelessness did.

So Rowan picked up the needle. And he dipped it in the ink. And Rowan began to tattoo his story. His story of the girl selling flowers in Doranelle. His story of his love and his mate. His story of his struggles. 

When Rowan got down to the bottom of his side, his story ended. He told it all in the ink, in the ancient language.

Rowan Whitethorn would not forget.