Chapter 20 #2
A reclamation.
His mouth claims mine, swallowing my moans whole, as his hands fist in my hair and pin down my waist.
“You are not a failure, Elodie,” he hisses, his breath hot and ragged against my ear as he hooks my knees higher.
“You’re the only thing in this godforsaken kingdom that’s actually alive. And you’re mine. Do you hear me? Mine.”
I come apart once more, pleasure exploding in my core. My moan echoes through the glasshouse, the sound tearing out of me in an unhinged scream.
A second of euphoria that feels like a lifetime.
At the sound of my voice, the last of his iron-clad restraint evaporates.
His fingers dig into the soft earth of the bags beside my head as his body shudders.
He lets out a low, broken sound — a choked, breathless gasp of my name that sounds like a surrender.
He drives into me one last time, a deep thrust that causes him to go completely rigid.
The sound of his moans is my final undoing.
He slumps forward, his forehead resting on mine as we cling to each other.
Wrapping his arms around me with a desperate strength, as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, the world will rush back in and tear us apart.
For a long time, the only sound filling this glass dome is the rain pattering against the glass panes and the synchronised thuds of our hearts.
“I’ve never made that sound before…” I start, my voice a thin rasp. Rowan doesn’t move for a long moment. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are raw and vulnerable. No longer the high warden. He looks like a man who has finally taken what he wanted.
“Good,” he whispers, his voice rough. He brushes away a smudge of soil on my cheek.
“Because I don’t think I could survive you making that sound for anyone else.
” Time slows as we lay there beside each other.
The world, the kingdom, dying seeds, failures — it all vanishes.
There is only the roar of the storm outside, the scent of wet earth, and the staggering, heavy reality of just how thoroughly we have dismantled each other.
The air in the glasshouse is humid. Damp earth now mingled with the musk of salt and skin. The storm outside slowly settles into a steady, rhythmic drumming against the glass.
Peaceful.
It feels like we are in our own little bubble.
I’m tucked atop a makeshift nest of burlap sacks and discarded cloaks, my head resting on the muscle of his shoulder.
Rowan’s arm is a solid weight across my waist, his fingers tracing aimless, possessive patterns against my bare hip.
I watch a single droplet of rain spill down the glass pane.
“You are awfully quiet, Warden.” I whisper softly.
“Are you mentally checking those manuals for ‘Aftercare and Recovery’?” I feel the vibration of a low, dry chuckle in his chest.
“There isn’t a chapter on you, Elodie,” he utters, “and if there were, I’d have it turned to dust by now. I don’t want anyone else knowing how to have you.”
“You are very self-assured.”
“No, I just don’t like to share things that are mine.”
I shove at him playfully, sitting up to assess the damage to the glasshouse.
“You really did a number on this place, Hawthorne.” He grabs my clothes from the side, setting them in front of me as he stands and pulls his pants on.
He reaches past me and lifts an overturned pot, setting it back on the bench as if the glasshouse wasn’t just my personal smash room hours before.
Rowan clears his throat, looking over at me.
“You should rest, Elodie.” Reality comes crashing down in an instant, the warm air of the glasshouse once again suffocating.
“I can’t, Rowan,” I say to him. “I need to keep trying, I’ve got one more attempt. I plan to try out a few different things. You don’t need to stay. You need rest too.”
“Nice try, but I don’t think so, Hawthorne.
” He pulls on his cloak, heading for the door.
“I’ll be back shortly with coffee and food.
The kitchen should be open about now.” He doesn’t wait for my protest, just slips out into the grey, early morning light, leaving me alone with the massive task of cleaning up my mess.
The glasshouse feels unnervingly quiet without the low vibration of his voice.
My gaze catches on the pile of cloaks on the floor.
My fingers trace the line of my collarbone.
Feeling the phantom pressure of his lips where he had placed desperate kisses along the sharp bone. My skin still feels electrified, sensitive still under my clothes.
Rowan had done what he said he would.
He ruined me for anyone else.
He had claimed every inch of me, and I’m not sure it’s something I could ever forget.
My legs still feel slightly unsteady, my body aching with pure ecstasy.
Sweeping away the last broken pot, I hear the faint sound of footsteps behind me.
I blush at the mere sight of him, as he gives me a knowing grin.
Setting the food down onto the workbench, the smell of fresh pastries and fruit warming me like a physical hug.
For a second, he says nothing and just watches me, as if checking for any fragility he’d seen earlier.
He hands me a mug of coffee as I reach to grab it instantly.
He leans down, pressing a slow, firm kiss to the centre of my forehead.
“Eat,” he says, sitting himself down at the bench and tucking into the array of breakfast foods.
“So…” He turns to me, still chewing his food. “I was thinking, you said this Sam guy taught you a lot about plants and that sort of stuff?”
“He did, why do you ask?”
“Well, what would he tell you to do if he were here?” I think on it for a while before smiling,
“I think he would probably tell me to stop being so distracted by the High Warden and focus on the task at hand.” Rowan quirks a brow in amusement,
“Well then, I would probably disagree with him,” with a wink, he states, “Sometimes, distractions prove necessary.” I roll my eyes in jest, turning back to my food.
“He always used to say the same thing over and over. I ignored him after a while. He would go on and on about these plants. I never really took the time to listen, to be honest.” I admit, what I’d give to have him here to help me.
“What was it he always said?” Rowan asks.
“The best plants always bloom after a tragedy. I never understood what he meant, really. Or why he always used to say it.” Taking a long sip of my coffee, I cradle the mug in my hands for warmth.
“I wonder if he would still agree with that here. I mean, what kind of tragedy could hit a plant in a world without fire?” The sentence hangs there for a while, neither of us answering. A world without fire.
Fire.
“Oh my God. Rowan.” I say, placing my mug down with a slam.
“It’s fire.”
He frowns. “What do you mean? We don’t have fire here, I told you that.”
“Exactly,” I say, rising from the chair and pacing once, then stopping, my thoughts snapping into place. “You have all the elements here except fire. Earth, wind, water, but no fire.”
“Look, I don’t pretend to be an expert in these sorts of things, but I don’t see how that helps the seed,” he says carefully
“The great fire,” I press. “When was it?”
“Centuries ago,” he replies. “Long before my time,”
“And the Widowsbloom,” I say, my heart racing. “You’ve had it just as long, haven’t you?”
“As far as I know,” he says. “Why?”
I drag a hand through my hair. “Sam would always ramble on about how there were certain plants. They’d wait for all other plants to die, then they’d come to life. I honestly would barely listen to him about it. I was never interested but — Sam, you genius.”
Rowan watches me closely now. “Why would a plant wait for fire?”
“Because it doesn’t have to fight,” I say. “No competition for light, or water, or soil space. It waits for death, and then it blooms,” I say, my mind reeling.
“Rowan,” I whisper, "Its name is literally the answer I’ve been searching for. It blooms after death. Widowsbloom.” He looks at me, confusion giving way to something like awe. “There’s one problem. We don’t have fire. It’s impossible.”
“There has to be a way?”
“We have runes to prevent fire, Elodie. No one has seen a true flame in centuries.” Rowan stares at me, his breakfast forgotten. The logic was undeniable, but the implications were terrifying. To bring fire back to a land that had systematically erased it.
This wasn’t just some gardening experiment.
It would be treason.
I let out a frustrated breath.
“I know, but Rowan, I really feel like this is right.”
“I believe you,” he says simply. “And I might know someone who can help.”
“Who?”
“Bryn.”
The ride to Mara’s is a complete blur. Between me asking questions and Rowan telling me what he knows of ‘the great fire’, somehow we end up outside the cottage. The chimney emits a single whisper of smoke.
They’re awake.
I jump off the horse, Rowan’s hand finding my waist, even though I’m perfectly capable of getting off myself now.
“This won’t go down well with Mara, I’ll do the talking,” he says, but before I can ask what he means by that, Mara is standing at the door, a shawl wrapped round her body with a steaming mug in hand.
We walk towards her, Rowan’s hand finding the small of my back as we approach the door.
She looks at Rowan’s hand and then meets my eyes with a knowing smile.
Whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t voice it.
Instead, stepping aside to let us enter the warmth of her home.
“I don’t think I’ve had this many visits from you since you were a boy in training, Rowan,” Mara says, entering the kitchen behind us.
“Well, whilst I’d love to tell you it’s because we just can’t resist your breakfast loaf, it’s unfortunately something you will not like,” Rowan says, taking a seat at the table.
I follow his lead, taking the seat next to him.
I’m not sure about anything he’s about to ask. This is not my place to intervene.
“Go on.” Mara says, resting her arm on the chair. “We need Bryn.” Rowan mutters carefully.
“No!” Mara shouts. “I know what you’re going to say, Rowan. I will not have you bringing that into this house,” she says.
“Mara, if there were another option, you know I wouldn’t be asking this. I know the risk.”
“She’s my daughter, Rowan.” Before he can argue any further, Bryn’s footsteps sound behind us as she slowly enters, her hair loose and eyes wide with a shimmering intensity.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her eyes finding mine. Mara and Rowan are locked in a stare-down, waiting for the other to speak. Rowan speaks first.
“We may have found the way to get the Widowsbloom to grow,” he says to the room. “It needs fire.”
“Absolutely not!” Mara shouts, her voice firmer than I’ve ever heard from her. “You know the law. It would be a death sentence to revoke that rune. The Aethelguard has been in place for centuries — why would you even speak of overturning such power?”
“Mara, if it works, I can bring Kael back. The kingdom would no longer be cut off. It would save everything,” he says. Mara’s mouth clamps shut at the sound of Kael’s name.
“I can do it,” Bryn speaks up, stepping beside her mother.
“Bryn—” Mara cuts in, but Bryn shakes her head, cutting her off.
“I can do it, Mother,” she says, softer now, her voice steady. “I’ve read all the texts, every teaching that Masen brought me. I know how to untie a seal.”
“You know what this will ask of you?” Rowan turns to her, his voice serious. She nods her head. “Bryn, every spell takes. To undo a binding this old — what will this take from you?” he asks her.
“It will take what is fair. That is the way of the Runes,” she answers, her eyes looking away.
“Fair?” Mara’s jagged voice whispers. “The Runes don’t know the meaning of the word.
I have spent every night since Kael left, praying for his return, bartering with every god who would listen just to see his face again,” she chokes out.
“But I will not trade one child’s life for the others’ return.
I cannot gamble the only daughter I have left on the slim hope of saving the son I’ve lost. If this goes wrong, I lose everything,” she says.
“Mother, if we do nothing, we lose everything anyway. The kingdom will die without a ruler who can survive. Wouldn’t you rather know you tried to fight? What would Father want us to do?” I’ve heard no one mention their father.
It’s something that has crossed my mind.
But as someone who lost both parents, I know all too well the discomfort that comes with talking about it, so I never asked.
Mara doesn’t respond, only letting out a silent sob and dropping against Bryn’s shoulder.
It’s not a yes, but it’s the silence of a woman who knows what must be done.
Rowan’s hand finds my thigh under the table, a firm grip that tells me exactly how he’s feeling.
“How long do we have?” Bryn asks Rowan.
“The king is taking the life of one of my men each day he has no Mourningwings,” Mara gasps at the cruelty of it.
“I’ll get to work looking for the right incantation then.” Bryn responds, heading out of the door as she speaks.
Mara's gaze lands on me.
It’s not a look of hatred, though that would be easier to stomach.
It’s a look of betrayal.
Her eyes, red-rimmed and weary. It’s a look that says she trusted me to bring back her son, and now I’m the reason she may lose them both.
Turning to Rowan now, she says,
“You make sure she makes it through this. You make sure my daughter survives this.”
“On my life, Mara.”