Claiming the Crown - rowaelin

Summary

Notes: Angst, post-EoS, pre-KoA, sorry

*****

Rowan thrummed his fingertips on the stone arm of his throne. It was a way of keeping time, but not for himself. He wanted the guards at the entrance to the throne room to know exactly how many minutes had passed, for them to be aware of every second he was forced to wait.

He had lost count when finally, Aelin entered the room, Aedion trailing behind her.

For a moment, Rowan’s eyes lit up. Aelin’s hair was braided in a crown around her head, and a small, intricate crown sat atop it. Over her forest green velvet dress she wore a golden breastplate, engraved with all the insignia that indicated the power and wealth of Terrasen, but still showing its potential to protect her in battle.

A warrior queen.

But not his warrior queen.

No, Lysandra was just particularly adept at making the same fashion choices that Aelin might. They’d known one another since they were girls, Rowan reminded himself. Of course she would know just what to do. And Lysandra, of all of them, had been raised to play anyone other than herself.

Aelin made her way to the throne, avoiding Rowan’s gaze. Instead, she took in the others, those who had come to offer support and to gawk at the returned monarch. The one who they had all hoped and prayed for, the one who would restore the kingdom, and others, to their former glory. If only they knew the real fate that their queen had been forced to meet, those months ago.

Aelin - no, Lysandra - tilted her head at Darrow, who had yet to bend the knee or even lower his own chin in deference. “Is your age causing you difficulties lately, Darrow?”

“I don’t understand,” he answered. Not even a ‘Your Majesty’. Rowan would remember that.

“Well, I can only assume that the loss of your good sense would cause you to lack basic respect.” Lysandra looked pointedly at the floor, and Darrow grimaced, bowing quickly.

Rowan wanted to laugh. To scream.

Lysandra swept past him, approached the dais, and stood next to Rowan. She turned to him, smiled. It was a tempered smile, not the kind that Aelin would give him. That one held their secrets and told him that they could laugh together about this, afterward. It wasn’t his favorite smile of Aelin’s, then one that began with a scowl and slowly cracked and morphed and turned into something that made his heart skip a beat. Nor was it the unbridled smile she gave him that first time, when they were running and training and there was nothing stopping them other than the limits of their own flesh.

Rowan smiled back, tight, quick.

Aedion stood to Aelin’s right, just behind them. Rowan could only imagine the scowl he would have plastered on. He didn’t need to pretend to be in a loving, committed relationship with a woman wearing his wife’s face, and Rowan was practically envious.

Lysandra patted Rowan’s arm. “Sorry for the delay.” Her voice was strained. Rowan glanced at Aedion, whose scowl was more pronounced than usual. So, that was the tension he felt radiating from Lysandra. Let them sort that out on their own, though. Rowan turned to face the assembly who had gathered.

Lysandra began to speak, clear, strong, the way that Aelin might have. But then, Rowan might not ever know how she would handle a situation like this. The weight of decades of this charade pressed down on him, and he had to keep himself from reaching up to grab his chest. Running from the room was not an option. Acting as if he felt anything other than adoration for the women seated next to him was not an option.

A murmur broke out in the room, and Rowan began to pay attention. He looked over at Lysandra to see that she rested a hand on her belly, smiling. Aedion turned and stormed from the room, and Rowan understood.

Lysandra looked over to Rowan, serene, pulling him close. He patted her hand perfunctorily. Lysandra rested her head on Rowan’s shoulder and he stiffened. Relaxed. Wrapped an arm around her.

If only he could run from the room, following Aedion, joining the others in their search. Rowan wanted to grab Lysandra by the arms, ask how she could dare put on that face.

A look passed between them and Rowan’s resolve was shattered. Behind Lysandra’s smile, he could see Aelin’s pain. But it wasn’t just hers. It was all of theirs. It was Aedion’s, at knowing he could never claim his child as his own. It was Elide’s, at having lost the queen her mother had died for. It was Rowan’s, for finding and then losing his mate. Lysandra just wore it better than most.

Turning back to the crowd, Rowan did his best to look loving, proud, the King of Terrasen whose queen would be by his side for a thousand years.

*****

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I hate you.