Work Text:
what died didn’t stay dead
VIOLET
"Who the fuck are you?"
Xaden's blade is at the stranger's throat before Violet even comprehends the situation. The sharp edge of one of his perpetual twin swords glistens in the glow of mage lights, but she doesn't understand what's going on, her vision slightly blurry and her balance off as she stumbles, catching herself, her eyes not adjusted to the sudden darkness.
Xaden sounds scared.
And he must be to forget himself like that, because he’s been eradicating swear words from his vocabulary for years when in the presence of their children. She clutches little Fen tighter to her, the toddler blissfully asleep through the chaos they've once again found themselves in the middle of. Her head is still spinning, the world slowly steadying under her feet.
"Tairn?" she calls anxiously, but there's no response. Panic rises, squeezing her throat like a vice. "Andarna?"
Quiet greets her – and she’s too focused inward to hear the stranger’s reply to her husband – but they don't feel gone, not the way Andarna did when the bond was broken. Just like they're out of range somehow, which is silly. They were just here, in the valley outside of Riorson House.
But this isn't Riorson House.
This is a dungeon, lit by mage lights and damp and cool. Underground, perhaps.
And there's a figure chained to the floor, his hands manacled separately, two thick chains secured to an iron ring in the stone below his feet. Broad shoulders, dark hair, definitely male.
She can’t take him in properly. Xaden has got him covered, besides, shadows rushing up to secure the man further – so they’re not cut off from their dragons, then. She’s spinning around in a blind panic to secure their backs, battle instincts kicking in, hoisting Fen onto her hip and palming a dagger.
The room is empty, besides them.
There’s only a thick, ominous door, on the other side of the chained figure, and at their backs there is a solid stone wall, so she returns her attention to the only possible threat.
But her gaze falls to Xaden instead.
Her husband looks like Malek come to life, his face dark and foreboding, promising violence. It’s been a while since she’s seen him like this, but she can’t pretend it doesn’t make her feel safe. Somehow, the knowledge that he’s on the warpath for her sake has always calmed her, whether as a venin or as a man.
The dagger isn’t needed, so she re-sheathes it and focuses on her son.
“Thank you, Amari,” Violet breathes when she takes him in.
His face is still peaceful, dark eyelashes fluttering as if he’s dreaming. Fen, unlike his father, can sleep through almost anything. None of the insomniac genes his older sister inherited.
And terror races through her.
"Asha!" Violet is panicking again, and while she clutches her sleeping toddler to her chest she can't help but search the room wildly for her eldest child, now five years old and ever running off from her mother and father.
"She's with Bodhi," Xaden bites out, his voice as tense as his frame, eyes still locked on the man. There’s a wildness to him, something that tells her he’s just as scared and out of control as she is. "Whatever happened, she wasn't with us, love. Bodhi has got her. She'll be okay."
He must deem that the stranger isn't a threat, chained as he is and with Xaden's shadows securing him, backing off slightly with a blade still raised, so he can usher Violet and Fen properly behind him. She stays close to his back on his left side, leaving his right arm free to swing the blade if needed, and though the pack on his back presses uncomfortably into her shoulder she feels it’s a small sacrifice to keep Xaden between Fen and the stranger.
“Bodhi?” the stranger echoes, and Xaden stiffens immediately.
“Keep my cousin’s name out of your mouth, you fucking impostor,” he snarls. Violet blinks, uncertain what Xaden can possibly mean. She doesn’t even know where the fuck they are, how does he already know the man in front of them is deceptive?
Of course, his inntinnsic abilities should be available to him if his shadows are, but…
“Who is he?” Violet asks, but Xaden doesn’t answer, too busy glaring at the chained man who is just watching them. She lays a hand on his arm, feels the muscles bunching under his skin. “Love, he’s not a threat right now. I presume you’ve got full access to your powers?”
She means both signets, and Xaden knows it.
“Yeah, but I can’t talk to Sgaeyl.” There’s a fine line between Xaden’s brows, of consternation, and the chained man shifts slightly, giving Violet a better glimpse of his face in the mage lights – strong, dark brows, scruffy and unkempt beard, blood streaked across one tan cheek. His eyes are as dark as his hair, and he does indeed look startlingly familiar, though she’s too wound up to care.
He seems as confused as they are, so at least he’s not likely the culprit of this strange situation – dream, hallucination, whatever it is.
“I can’t reach Tairn or Andarna either,” Violet tells Xaden quietly. “Can you reach me?”
“Yes,” Xaden answers through the bond, and he must be terribly out of control, considering he’s letting his anger and something that feels suspiciously like grief bleed through. “Though I think something must be off with my access to my second signet. He’s– if I didn’t know better, I’d think he is who he looks like. His thoughts are way too accurate. A damn good liar, lying to himself so well I can’t even pick it out.”
Violet doesn’t have time to answer before the stranger speaks, voice hoarse and rough.
“Xaden?” There’s confusion but also something like joy in the stranger’s tone. Violet startles badly, because she hasn't named Xaden – they’ve only mentioned Bodhi, whose first name the stranger clearly reacted to. “Is it really you, son?”
Son.
Violet looks. Really, really looks. Compares the grimy features of the chained man to those of her husband and her son – a virtual copy of his father – sleeping in her arms. Their similarities, their differences. Xaden is in his thirties now and more handsome each day. She can see how he might look even more like this man in a few years. The skin color, the jawline, the hair, the set of their eyes.
What in Malek’s name is going on? If he really is Xaden’s father, then he’s–
“You’re dead,” Xaden spits, and there’s acid in his tone, buried pain and anger surfacing in a maelstrom of emotion he usually wouldn’t let show. “You can’t be my father. I watched you burn.”
Does that mean they are dead too, even if she never saw a threat coming? Is this Malek’s realm, some twisted form of welcome? Violet’s heart twists at the thought, and she clutches Fen closer to her, but– wouldn’t she have had time to feel it?
Death can't be this quick and painless.
“I’m due to die tomorrow,” the man says, and Violet recognizes that note in his voice. It’s the same Xaden gets when he’s hopeless, knows he’s doomed, and yet tries his best to not show it to her, not show how afraid he is. She heard it all too many times between Xaden drawing from the earth for the first time and when she managed to cure him. “It will be an execution by dragonfire. That is how traitors die.”
“Xaden–” she starts, laying a hand on his arm, but he interrupts her and she moves closer to his side, so she can see his face when he turns towards her.
“His thoughts match his words perfectly,” Xaden says, and the confusion in his tone makes her realize that however bizarre this situation is, it might actually be real somehow. “The voice, the mannerisms, everything matches.” Out loud, he turns to the man who apparently looks exactly like his father. “Where and when are we?”
It’s a demand, cold and flat. Duke Riorson, not Xaden.
“Calldyr. The dungeons under the block of regular holding cells. July, 628 AU. What is going on, Xaden?”
And isn’t that the question?
“What do you think is going on?” Xaden shoots back, vicious and sharp. The man blinks, clearly taken aback by the vitriol, though there’s also suspicion in his eyes now.
“You two– three–”, he amends with a quick glance at their son asleep in Violet’s arms, “–just appeared out of thin air in what I assume to be the middle of the night in my cell.” Xaden steps closer to Violet, as if to hide the two of them from view. “And while I do not know your identities, you look a damn lot like my seventeen-year-old son. One I haven’t seen in weeks, and you speak of a cousin named Bodhi.”
So, that’s what the man believes to be true? That Xaden is currently seventeen somewhere, that his version of reality is true?
The short analysis of the situation just baffles Violet more, because if all parties in this cell are equally confused, how did they end up here?
“Xaden, do you think–” she hesitates. Saying it seems dangerous, but they won’t get anywhere unless they sort out what is happening. “Do you think this is real? Could it be a dreamwalker, another Sage? Or just a rider?”
The man claiming to be Xaden’s father echoes her words quietly to himself, horror etched on his face. So he recognizes the name of the venin ranks then.
“We weren’t asleep, Vi,” Xaden says, tense. “Though we know that doesn’t stop you, but the odds of another one being as powerful as you are…”
“You’re right,” she responds quietly, mind whirling from one scenario to the next. “But even if the odds are small, they’re there. Still, it could be an illusion of some kind?”
“It could be,” the chained man answers, though she aimed the question at her husband. “But I’m in enough pain to be inclined to believe this to be real.”
He is indeed bruised, the dark shadow on his jaw more than dirt, and there’s bloody gashes visible on his skin, marks of torture. He holds himself carefully, and Violet’s mind flashes inevitably to a cold, lonely cell, Varrish’s cruel face and Liam’s voice.
She draws in a lungful of air, controlling the panic.
Fen feels real in her arms, breathing and heavy and warm. Xaden’s body is solid under her touch, the stink and damp of the dungeon invading her senses. Her shirt sticks to her back with sweat, and Violet misses her dragonscale armor, and feels vulnerable in a dangerous situation without it.
“Me too,” she breathes at Xaden, waiting for his opinion. His eyes slide shut momentarily, and his onyx-and-gold eyes she loves so much meet hers. He’s torn, between somehow wanting to believe they’re standing in front of his father, and believing it all a cruel hallucination.
He doesn’t need to speak for her to know that.
“I don’t know how we can be sure. Clearly, we’re both in this, and I know you’re real, down to the marrow of my bones, but this…” She indicates with her head at their surroundings. “Ideas?”
“One,” Xaden says, and she doesn’t like the tone of his voice. “It won’t eliminate all doubt,” he warns her mentally, “but we need to decide what framework we’re going to be operating in.”
Violet nods, gives him implicit permission. He’s right. Her heart still beats fast, but she’s settling into these weird circumstances. Still, they need to get back home.
There’s a tension in Xaden’s shoulders, and he reaches out to smooth a thumb first over Violet’s cheekbone, then Fen’s tiny one. It’s like he’s looking for strength through the touches, and she’s surprised he shows the vulnerability. Still, she nuzzles into his touch when he gives it, shifts Fen so he has better access as well. Xaden’s lips pinch together before turning to face the man who may be his father.
"What were my last words to you?" Xaden sounds pained.
"That I'd get myself killed and you would never forgive me," the man answers instantly, and Violet draws in a sharp breath, her heart aching for Xaden. If that's true, she can't fathom the guilt he felt over it once Fen Riorson died. She knew their last words were in anger, but for it to be those words exactly…
Xaden deflates beside her, his tall and strong figure suddenly vulnerable.
"Dad?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse, a heartbreaking note of hope in it. She’s not seen him so raw in years, can’t remember a time when that abject, trembling note last crept into his words. It makes her want to wrap her arms around him, tell him that it’s okay to want, to wish, to dream.
“This must be a dream, but yes, Xaden. It’s me.”
Fen Riorson – for somehow, impossibly, it seems to be him – reaches for Xaden like it’s instinct to want to soothe him, but doesn’t get far as he’s restricted by the chains. Frustration blooms on the man’s face before he controls himself. She recognizes the gesture, the knee-jerk reflex to reach for Asha and Fen when they’re hurting, and her heart squeezes.
“Go to him, Xaden,” she encourages. “He’s defenseless. He’s no danger to you, even if he isn’t who he says he is. We need to figure out what’s going on, and if there’s even a chance it’s really him…”
Well, there’s things unsaid between father and son, she knows that.
Xaden glances at her quickly, and sheathes his sword in a smooth movement. He turns to her again, grips her arm gently as his large palm passes over Fen’s downy hair, the small head dwarfed by her husband's hand, and something in the way he cares for their children always makes her want to climb him and make him give her another.
“We’re alright,” she reassures him at the unspoken question, and Xaden nods resolutely, trusting her.
Then he’s striding closer to the chained man, Fen Riorson Senior – and isn’t that a strange thought, that her child’s dead grandfather may be in the same room as them – though warily.
A trembling, shackled hand reaches for Xaden again, and he meets it hesitantly with his own. The grip looks strong, and Violet sees Fen Riorson draw in a sharp breath of pain. Xaden’s shoulders tense.
“What did they do to you?”
Fen Riorson shakes his head, his smile pained. “It is of no matter. Let me look at you.”
“Dad–”
“You know very well what they did, Xaden,” Violet says, gently. They’ve both been through RSC, and Violet through much worse. Xaden as well, in different ways. And they’ve both read the reports of what happened to his father in captivity. “Let him deal with it as he will, like you let me.”
She can see that he doesn’t like the reminder of her being tortured, even years after the fact, but her husband relents.
“Let me see you, Xaden,” Fen Riorson begs. “You look– you look healthy. And so much older. But still you.”
“Thirty-two,” Xaden answers, short and terse. “And I am healthy. Content. But I had to become someone else. The seventeen year old boy in the holding cells died when he saw you burn, father.”
There’s pain and accusation hiding behind that formal way of addressing Fen Riorson. Like Xaden is trying desperately to distance himself.
“Thirty-two,” Fen sighs, and closes his eyes for a moment, tilting his head back as if giving praise to the gods. But his eyes flicker open quickly, gaze roaming over Xaden’s face like a man starved. “You live. You live that long.”
“At a great cost.”
A cost to his soul and his emotions and his heart – and so many lives, snuffed out in the battles he’s faced over the years.
“I can’t– Bodhi? Him, too?” Xaden nods once in response, and Fen lets out a disbelieving, wet laugh. “You both survive for over a decade. Oh, Xaden. Whatever this is, premonition or hallucination– Thank you.”
“For what?” Xaden tries to be apathetic, controlled, and she’s reminded of the man she first met in the Riders Quadrant, covering up every single motivation and desire behind a façade. Until it cracked, for her, and slowly for others to see when he felt safe.
“Hope .”
Violet swallows drily, looks respectfully away from the tears gathering in Fen Riorson’s eyes. It feels like they’re private, not for her. She sees in the corner of her eye that Xaden’s shoulders curve inward, as if protecting his chest and heart.
Xaden sighs, and she doesn’t really know what to make of the sound. As always, especially during the tense years at Basgiath and at war, she wants to take his pain, shoulder his burdens.
But it’s not her meeting a ghost from the past.
Fen Riorson reaches up to rub at his eyes, smearing dirt and blood even worse over his cheek. Violet aches for the man, knows what it feels like to be imprisoned and hopeless, to think no one is coming to save you.
“Maybe we’re his Liam,” she murmurs, and Xaden turns his head sharply to her.
She’s told him. It took years, before she was able to speak of seeing Liam, of his apparition guiding her through her darkest days. Speaking of her fear and her doubt, putting into words that she thought Xaden might choose his rebellion, his people, over her… Well, it felt stupid in hindsight. But without Liam, without the endless encouragement, she’s not sure she would have made it.
“It could be,” he allows. “But your Liam wasn’t very physically present, was he?”
She hums in acknowledgement, shifts her weight from one leg to another when her son grumbles in his sleep in her arms. He’s not heavy, not yet, compared to Asha at least, but…
The exchange seems to divert the elder Fen’s attention to her.
“And who are your companions, Xaden?” There’s curiosity in Fen Riorson’s gaze, finally breaking from studying his son to glancing back at Violet. “I apologize for the rudeness, it’s just…”
“An all around weird situation,” Violet finishes softly. “No matter.”
“This is my wife, Violet,” Xaden introduces. She dips her head, smiles uncertainly. Wrong-footed, because she never expected to be introduced to any of Xaden’s family – except Bodhi. Yet, she’s already faced Talia and she can face this. “And our son, Fen.”
She steps closer, cautiously, but trusts Xaden to know if the man’s intentions shift even slightly. He’s probably got his signet completely honed on his father, readinghim as easy as breathing. It’s a weird and dangerous power, that of an inntinnsic, but with her vulnerable son with them she’s just thankful for it. She’ll never jeopardize him, even if her gut tells her this is really Xaden’s father, and that the wonder in his eyes means it's likely he’d never hurt his grandson.
“After me?” he breathes shakily, and Xaden clears his throat, almost uncomfortable. She’s sure that if she’d reach out to his mind, he’d feel raw .
“After you,” Violet confirms.
“I’m not sure I ever–” Xaden hesitates, like he rarely does, “–forgave you. But I learned to understand your choices. Learned to live with them.”
Fen draws in a sharp breath, then lets it out slowly, and the pain on his face is palpable. “Xaden… I won’t say it doesn’t hurt, but I also never apologized. Never apologized for putting Tyrrendor and the future of the continent before being a father to you.”
Xaden’s face turns to Violet, like he can’t bear to look at his father, and she presses herself into his side in support, his arm wrapping around her and their son.
Fen’s tone is serious, sincere, when he continues. “I will, now. I’m sorry, son. It will never be enough, but I am.”
“No, it won’t be,” Xaden confirms. “But I can live with that. Thank you.”
The last words are stilted, slow. But he says them. For a second, she ponders if he means them, but Xaden rarely says things he doesn’t mean.
Fen sags, and Violet sees how the rush of adrenaline of their arrival is fading, how the pain and exhaustion must be taking over.
“Can we… Free him? Help him be comfortable for now?”
Her question is tentative, because Xaden is still the best at assessing security risks. He doesn’t answer, but his shadows do for him. They trickle into the locks around his father’s wrists, and the mechanisms click, shadows lowering the open cuffs to the floor.
Xaden’s father stares at the shadows with a mix of wonder and horror – like he’s never wanted this for Xaden, and yet is proud at the same time. He must have seen them earlier but been too distracted to consider the implications since then.
“I don’t know what’s going on here.” The admission must cost her husband, who is always so in control. Xaden’s shadows sweep the floor of dirt, and though it’s still grimy, he gestures to it. “But sit. No point standing while we figure it out.”
Gingerly, Xaden’s father lowers himself, and Violet does the same, keeping a bit of distance. Xaden crouches, swinging his pack off his shoulder and rifling through it. He was returning from a short diplomatic mission that required changes of clothes, and now passes a sweater to Violet that she wraps around the sleep-lax toddler in her lap. Her youngest blinks himself half-awake at the movement, sees his mother, and promptly falls back asleep, reassured.
A canteen of water and some rations get passed to the elder Fen, while Xaden efficiently tears a dark piece of clothing into strips with one of his daggers.
Gratefully, Xaden’s father eats and drinks, but his eyes stay locked on his son, occasionally straying to Violet and little Fen.
“What happened?” Violet asks the question all of them must be thinking now that they’ve settled a little into the strange situation they find themselves in. “How are we here, and now?”
And the unspoken question: how do we get home?
Xaden tilts his head, considering
“We were walking through Riorson House… it was winter break, the cadets were home for leave, Violet.” Indeed they were, the halls bustling even that late at night. “Didn’t we pass a group who actually chose the Riders Quadrant after the war, instead of being forced?”
She catches onto his line of thinking.
“Do you think someone manifested a signet and it caused this?” The thought is terrifying. There’s a reason Basgiath didn’t use to have leave during the first year, but now those rules have been abolished as too inhuman. “But why here and now? It’s not even a linear transition: winter to summer, Aretia to Calldyr?”
“But I was thinking of it,” Xaden says quietly, too flat and even, and his father lets out a low sound. “We’d just talked about parents. You were clinging to my arm, Vi, and Fen was asleep and I looked at the two of you and thought about how you–” Xaden nods to his father, “– would never see it. How I was barely even conscious the last time I saw you.”
“Xaden…” Violet can’t help the pity in her voice, but he doesn’t seem able to acknowledge it.
“Where are you hurt the worst, dad?” The question is clipped, and doesn’t invite more emotional discussion, so Violet swallows it back for now.
“That’s not–”
Xaden’s lips press into a thin line. “Don’t pretend you aren’t. They wouldn’t waste mending or healing on you if you’re going to die anyway.”
A cruel truth.
Fen reluctantly reveals a few injuries, when Xaden needles him into it. Violet just watches as they get efficiently cleaned and wrapped, fascinated by these two going head to head.
Fen swears up a storm while Xaden cleans out a deep cut on his leg. “Fucking–” then he glances at the toddler in Violet’s lap. “Fudging interrogations, as if I’d give them anything. As if they haven’t taken everything. Sorrengail came to supervise today, and was sure she’d murder me over Brennan before Melgren cut in.”
Violet gasps audibly, bone-deep sorrow settling in.
Xaden’s face turns to her for a heartbeat, sympathy and support written in the tilt of his brows and the soft look in his dark eyes.
“And all in vain, since he lives.” Fen glances at them. “Or I assume he does?”
“My brother is alive and kicking. Probably turning Riorson House upside down right now looking for us.” She’s aware her voice is a bit tense, a bit thick with tears over her mother even though it’s been years by now. The wound isn’t fresh, but it still aches.
“No, that’s Garrick and Mira,” Xaden snorts, shaking his head. “Brennan and Bodhi will take care of Asha.”
They’re her favorite uncles, that’s true, the ones she’ll run to if she can’t find her parents.
“Your… brother?” Fen’s voice is slow, an edge creeping in. “You’re Lilith’s daughter.”
“The youngest,” she says, and lifts her chin. She won’t cower. Her mother made her choices, some unforgivable, but in the end she gave her life for Violet. Gave her life to protect both her children and the future of the continent.
And Lilith knew of Xaden and Violet’s relationship, even grudgingly accepted their devotion to each other. Wanted them to be happy.
“Dad.” Xaden’s tone is warning, cold. He must see something in Fen’s expression Violet doesn’t, something that makes him wary, ready to step in. Violet desperately hopes Fen won’t say anything derogatory, because the last thing she wants is a fight. She’s always known Xaden’s father might not have approved of her name, but she’s damn proud of the woman she’s become.
And Xaden is as defensive of her as they come.
“I’m only trying to understand,” Fen dismisses, almost impatiently, like he doesn’t like the way Xaden’s temper is obviously rising. “Calm yourself, Xaden, I’m not questioning your choices. I just… was this a love match?”
“Yes.” Xaden’s tone is forbidding. “I attempted the betrothal to Catriona Cordella you arranged, but Tecarus was never going to support Tyrrendor like we needed him to. And I am not you. I couldn’t put myself or a potential child through a loveless marriage.”
That must cut, but Fen hardly reacts. Perhaps Xaden didn’t get his temper from his father, or perhaps Fen is just in control of it. Or perhaps this is just all too much, and the man is in shock.
“I know.” His tone is gentle, beseeching, and he reaches out for Xaden’s hand, clasps it. Xaden doesn’t pull away, but neither does he lean into the touch. “Your mother–”
“I– we saw her. When I was twenty-three.” Xaden’s eyes have gone distant, and Violet knows he sees Garrick in front of his eyes, lifeless and nonresponsive. Knows he still has nightmares about it. “We visited Hedotis. She remarried. Has two boys.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” There’s no surprise in Fen Riorson’s tone, only resignation. “Sometimes I wish that marriage had never happened, but it brought me you, no matter how much she devastated you by leaving, and I can’t regret it.”
Violet sighs, because she can understand that. But there’s something fragile in Xaden’s tone when he speaks that makes her want to seek out a younger Fen Riorson and hit him over the head for accepting such a marriage contract.
“I’m not sure if it’s another contract for her, and honestly I don’t care. Her husband tried to kill us all, damn near fucking succeeded with Garrick.” Xaden shakes his head, and his hand slips from his father’s. “If it’s another contract, she'll devastate those boys like she did me. And I want no part of it.”
“The fault was never with you, Xaden, you know that right?” There’s an edge of desperation in Fen’s tone, in how he leans forward, forces eye contact with his son. “You are worth loving. It was never you, it was her.”
“I know,” Xaden states, and Violet gives him a small, gentle smile when he turns his gaze her way. “It took some time, though.”
“You were quite stubborn,” Violet teases, trying to raise the mood. “We both were, to be honest.” She turns to Fen. “But I’d like to think he knows his own worth now, and that he won’t forget it.”
Fen’s gaze is warm and he reaches out to take her free hand in his both across the awkward distance between them, squeezing it softly. She lets him, because she can see it’s a friendly gesture. “For that, you have my eternal gratitude, Violet.”
She shivers, and feels like somewhere out there, Malek enjoys the irony of these words from an almost-dead-man, about to spend eternity in Malek’s realm. She gives quick thanks to him for this insane scenario, because while she’s scared shitless about how they’ll manage to return to their own time, she also knows they’re encroaching on the god of death’s territory, basically speaking to a ghost.
“We all owe Violet a lot,” Xaden says. She thinks he’s perhaps trying to assuage his father’s earlier doubt in her that came with her surname – which is Riorson now, though – or perhaps he’s being defensive. “Without her, the venin would never have been vanquished.”
“The venin–” Fen chokes on his words. His eyes are wide. “I’m hearing things.”
But yet, even in his disbelief, there’s a burning desire in his eyes to hear it repeated, to know it can be done.
“You’re not,” Violet says softly. “But I didn’t do it alone – my lightning and Xaden’s shadows would not have been enough.” She looks to Xaden. “It was a team effort, on both our and our allies’ part.”
“Don’t diminish your role, love,” he admonishes. Violet shakes her head, not willing to get into this matter now.
Fen is crying.
Tears track down his cheeks, and his shoulders shake, but he’s smiling. He waves off Violet’s concerned look with a hand and a shake of his head, and she focuses on Xaden instead. He’s sitting down properly now, long legs stretched out before him, but weapons still within easy reach. It speaks to his comfort in the situation, though, that he’s no longer crouching. He’s studying his father with a tilted head, clearly reading his intentions and thoughts – becoming a full-on inntinnsic stuck around after the veninism was cured, surprisingly – and she wonders what he receives. Violet can’t imagine being told the ages-old fight one is about to die for will be won one day by their own child. It must be both bitter, and an indescribable relief.
“I want to–” She doesn’t finish, but Xaden knows: change things. This feels wrong, to sit here, not knowing what brought them here, and yet doing nothing useful.
Xaden’s voice in her head is a familiar comfort. “It’s a dangerous thought, Violet.”
She knows. She’s read enough books to imagine the thousands of ways it could go wrong, how changing history could erase what’s to come, but… if they are stuck here, forever–
No, she can’t think like that.
She refuses to believe that she could have lost Asha forever, that she could have lost all her friendships and her family. That every sacrifice they’ve made has been in vain, and needs to be done again. Violet doesn’t want Fen and the other officers to die in front of their children, leaving those innocents marked and traumatized orphans. She doesn’t want her younger self to–
“Oh, gods,” she breathes, her eyes flashing to Xaden’s, wide and horrified. Her words come out in a torrid stream, faster and faster. “Is it happening tonight? Xaden, is she cutting your younger self right now, because if so, I swear to Dunne–”
“No.” Xaden reaches for her. “Breathe, Violet. Don’t wake Fen. It’s already done, last night. There’s nothing you can do for the younger me now, he needs to heal.”
“But–”
Xaden shakes his head slowly. “I’ll be alright. You know I will.”
“I wouldn’t call it alright!” Her tone is bordering on hysteria, and Xaden is there immediately, shuffling closer and wrapping his arms around her until she’s practically in his lap. It feels stupid to get caught up on this one detail of the past, but she thinks the fear and horror of what has brought them here, the not knowing, is catching up with her.
Everything is just too much, all of a sudden.
“I’ll– he’ll survive.” Xaden’s voice is almost soothing, yet it’s firm. It cuts through the panic. “Violet.”
His tone makes her look at him without question, and she meets those onyx eyes she loves so much. He adjusts Fen in her lap with a soft touch, grabs her hand and pulls it behind his back. Even before their joined hands slip under his jacket and shirt, finding bare and warm skin, the touch centers her.
Xaden always does.
“They heal,” Xaden reminds her. He makes her palm slide over his back, the ridges of the scars palpable under her touch. It’s a familiar feeling – she’s scraped her nails down this skin countless times, traced Sgaeyl’s relic, passed a hand over his back in the shower, laced her fingers over it as she hugged him. They’ve never made her balk, the scars, and she swallows, determined not to let herself do that now.
It’s his pain, not hers. If Xaden is calm, accepting, she should be able to handle it too.
Still, Violet knows emotions don’t work that way.
Fen Riorson offers her a distraction. “What is happening right now?”
There’s demand in his tone – a man used to being obeyed. His eyes flicker from Violet’s face to Xaden’s when they both turn to face him. To be honest, for a second Violet forgot they weren’t alone.
She didn’t mean to bring up Xaden’s private past hurts in front of an audience. Not even if that audience is his father.
“Sorry,” she mutters, and tries to pull her hand away. But Xaden has a grip on her wrist, keeping her hand on his back, and she relents.
Perhaps she isn’t the only one who needs the comfort of touch.
There’s tension in her husband, and she can see him weighing his words. She’s quite certain Fen never knew what happened to his son. That Xaden tried to cover it up as best as he could at the execution.
She isn’t the only one who hates burdening others with her pain.
But he makes up his mind quickly.
"I made a deal. Or, the me in this time has already done it." Even if his voice is even and calm, Xaden hesitates. “It’s why I barely remember the execution.”
“A deal?” Xaden’s father sounds serious and concerned. “With whom?”
He doesn’t address the emotional side – ever a practical leader, asking the political questions first. But Violet can see his hands balling into fists, the too controlled breathing. Being reminded yet again that tomorrow is to be your death – with your son watching – must be devastating.
Xaden glances sideways at Violet for just a second before turning back to the elder Riorson, and she swallows. Right. At this time, somewhere in these dungeons, seventeen-year old Xaden Riorson is bleeding from 107 cuts her mother made on his back, fighting infection and fever. Bringing up that fact when it’s sure to cause a reaction, perhaps to her presence…
“General Sorrengail,” Xaden answers, and there’s no hate in his voice. No bite. He’s since learned things about Lilith Sorrengail that have, if not softened him, at least stripped some of his animosity towards her memory. Her journals and the clues she left Mira were integral to their victory, and Violet still remembers the conflicted look on his face when he read a piece of recovered correspondence detailing that Violet’s mother disagreed with making the children of the Apostasy leaders watch the executions.
“And did she hold up her end?” Xaden’s father’s jaw is tense, his features stoic, but his eyes are wary. As if he expects a no. “No offense, Violet.”
“None taken,” she dismisses calmly. As long as she isn’t equated to her mother’s foul acts in regards to making that deal, she doesn’t mind him being sceptical. Violet’s mother is his enemy right now – Violet’s mother is alive. The thought is like a punch to the gut, that they’re existing at the same time. She pushes it away forcibly, concentrating on the now and not her grief.
“She did,” Xaden tells him. At least in that brutal inhumane deal, Lilith Sorrengail did keep her side. “All of the children younger than me got a chance to live. I took responsibility for them according to Tyrrish customs.”
His voice is flat, emotionless, when Violet knows those memories still haunt him. She wishes he’d be able to be vulnerable with his father here and now. But perhaps that’s too much to ask. Perhaps there’s too many years between them, too much suffering and too many things unsaid and unresolved.
“All?” There’s a note of horror in Fen Riorson’s tone, like he’s desperately hoping he misheard. “There must be–”
“A hundred and seven,” Xaden says calmly. “She did them all. That’s why my younger self is probably delirious somewhere in these dungeons right now.”
"Show me, son." Fen's voice is rough with pain – emotional, not physical – and Violet wants to rage against the injustice committed towards Xaden by her own mother, just as she always does when the subject comes up. “Please, I– surviving that, in these conditions–”
He doubts the younger Xaden will. Rightfully so.
Xaden hasn’t ever spoken much of the execution. She’s gathered more from off-hand comments by Garrick and Bodhi than she has from her husband. Once, she accidentally wandered into a nightmare of Xaden’s of that day, and the pain in it still makes her shiver. She’s tried to banish those images, forget she ever saw them – because she wasn’t meant to.
Stiffly, Xaden untangles himself from Violet, and they both rise – Violet used to the movement while carrying a sleeping child – Fen copying them, his movements slow and uncertain. She lets her hand fall from Xaden as he unbuttons his flight jacket. It’s a big thing to ask, to see someone’s scars, and she knows Fen Riorson is well aware of that.
Yet she has come to understand a parent’s desperation to see that their child is truly alright.
The leather jacket hits the floor carelessly – unlike Xaden’s usual meticulousness – and Xaden turns, pulling his shirt over his head swiftly. In the glow from the mage lights Violet and Xaden carried with them, the hundred and seven scars catch the light mostly in the way that they create tiny shadows. The textured landscape of Xaden’s back shifts under Sgaeyl’s relic as his muscles flex and then relax. He stands with his feet planted apart, steady and calm.
Waiting.
Fen reaches out immediately, but aborts the movement. “Fuck, Xaden.”
There’s too much in that sentence to decipher, but the pain is raw and visceral.
“I paid a heavy price for your role in the apostasy.” Xaden’s voice is outright cruel, accusing and angry, but she can’t really blame him. Not with the marks of his pain and responsibility littering his skin, more than a decade after they were created. Not with everything she knows he’s suffered. “We all did. Orphaned, torn apart from each other to be fostered with people who considered us the shit of the bottom of their shoes. Siblings, separated. Many were abused in ways I will never forgive. Twenty-five lost their lives in the Riders Quadrant even though I tried to buy them a chance. Many more in the war.”
The losses weigh heavily on him to this day.
“You weren’t responsible–”
“But I was!” Xaden cuts Fen off viciously. But he doesn’t turn, can’t seem to face his father. “You made me responsible when you went and died for this cause. You all did! Every single adult who should have protected us. I had to become you, instead. For a hundred and seven scared, traumatized kids.”
“And you’re – you were, I mean – just a child yourself…” Fen trails off, as if he can’t or doesn’t want to consider the implications.
“As if that ever mattered.” Xaden’s tone is bitter, his back stiff. “As if you didn’t raise me to lead, as if you didn’t demand more of me than you should have. I was never allowed to be a child."
Violet can see the way Xaden’s father’s shoulders tense like each accusation is a blow. Sees him open his mouth as ift to bite back, as if to fight Xaden’s fire with fire. But he stops. Fen Riorson closes his mouth, straightens his back with a grimace of pain – it must pull on some wounds, and Violet wouldn’t be surprised to know he’s been whipped like a dog, which is what Navarre considers him to be: a mangy thing straying from its path, needing to be put down.
“I apologize,” Fen says stiffly, and Xaden whirls around, disbelief painted on every line of his face and body.
Somehow, she thinks Xaden has never heard apologies from his father this way – raw and honest. With the temper Xaden can sometimes have, she wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve clashed during his teenage years, right up until the last, heartbreaking argument.
“It’s not enough, I know. This is a burden we never wanted you to carry, any of you. Don’t you think I haven’t spent the last few days regretting my choices, regretting leading so many people to their deaths?” Fen sounds tired and worn, shaking his head. “I just don’t see how I could have done differently and lived with myself. But that shouldn’t have mattered. You, and Tyrrendor – you should have come before my conscience, and now you’ll both suffer.”
“It’s not enough,” Xaden agrees. His voice is surprisingly low and soft. “But what is done is done. We can’t undo it. We all have choices we regret.”
Violet shivers, knowing exactly what those choices are.
It’s an acknowledgement of the apology, if not quite forgiveness. Understanding, more like.
Fen softens, and when he opens his arms, Xaden goes. It must be weird for the man, used to his teenage son, to offer comfort to a very adult Xaden, but their embrace is surprisingly tight considering Fen’s injuries. Violet holds onto her son in turn, clutching him close, imagining the day when he towers over her, is as tall as his father. Promises herself she’ll be free with her hugs even then, like her mother never was.
She barely dares breathe, scared to break the two men before her apart as Fen murmurs something to Xaden, too low to catch, but eventually they part.
“Will you – will you tell me about your poor choices? Your good ones? Anything, Xaden.”
There’s hope in Fen’s voice, and Xaden goes still. Violet can practically see the battle raging in him, of whether to tell. Whether to expose the ugliest parts of him that the world in their own time already knows of. Glossing over it is certainly possible, she’s sure there are so many other things Xaden isn’t proud of. And many that he is.
The part of Xaden that is desperate for forgiveness must win out.
"Dad, I... I channeled from the earth." There's endless, deep shame in Xaden's voice. It twists her stomach.
She can’t read the expression on Fen’s face. It’s gone stoic, harsh lines and thin lips as he understands what Xaden is saying. His eyes flicker to Violet for just a second before they come back to his son.
But Xaden must know. He must be able to read every thought, must know how Fen reacts to it, because he takes a step back immediately, puts space between them.
Like he expects his father to be afraid of him.
Maybe he is.
Xaden’s whole body has gone still, into that calm, fluid way of lounging around that he wears as a mask, disinterest coating his features. To protect himself. Violet’s not used to seeing it much anymore – he’ll be apathetic and rude with the Assembly when he needs to, but rarely does Xaden feel the need to guard his heart so closely.
That won’t fucking do.
Violet steps determinedly closer to Xaden. “Love, my arms are getting tired,” she murmurs quietly as Fen the elder processes, his gaze roaming wildly over the two of them. “Will you take him for a bit?”
Xaden breaks away from staring at his father, his features immediately softening. He reaches for his son, his shadows responding automatically, longer than his arms, wrapping around their toddler and lifting him from Violet’s hold into the air to meet his own palms. It’s a smooth, well-executed transfer, and Fen settles in the crook of Xaden’s left arm, grumbling slightly and hiding his face in Xaden’s bare skin.
It must be a familiar smell and feeling, and Violet’s heart swells at the way Fen burrows trustingly into Xaden’s chest.
“Are you an initiate? Or are you so far along that you can disguise yourself? Don’t lie to me, Xaden.”
Xaden’s father’s voice is sharp, cutting through the softness like a knife, and Violet resists the urge to glare at him and shush. She doesn’t want her child to wake up, not here in these unfamiliar and scary surroundings.
Her husband echoes her thoughts out loud in a low hiss. “Don’t wake my son.” His hand passes over Fen’s hair, smoothing the wild curls – so like Bodhi’s – down. His palm still dwarfs their son’s head. “Not anymore. Do you think I’d ever touch him, touch Violet, if I was a danger to them? Do you think she’d let me?” There’s true hurt in his voice, that his father would think so little of him. “I’m human now.”
Fen’s eyes flare wide in surprise.
“Putting that aside, because I simply can not handle it right now– why?” There is so much behind that word. Why would you ever channel? But what Fen says is: “Why would you ever betray our values like that?!”
His voice rises again, and both Violet and Xaden turn a glare on him. The tension could be cut with one of Xaden’s swords, and Violet shifts restlessly on the balls of her feet. Her right knee twinges, and it’s a testament to how in tune Xaden is with her, even shielded, that he knows immediately. A shadow wraps softly around it in support.
“For her,” Xaden says, defiant. His eyes are blazing as he jerks his chin slightly to the side to indicate Violet. “The first time. To protect her and all of Navarre.”
“He bought us time to raise the fallen wards,” Violet chimes in softly. “Basgiath was about to be overrun.”
“First time?” Fen’s voice is brittle, and he sags, all fight going out of him. He passes a tired hand over his face.
Xaden laughs bitterly. “I channeled a few times in those first months. In defense of Violet – and I suppose my own life, since our dragons are mates, but I wasn’t thinking about me.”
Even now, guilt creeps down her spine, that he did it for her.
“But you stopped.” Violet lays a hand on his stiff arm. “You went past the longest time anyone had resisted drawing from the earth again. You kept yourself in check and you didn’t hurt anyone. You led your people to the best of your ability in wartime.”
“You were–”
“I was handed the Dukedom shortly after I channeled,” Xaden interrupts, harsh and low. “Believe me, father, if I could have feasibly refused it, I would have. I know you must hate me for not finding a way. Tyrrendor has always come first, and I–”
His jaw works, but no more words come out.
“You couldn’t have handed it off to Bodhi without jeopardizing both of our lives.” Violet knows this to be true. “Your execution could have killed me, and Tyrrendor needed you. They didn’t fear Bodhi, but you had the respect needed to wrangle deals into place.”
“Fat lot of good it did us, in the end.”
“Don’t say that,” Violet begs, turning on her husband. She’s all but forgotten Fen Riorson is even in the room. “We would have lost a lot more if it wasn’t for you, fucking pulling strings into place for your own eventual demise!”
Xaden hasn’t forgotten, blank, emotionless eyes turning to his father. “I wanted to leave it to Bodhi. It just wasn’t possible under the circumstances. I apologize.”
It’s stiff, like he expects no forgiveness, no quarter. And indeed Fen looks stoic, like he can’t believe what Xaden has turned into. He doesn’t answer, only stares, lips pinched and fists clenched. Violet doesn’t know how to break the tension, but she needs to. Somehow.
“You left it to me,” she says hotly. Yes, the circumstances were horrific, but even now, years later, she maintains he did his best. “Sgaeyl told me that the second you were finished with the battle at Draithus, channeling to destroy all those enemy troops, you were putting the plans in motion to marry me.”
Neither of them dip into why Bodhi wasn’t a possibility. That is not their story to tell.
“Mhm,” Xaden says, and turns away from his father pointedly, as if it’s a lost cause to convince him. His eyes are gentle on Violet, and the way his marked hand absentmindedly strokes over their son’s back is careful and slow, in contrast to the rage and betrayal clearly bubbling in the elder Fen Riorson. “I can never thank you enough for going through with it, for marrying that red-eyed monster I became so you could protect Tyrrendor from falling into the King’s hands by governing it. It still amazes me to this day, love.”
“It was just you,” Violet argues quietly. “Yes, you were on the ice, blocking me out completely for my own safety and I hated it, but it was still you – keeping me safe.”
“I will always keep you safe, Violence,” Xaden murmurs, just an exhalation of breath. It’s quiet and intimate and meant just for her, though she’s sure their audience heard.
But screw him.
If he can’t see beyond a desperate choice made out of love to all the things his son has sacrificed to the cause, all the things that make Xaden the best man she knows – well, then Fen Riorson doesn’t deserve him.
Still, what she said to Xaden on Hedotis holds true – if she could have even a single minute with her mother…
Violet whirls on Fen, suddenly angry, stepping closer until her accusing finger is pointed right at his chest, almost touching.
“Are you really going to waste this chance, this miraculous opportunity to actually speak to the son you parted on bad terms with, just because you can’t understand his choices?!” Violet’s voice rises and she forces her pitch down, low and angry. “Because I’ve always thought of you as a decent man and father, from what Xaden has told me, and I can’t quite reconcile that with your behaviour right now!”
“Vi–”
“No, let her speak.” Fen Riorson watches her with an unnervingly intense gaze, just like Xaden does. But she stopped being afraid of that within months of meeting him, so Xaden’s father will not make her cower.
“Do you know what I’d do for just a short moment with people I lost in the war? For a few hours with my own father? Because let me tell you, it’s quite a lot.” She has to catch her breath, because while she’s hissing to keep her voice low, she’s also being vicious about it. “So swallow your anger and see your son for who he is, not what he was forced to do to save the continent!”
Amusement breaks through the storm of horror and anger and betrayal in Fen’s eyes. The corners of his eyes crinkle, just a little.
“You’re a fucking vision when you’re going toe-to-toe with people and telling them off.” She ignores Xaden’s voice curling around her mind seductively. Only he gets so worked up watching her argue.
“I can see why you love her,” Fen says over Violet’s head to Xaden, and she lets out an exasperated sigh, because that wasn’t quite the response she was hoping for, but it’s something at least.
Something to bridge the yawning gap between father and son right now.
“You haven’t seen half of it.” It’s a fond yet challenging statement. “So, yes, I channeled.” Xaden’s voice is harder, like he gave Fen one chance to meet his shame with compassion, and will not offer any more vulnerability. “At first, to save Violet, and then to save Sgaeyl. For love. I will always regret the damage that did to my soul, to Violet, to people around me. But I won’t regret the fact that it won us the war, that working from the inside and handing Violet the key pieces to the puzzle saved the entire continent. And in turn, she saved me.”
Violet can’t refute that oversimplification. “Easiest choice I’ve ever made, and yet the hardest thing I’ve done.”
Fen draws in a long, measured breath, and lets it out the same way, eyeing them with an unreadable gaze.
“Tell me.” It’s an order, and Violet bristles, but Xaden relaxes, like even after so many years without his father, he’s used to taking his commands. Perhaps even feels relief to not be the one in charge. “Your wife is right, I cannot draw the conclusions without the facts. Besides, we don’t have ideas for getting you three out of here, back to your time and safety–” His gaze lingers on the way little Fen’s mouth is open around even breaths, some drool slipping down Xaden’s shoulder. “– so we might as well.”
So Xaden does.
It’s the short, abridged version, in clipped tones to disguise the hurt Violet knows bubbles under the surface. She’s intimately familiar with disappointing a parent, and tries to chip in to soften the story, to bring humanity to it. Eventually, they abandon their stiffness and sink down to sit again.
Violet reassesses Xaden’s father’s character, watching his reactions. He asks thoughtful, pointed questions once he calms down a little, a tactician to the bone, gathering information in a way that reminds her, surprisingly, of her own mother.
They’re covering the war when the youngest among them wakes up, sleepy and unhappy. He usually wakes up once or twice a night still, but is normally easily soothed back to sleep. Now, though, his dark eyes stare accusingly at his grandfather as if he’s the problem.
Maybe the unfamiliar voice makes it difficult to rest.
Both of their children are very used to strangers, because Violet and Xaden have staunchly refused to let them be raised by nurses. Baby wraps, movable cribs… They’ve tried it all, and the people of Tyrrendor are very used to seeing their leaders conduct business with a child on their lap. Asha’s old enough now to be tutored along with other children, and to run rampant around Riorson House with a gaggle of (honorary) aunts and uncles following her, desperately trying to keep up. But Xaden has issued many orders lately with little Fen sleeping soundly on his chest, under his shirt and pressed against his skin, soothed by the beat of his heart.
There was one remarkably lovely occasion where Kylynn made a stupid, insensitive argument, and Fen stared at her with wide eyes from Xaden’s lap before dramatically spewing up some milk onto the table, as if to mark his disgust for that opinion.
Brennan laughed so loud he had to go take a breathing break.
“Hello, little one,” Fen Riorson the elder says now, and his face – so stoic since Xaden’s revelation – cracks into something more human, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Did we disturb your rest?”
“Fen,” Xaden says softly to their son, and Violet’s heart always melts at the tone he uses with them – so patient, never resorting to raising his voice. She never knew that side of him existed before Asha was born. “This is your grandfather.”
It’s a bit of a formal, stiff sentence, but softened by the tone.
The response is a blink, and then a wail, as their son hides his face in Xaden’s neck, scared by the stranger. Violet giggles, and Xaden’s father smiles indulgently, clearly not a stranger to the antics of small children.
“Pleased to meet you, Fen Riorson.” The whisper is surprisingly reverent, and Violet wonders if Xaden’s father ever even dared imagine a future with grandchildren, a future with the continent at peace.
“Come here, sweetie,” Violet murmurs, already deftly unbuttoning her shirt. Xaden hands her their squirming son who settles slightly at the sight of his mother. “None of that now, darling, everything’s okay.”
Beside her, Xaden twists for the pack, and she looks up just in time to see the way his father’s eyes linger on Xaden’s back again, on the scars and the relic. Then she’s busy managing her son, adjusting him to her breast. Xaden hands her a piece of stretchy fabric they usually use for wrapping Fen to their backs or chest, but it’ll do as a cover-up. Not that she needs it – Xaden’s father’s eyes are politely averted from her, and she’s gotten used to feeding her children in company anyways.
There’s something indescribably soothing about the way her son latches, his weight and warmth even through the large sweater he’s wrapped in. The small hand settled over her heart.
She will miss it – he’s mostly nursing for comfort, these days.
“You bonded a blue dragon. Sgaeyl, you said?”
Xaden’s father strikes up a conversation unrelated to the final battles they were just discussing, and she’s thankful. Dwelling on those terrible, bloody last weeks is still rough, and they covered the important points, after all. Who lived, who died.
“A blue daggertail.” There’s no mistaking the fierce pride in his voice, the devotion. She knows there are five things highest up on the priority list for Xaden: his dragon, his children, his wife and his country. “My girl is ruthless and magnificent. All three of them are.”
“So I see from the likeness on your back,” Fen comments, and the tone is civil, a bit warmer. “You always used to dream of becoming a dragon rider, even though you were slated for infantry.”
Violet listens to their voices but her mind spins, wondering how the hell they’ll get out of this situation they’ve found themselves in, whether they are doomed to relive this time instead and start all over from scratch. And whether Fen Riorson’s forgiveness is so important to Xaden that after this, he’ll retreat behind his shell to nurse his wounds, or if he’ll manage to take it in stride.
She knows she still sometimes wonders what her mother would think of her actions.
“Yeah.” Xaden’s voice is wistful, and then bitter. “Fate had other plans.”
“In a twisted way you got to become what you always wanted.” Fen sighs. They’re all exhausted, and that shows in his voice now. “I regret it had to happen that way.”
Xaden nods. “While I now think General Sorrengail chose the Riders Quadrant in the deal to give us a fighting chance at ever being accepted into Navarrian society on our own merits, I also think she did it because she knew the war was inevitably coming, and that we would be most willing to fight in it.” It’s a thing they’ve discussed several times among marked ones and with Violet’s siblings. “But surviving Basgiath with this on our arms…” He gestures to the relic, shakes his head, and grabs his shirt, pulling it back on. “Well, there was no hiding who we were.”
“The prejudice was disgusting,” Violet spits, temper flaring, but gentles her voice when her son reacts to the tone by fussing a bit. “I remember the looks Liam got at the reunification party and I still want to fucking wring necks. The way he handled it so gracefully, even though it was never you children who made the choices that you were judged for–” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“Mairi was always the best of us,” Xaden says quietly. They’ve made peace with that loss, as they have with so many others. “Now it’s just a mark of our history and our shared pain, not a brand of traitors.”
Violet can’t quite see it that way, can’t quite accept that that treatment was ever necessary, but Navarrian leadership has always played a cruel political game.
“Traitors,” Fen scoffs. “Navarrian leadership - they’re the traitors to humankind.”
“On that we can agree,” Xaden says, and his voice is dark with unspoken things. “And while mass executions were for obvious reasons out of the question, the war took care of much of that – there’s been quite the political upheaval. Change in leadership.”
Fen’s eyes glint with interest, but his next sentence is interrupted by babble before it even begins.
It’s not many words yet, simply the kind of baby talk that precedes that stage, but clearly their son has things to say before he goes back to sleep. In fact, he looks determined to be awake, the cutest little furrow in his brow.
“Yes, darling,” Violet agrees, so naturally slipping into that sing-songy tone. “You’ve woken in a strange place. But mama and papa are here, all is well.”
Xaden reaches over, and Fen’s tiny fingers wrap around a few of Xaden’s. “You should go back to sleep,” he encourages softly. “It’s still nighttime.”
The next sound from Fen’s mouth is a drawn out A–, the kind of sound he makes for his sister, and Violet blinks rapidly to clear tears, smiling down at her son.
“Asha? No, Asha is with uncle Bodhi. I’m sure she’s also getting all the snuggles, though.”
Telling herself that is the only thing that keeps her from breaking down at the thought of being separated like this, uncertain if they’ll ever find their way home. Xaden wraps his arm around her shoulders in support.
“You mentioned her earlier. A daughter?” Fen is careful, and she appreciates the approach.
“She’s six,” Xaden answers. “She’s alright.” It sounds like he’s convincing himself. “She has Bodhi and Garrick, and Violet’s siblings. She won’t be alone.”
“And about a dozen honorary aunts and uncles,” Violet chimes in, her throat thick. Against her skin, little Fen has calmed down again, playing with a loose strand of her hair, not really nursing but sort of hanging on for the comfort of it. “It’ll be alright, Xaden.”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’m glad you have them to support you,” Fen says, and his voice is kinder and softer again. “And so godsdamn grateful Bodhi and Garrick have also survived.”
They all grew up together, Violet recalls. Garrick’s father was Fen’s closest advisor.
Xaden nods, and for a moment they all fall silent, probably all despairing for different reasons.
“Would you tell me of the good moments?” Xaden’s father asks slowly, hesitantly. “Of your children and your friends and of Tyrrendor? I think I would like to hear that, if I’m to die tomorrow.”
“Do you deserve the good if you can’t face the ugly?” she mutters, frustrated and tired.
Fen barks a sudden laugh, startling his grandson, but Violet is quick to hum comfortingly. It works, thank the gods, Fen the younger slipping back into that doze before sleep.
“No, I suppose I don’t.” Tilting his head emphasizes a dark bruise on his jaw and the deep ones under his eyes, but Violet tampers down her instinctive sympathy. Xaden snorts quietly next to her.
“It’s over and done with. Or it will come to pass.” Xaden shrugs, and shifts beside her. His voice is impassive, not imploring nor kind. “Either way, I fuck up in the name of love, betray all of your values, and Violet saves me in the end. Accept it or don’t, it’ll still happen. And you won’t be able to do shit about it, because you’ll be dead.”
The stark truth of it.
“You’re right,” Fen admits slowly, and she wonders how much those words cost a proud man. “I can accept, if perhaps not forgive. But you can’t forgive me for my role in the apostasy, so maybe we’re even.”
She can almost feel Xaden’s hesitance in his silence, shadows writhing on the floor, betraying his agitation.
“I can admire you, and love you, even if I don’t forgive you, Xaden.” Fen is careful with his words. “You know that to be the truth. You’re a father now. I was never destined for a marriage of love, but if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I love you. You and our home have always been the center of my universe.”
“And yet you sacrificed me for it,” Xaden points out. “But I won’t. I can have love for Violet and for our children, and still be a good leader, a good ruler. If I die, it will be in their stead, not while condemning them to the kind of life I’ve led.”
“I always knew you’d grow to be a better man than I ever was.” Fen’s voice is resolute, certain. “You’ve always had such potential to be both loving and ruthless. I’m glad you’ve found a balance.”
Xaden nods his head stiffly.
For a second, the time around them seems to slow down to a standstill, while the two size each other up. Then Fen reaches out with his hand, bridging the gap, and Xaden counters immediately, almost before the movement has begun, clasping his father’s forearm as Fen holds onto his.
“Asha is a little menace,” Xaden starts. “And Bodhi is her favourite, because he stands up for her, he’s always on her side in everything–”
Fen listens, captivated, as they recount good things. Challenges overcome, Aretia’s rebuilding, Imogen and Garrick’s marriage ceremony, that one time all of them took a camping trip and ended up spectacularly drunk…
Sometime around a story about Sgaeyl and Tairn and their exasperation with Andarna’s antics, Violet redresses and shifts their now sleeping son in her arms.
“May I?” Fen reaches out hesitantly, and she understands what he means.
Violet looks to Xaden for a fraction of a second, and when his approval wraps around her mind she nods. This is Xaden’s father and their child, she won’t make choices without his input. “He’ll sleep like the dead for a little bit now.”
Fen shifts closer, leaning forward, and touches their son’s hand slowly. When it doesn’t wake him, they settle like that: large, bandaged hand holding onto the tiny one.
“Naming him after you was Xaden’s idea,” Violet whispers. “Asha is named for my father, Asher. So Fen seemed fitting.”
“I’m not sure the fact that the name Fen Riorson lives on is a good thing,” Xaden’s father whispers. “I’m afraid I may have tainted it and it will be a heavy burden to carry.”
“You fought for what’s right,” Violet argues. “I can only hope our son will be that brave and honorable.” She glances at Xaden, and knows without asking that he agrees. Still, he tilts his head in acknowledgement.
“Whatever happens, we need to get him out of here,” Fen murmurs, stroking his other hand over his grandson’s dark hair. “If it means you need to leave me, so be it.”
Violet’s heart squeezes painfully at the thought of what that might do to Xaden, and the man himself clenches his jaw but nods. They’re all in agreement on that, too, no matter how unhappy they’re about it.
For a while, nobody says a word. Fen watches his namesake breathe, Xaden studies his father and his son with suspiciously glossy eyes and Violet keeps still, afraid to disturb the moment.
Eventually, Xaden nods as if to himself and glances at the time piece in his pocket. “If we’re still here by the time dawn approaches, we’ll need a plan of attack to get us out of here – all of us. At that point, rewriting history seems inevitable.” Violet and Fen nod, and she thinks both men look so similar with their faces serious, drawn but determined. “You’ll take Fen, father, because you’re in the worst shape to fight.”
“We could strap him to my back,” Violet suggests. Being separated from her boy feels wrong, and she trusts her instincts. “I could still wield that way.”
She’s learned that she doesn’t need a sky. She is the power, and the conduit for it.
Xaden tilts his head in thought. “Perhaps.”
Time passes quickly after that, restless hours of planning, chatting and silence. Violet dozes for a bit with her head on Xaden’s shoulder, aware that Xaden and Fen are speaking in low, serious tones. She thinks she hears regret and apology in both their voices, but she’s not sure if she’s dreaming.
Xaden shakes her awake at some point, and she blinks blearily at him as he drops a kiss to her mouth. “Time to get Fen strapped to you, love.”
The sleeping child is unhappy with the change of location, but Xaden holds him in place with shadows while he wraps the fabric around Violet deftly, leaving her dagger sheathes accessible and her hands free.
“Good?” Xaden checks. He has already gathered his pack and Fen is laboriously lifting to his feet, clearly exhausted and in pain, even though he’s not shown it or complained.
“I’ve got as much mobility as I can.” Violet shrugs. Xaden is powerful these days, and so is she. She doesn’t really doubt their ability to cut their way through a fucking army, let alone guards.
“You’ll be alright,” Xaden promises, and cradles her jaw in his hand, kissing her short yet deep. It’s as captivating as always, pulling her into their own little bubble as Xaden bends to rest his forehead against hers for a second. “Whatever happens.”
Then he backs away.
“Xaden.”
Fen’s voice is rough, and he beckons from where he stands. Xaden turns to his father, steps closer, offering a dagger hilt first.
“I’m in no shape to fight,” Fen argues, but takes the weapon. “And I won’t give the fuckers the satisfaction of ending my own life, either.”
“I know,” Xaden says, and there’s so many emotions in those words. The kind of desperation and pain that comes from having seen your own parent burnt to death in front of you, Violet supposes.
Fen grabs onto Xaden’s upper arm with the hand still holding the dagger loosely, cups his other around the back of Xaden’s neck. It forces them face-to-face.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says fiercely. “Never doubt that, son. I’m so proud of the man you’ve become, the way you stand up for your family. I can see the leader you’ll continue growing into. I love you.”
Xaden swallows, throat working. “I love you too, Dad.”
It’s like they’re rewriting their ending.
A second later, there’s voices outside the cell door, still distant. Xaden grabs his father into a tight hug, before he’s whirling around again, taking up a defensive stance between the others and the door. His swords slide out of their sheaths with a low hiss, and Violet lifts her hands, ready.
This time, it isn’t instant and overwhelming.
It’s a slow fade, a sensation of a tug behind her navel. When she looks down, she looks translucent.
“Xaden!” she gasps, and he looks the same. Fen’s head swings between them, realizing at once that something is going on, that whatever force brought them here is taking them back. Grim determination settles over him – the expression of a man who knows he is facing his own death today.
He nods once, and smiles at Xaden. “Goodbye, Xaden. Live well.”
As the world fades to black, her last image is of Xaden reaching out a hand for his father, and Fen turning to face the door and his fate.
FEN
The Navarrians think they're clever, never telling the captive leaders of the Apostasy what they'll do to their children. There's not a whisper of the deal in the final interrogations, carried out with all of them present so they all have to hear each other's screams.
They're not left alone together for long, but Fen Riorson – senior, he reminds himself, though he and his grandson only co-existed for a short moment of time – hears the horrified murmurs pass through the crowd: if they're to be executed today while their children watch, is it only so Codagh can turn around and burn their children in turn? Will they torture them, make examples out of them?
Fen knows they won’t.
They all know sign language, which makes it easy to speak without being overheard, as they’re herded into a room like animals waiting for slaughter. To their drawn, pale faces, Fen explains the deal Xaden has made for their children’s lives that they will all have a chance to live. He passes it off as a rumor he heard from the guards.
It’s not much, but it’s an indescribable relief to many, shoulders sagging and tears leaking from tired, hopeless eyes.
“Chins up,” he tells them. “They will have to live with this. You won’t. Don’t let them see you break. Instead show them bravery and love. Navarre will not break us, nor them.”
There’s tense nods and quiet murmuring as they accept his words, though Fen doesn’t know if they’re of any help. His gaze meets his sister’s mournful but determined one, and he desperately wants to tell her her boy will make it. Wants to tell Tavis – loyal to the bone, his right-hand man – the same, but conversing quietly with them is Colonel Mairi, whose son he’s just been told is a casualty of the war. And how would he explain to them all that he’s been visited by people from the future?
They’d believe him, he thinks, if he stood up now and told the whole tale now – his people are loyal, and Tyrs are usually a superstitious lot. But he’s in no mindset to make further inspirational speeches. Instead his mind spins around Xaden – both the still growing seventeen-year-old he loves more than life itself and the complex man in his thirties, a virtual stranger who embodies all of Fen’s hopes for the kind of man his son will grow into.
But also his fears for what life will put his son through.
The others make peace with their gods, and he remembers Xaden’s small shape curled against his side, seeking refuge from nightmares. Replays endless conversations, both harsh and loving words, sparring sessions and camping trips and quiet evenings over a cup of hot chocolate.
Remembers holding a squalling, red-faced infant, still slick with mucus and blood while the healers tended to his wife, and feeling his world realign. How those nondescript eyes that babies are often born with shifted over time into dark onyx, speckled with gold like stars in the sky, staring trustingly up at him from a small face. But equally he remembers clutching the shoulders of a grown man with those same eyes.
Fen recalls Violet, and little Fen, and imagines the fierce, headstrong Asha he’s only heard about but can picture clearly as a mix of both her parents. Remembers that the grown Xaden still has Bodhi, Imogen, and Garrick. All his childhood best friends.
That Xaden will have a family, even when he’s gone.
It soothes him, and he squares his shoulders when they’re led out onto the dais to be displayed, to be made an example of.
He stares at Xaden, at his young son, swaying between Bodhi and Garrick, and he mourns the heartache ahead of him. The pain, the difficult years, the weight he'll bear on shoulders that have yet to fill out.
Too young for the mantle he will pick up.
Too young to see his father die.
Xaden’s eyes are glassy with fever, unfocused, and Fen Riorson knows his last words to his son will go unheard, but he says them anyway. It’s alright that Xaden can’t register them, because he knows his son will be alright without them. Xaden will survive, with or without Fen’s words, and in roughly fifteen years… well, the Fen of yesterday will say them to his adult son.
His adult son, who wins them the war with his sacrifices and his blood and his soul and his love. His adult son, who is a loving husband and a father. His adult son, who will see Tyrrendor through rebuilding, see it flourish again.
His adult son, who will one day – despite all odds – thrive.
"I'm so proud of you, Xaden. I always will be. No matter what." Then he turns to the crowd, the nobles and generals, and spits out his final words. "If you think this will change what's out there, you're wrong. You're all cowards."
Codagh opens his maw, and Fen can’t pretend he’s not scared. But he lifts his chin defiantly, his eyes locked on the child he’s given all the love that Tyrrendor hasn’t demanded of him, knowing it wasn’t enough
Xaden is his pride, his greatest achievement in life.
Fen Riorson goes to his death knowing the future. He dies knowing his son will face and overcome incomprehensible darkness, will fall in love with a strong woman, have children and build a life in Tyrrendor.
He dies knowing his son will one day be happy.