𝒜 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝑅𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒮𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓈 | ᴀᴢʀɪᴇʟ

Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Arwen's heart raced. She hadn't yet opened her eyes, but something swathed her. Trapped her. Something beneath her and above her, lain over her arms and legs. And darkness. Arwen knew of darkness—she could blink and close her eyes after all. But not of the one that took people in sleep. Not of the one where she did not know what was happening to her body.

Finally peeling her eyes open, she destroyed it. Light pierced through the world around her, illuminating what kept her in place. A blanket. It was white and puffed out, likely stuffed with feathers of geese or some more exotic bird. Arwen lay under it, her head against something equally as soft.

Her fingertips moved over the sheet underneath her, and the sound of fabric scratching hit her ears as she inched her neck up. It made her feel sick. So much to feel. Things she hadn't felt in centuries. Her spine writhed and twisted, trying to get away from the sensations drowning her. Kicking her legs, the blanket folded on itself, piling at her feet which she yanked free.

Arwen flung herself off the bed. The ground met her knees with a painful sting that went into her thighs and hips. Her mouth flew open, a pained gasp trapping in her throat. Pain that she hadn't been able to feel in over two centuries. Her fingers splayed across the wood, feeling each grain and the coldness. She hated that too.

Bile rose into her throat as she pushed to her feet, only to feel the wood on them as well. But it was less striking through the soles of her feet than through the palms of her hands. Chest tightening, Arwen examined the room.

A bedchamber. Simple, but elegant with cream and pale pink décor. The curtains were draped in front of the windows, half pulled open but the translucent layer behind it pulled closed to haze the sight beyond. It was a spare bedroom in the House of Wind. She'd seen it a thousand times.

Arwen clutched at her arms, running over the fabric of the velvet dress, the only thing other than her skin and hair that she had been able to feel since she died, between her fingers. The familiarity soothed her, allowed her to centre her focus.

She looked down at the bed, at the soft ripples in the bedding that marked her existence there. That could be seen.

She made a mark.

She made a mark.

She had been asleep. The velvet dress crinkled at her tightening fingers. Her body felt different as well. Heavier. The soles of her feet pressed into the wood and her knees felt the ache of her weight on them. Arwen shifted to test it. A throbbing beat through her body, between each joint.

The sudden realisation that she was breathing made her knees buckle. Hand shooting to her throat, she felt the air go in and out. Her lungs cried for it when she tried to stop. Eyes wide and unfocused, Arwen turned on her heels, found the door and marched towards it.

She stopped, nose a hair away from the wood.

Usually, she would walk straight through it. Today was different though.

Her hand rose from beside her hip, fingers curling in anticipation as she reached for the rounded handle. The cold metal made her flinch and that sickening feeling returned to her stomach. Forcing herself to hold it, she turned the knob and the door creaked open. Releasing it, Arwen wiped her hand on her dress and twisted her shoulders to slide through the crack between the door and the threshold that its natural swing offered, unwilling to touch more than necessary.

Perhaps Rhysand had pulled into whatever was beyond death. He had died too, after all. And this was her eternity. The thought made her nose wrinkle, despising whatever deity or fate decided that this would be her eternity after the torture it took to get there.