Rowaelin Oneshots (Throne of Glass)

The Prince

So in honor of KINGDOM OF ASHES RELEASE (THE LAST TOG BOOK SAVE OUR SOULS) I finally got off my ass and did a rewrite (its 100% different don't worry I didn't just reword it) of the excerpts SJM put out like two months ago, please enjoy!

Original "The Prince" (Written by Sarah J. Maas):

He had been hunting for her since the moment she was taken from him.

His mate.

He barely remembered his own name. And only recalled it because his three companions spoke it while they searched for her across violent and dark seas, through ancient and slumbering forests, over storm-swept mountains already buried in snow.

He stopped long enough to feed his body and allow his companions a few hours of sleep. Were it not for them, he would have flown off, soared far and wide.

But he would need the strength of their blades and magic, would need their cunning and wisdom before this was through.

Before he faced the dark queen who had torn into his innermost self, stealing his mate long before she had been locked in an iron coffin. And after he was done with her, after that, then he'd take on the cold-blooded gods themselves, hell-bent on destroying what might remain of his mate.

So he stayed with his companions, even as the days passed. Then the weeks.

Then months.

Still he searched. Still he hunted for her on every dusty and forgotten road.

And sometimes, he spoke along the bond between them, sending his soul on the wind to wherever she was held captive, entombed.

I will find you.

My Rewritten "The Prince": 

The figure, carved into geometric planes by the light reflected off the snow, sat in his own puddle and shadow. A breath plumed, like a translucent spirit, from his slaked jaw. Before it could fight through his stubble and weave amongst his lashes, his head fell with his eyelids; as if he couldn't bear to watch the vapors crumble away to join the flush of clouds that drenched the expanse in a pale grey.

Opening his eyes made them sting. Once the tears cleared and he could read the black lines embossed in his umber hands, his heart freefell:

Days ago it had been his hands, now the flesh up to his elbows itched and seared, leaving his fingertips charred. Frost kissed along his veins to the flaking pools of dry skin on his forearms: so still and sharp not even the blood which oozed in droplets from pores on the pools' beds could convince him this skeleton and meat was more than a marble throne for his conscience.

As if ice had been injected into the nape of his neck, cold branched through him- he shuddered, causing skin to avalanche and droplets of blood to race through silver hairs to his arm's nadir where they clung, then plummeted. By the time the blood blossomed into pedals and briar, the grains had been whisked away with the dancing snowdrifts and twirled to the horizon.

The blood splatters seemed to radiate power- he swore steam was wisping from them.

The red blended into magenta as the ice melted beneath them. They were the only color for miles. And by hollowing pockets into this dead land, they were the most alive thing here- life opposes death, and the Prince hadn't done so in a long time.

He wheezed, tongue drooping between his fangs. His pupils swelled and the pomegranate red ponds sharpened as everything else blurred.

His head began to slump nearer to them.

The spit's ghostly warmth dripping down his chin, made him blink, swallow, and sit up to stare at the clouds, waiting for a faint yellow light to appear and dive behind the skyline.

Still, he panted; he licked the dead air, searching for a hint of flavor.

After minutes or hours of watching for the frozen sun- having only parched his throat, bloated his tongue, and twisted his brain into a headache by searching the fleeting shadows- he stopped.

He shut his jaw and stilled his eyes.

A stifling plague seeped from his face to his shoulders. It stopped the burning, but his skin shed more than ever.

He stayed like that for hours until the blood lakes were pink stained depressions spattered around his feet.

His shadow wavered under him, gliding backward. He stiffened, his eyes honed on the skyline with a will and intensity that could push time. Clouds shifted from bland white to the color of weathered pages and gradually a cloud glowed as if it had bottled a lighting storm.

It brightened until it reached its zenith and the sun rays shredded and ripped it apart, shooting out spotlights onto the ice.

He did not balk, he did not blink, when the sun finally punched through the heavens to rain blistering light.

Pale golden streams, the color of hair, eyes, and nightgowns, rich and dense, soaked his face till ice shavings glistened like sweat.

The broiling circle dipped out of sight. Crimson splattered clouds haloed her coffin.

His head dropped to his palms, the white imitation branded into his pupils burned through them.

He clamped his lids shut to wring it out, instead, spraying salt water and blood onto his hands.

Those red blotches soaked into his skin like it was cotton.

He clasped his palms to his lips and nose and gasped down the artic air until his lungs strained against his ribs.

Please.

One last gulp. The barren stream of frigid air he sucked in glided through him.

No salt. No iron. No embers. No jasmine or citrus- no Fireheart.

His neurons and soul fried and crumbled.

"Rowan?" the mouse's voice sliced through the white like an arrow.

Her limping, meager shadow was sanded by the snow. A touch on the Prince's shoulder was all it took to shattered his collarbone.

"It's time to go Rowan."

His bones were broken, his muscles and organs were frozen. How could he go?

Within his eyes her weak shadow still faintly glowed, appearing more moon than sun. No matter where he looked it remained his center- on the horizon as an unreachable goal. It's dim light thawed him just enough that he could stumble up with the help of the mouse's hand.

He used to cringe at her touch- any touch. Now it meant nothing more than a weed brushing his boot.

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Go to the next chapter to read the rewrite of "The Princess"!!