Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first Blood Rite after the Valkyries’ forced participation brought as much nervousness as it did anticipatory excitement.

There were two new Carynthians to content with, one Oristian, and the undeniable proof that any fae could win, with the right training, regardless of gender.

Though there was surprisingly little fanfare related to the females this year, the difference was felt, an overhanging tension that had yet to be properly addressed.

Cassian typically loved the festivities leading up to the Rite.

The feasts, the dancing, the games. Unlike his brothers, he thrived in his home environment, rejoicing with the warriors who had earned their place among Illyria’s elite.

Most notably of all, he loved the smaller traditions – the sacred calls to all who had sacrificed, the respect and honor with which Illyrians were taught to greet each day, after surviving conflict. He was the only one in his family to take up these practices, but he never once regretted it.

This year, though, was different. This year, he had someone he loved to help him prepare – if only to avoid celebration in her own right.

Nesta’s hands were skilled as she weaved his hair into the traditional braids only Illyrian warriors who had survived the Rite were allowed to receive. Usually, it was one braid per battle won, to include that week in on Ramiel. But when you lived as long as the fae, it instead became one braid per war.

Within the strands, colored beads would signify other victories – red for the successful completion of the Rite, orange for Arktosians, silver to Oristians, and gold for Carynthians. A black bead represented a lost loved one, a warrior who had fallen honorably. Purple was for single battle victories, while blue represented tens and white was for hundreds.

A warrior was never meant to braid their own hair. It was a sacred right that was specifically bestowed upon their Illyrian next of kin – a wife, a brother, a sister, a mate. In the years past, Azriel had done the braids for him as a way to stretch his hands, even if the shadowsinger liked to maintain as little ties to his people as possible.

This year, though, someone else held the honor.

Nesta had protested, asserting that it was not her place for such a thing, as a High Fae. But Cassian had disagreed. While she may not be of Illyrian blood, his mate was of Illyrian spirit. And as his, she was one of them. At least, to him.

Besides, there was no one else who he wanted to do this ritual now other than her.

The feeling of her fingers, the well-practiced art form she’d long mastered on her own hair, was something special between the two of them. While she refused the traditional braids herself – deeming it a step too far into a culture that wasn’t hers – she was still dressed in Illyrian robes, a deep crimson to match his siphons.

When she finished, she inspected her work meticulously, running over each rivet, ensuring not a strand was out of place. He would wear the braids until the Rite was finished, after which she would again be tasked with undoing them all, if she wished.

As he assessed himself in the mirror, he was unable to deny that her abilities far outmatched Azriel’s, in both precision and speed.

“Thank you, Nes,” he said softly. “They’re perfect.”

“I will join you this evening,” she replied, curling up on the sofa in their Illyrian cabin, book in hand. “Enjoy the afternoon.”

Today was hard for her, he knew. She had not shared the full traumas of their forced participation in the Rite, and beyond that, that week nearly ended in unimaginable tragedy. Thus, he would preserve his mate’s peace in the form of ensuring she had the day to rest as she pleased.

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, conveying his understanding.

“Enjoy your book, sweetheart. I love you.”

He said the words often, learning not long after those fateful days a year ago that Nesta rarely heard them. Even now, her cheeks flushed, and she averted her gaze, unaccustomed to the affection.

It was a work in progress.

Stepping out into the sunshine, Cassian stretched his wings, enjoying the warmth.

There were a few hours yet before the bonfires would be lit, but there was still plenty of work to do.

Walking through the streets, he watched his people as they made last minute preparations to food or laid out fine woolen dresses and tunics. Metalwork glinted in the sun, and the sound of sharpening swords echoed down the street. There was no true work to be done on these days, only preparation for the Rite.

Some smiled at him as he passed, others met him with cold indifference. But he was well accustomed to it.

Instead, he made his way up the familiar path to check in on one of their two newest Carynthians, who had been noticeably absent during the preparations.

Emerie’s shop was quiet, but he found her sweeping away at the floor, intently focused. She was still dressed plainly, her hair in its usual messy braid over her shoulders.

“Come to pester me?” She asked without looking up. “Or did Nesta send you?”

“The first assuredly,” Cassian replied. “Not interested in the festivities? We haven’t seen you.”

Emerie shrugged. “I have never been welcomed at the Rite.”

“You are a Carynthian now. You have more a right to be there than anyone else.”

 The Illyrian female laughed, softly. “Did Nesta put you up to this?”

Cassian’s brows furrowed. “She didn’t. Should she have?”

Emerie hummed. “She’s been telling me the same thing for a few days now. But I don’t actually have the respect to make that possible. All they see when they look at me are the scars on my wings.”

“You have the respect from everyone that matters,” Cassian countered, eyes fixating on a set of beads that were laid out on the countered behind her. One red, one gold, and one black, set on a deep burgundy silk cloth.

“So, you both keep saying,” Emerie said, jerking her head towards the small pile. “She dropped those off this morning.”

A smile tugged on his lips. “They will look beautiful in your hair.”

At this, Emerie’s eyes finally lifted to meet his, though her expression remained reserved.

“I haven’t the kin to weave them,” she said. “Nesta offered, but…” It wasn’t the same, were the unspoken words.

Cassian’s brows rose, the truth dawning on him. She was right of course. Her family were some of the most outspoken against the rights of females. They’d likely deemed her status a stain on their reputation.

He hated them for it.

Because before him was one of the fiercest warriors he’d ever met. Loyal, devoted, and resilient, working through pain that would cripple most males.

As the words settled over them, he was able to see the tiniest sign of her sadness. Regardless of how she felt about their society, this was one of the highest honors, a beloved tradition. To not have someone to bestow it must have been painful, even if her relationship to their people was strained.

It only served to solidify his resolve.

“If you like, I’d be honored to do it for you.”

It was Emerie’s turn to raise her brows, unable to mask her surprise.

“You what?”

Cassian tilted his head, a small smile on his face. “You are Nesta’s claimed sister, so you are mine. It’s only right you are honored properly too.”

Emerie blinked, setting down the broom against the wall. “I… You don’t have to. I didn’t intend to inspire your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Cassian asserted. “It’s respect. You hold one of the highest honors in our village, Em. It’s only right for you to display it, and to enjoy the traditions that go along with it.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, as if she were at a loss for words. A first, in the time he’d known her.

“I don’t know…” She said, drawing her fingers together.

“Do  you want to wear them?” He asked.

Her eyes burned in answer, so acutely she didn’t have to verbalize it.

“Then sit,” he said, with a smile. “Let me put them in for you.”

She remained stubborn for a few moments more, a valiant effort. But then, her shoulders slumped, something like relief on her face.

“Alright.”

----

Cassian was not quite as skilled as Nesta, but he was by no means a novice.

Standing behind Emerie while she sat on a stool, he wove her hair together in a more elaborate single plait. One strand for each day of the Rite. With as much care as he could muster, he worked in the colored beads, situating them in the middle, where they’d be most prominent.

“Who is this for?” He asked as he fingered the black one.

“My mother,” Emerie replied. “She died doing her forced duty, so she should be honored too, I think.”

Cassian agreed wholeheartedly.

“We’ll make sure she is,” he promised.

Gently, he finished weaving the hair together down her back. Before he tied it off, he assessed it, tilting his head, before he asked,

“Do you have your ribbon?”

Emerie lifted her wrist, where it was wrapped safely around.

Reaching out, he loosened it, before working it into the bottom of her braid, tying it off.

A Valkyrie and a Carynthian. Double honors for one of the most deserving people he knew.

“I may not be an expert like Nes, but I think I’ve still got some skill. What do you think?”

Emerie turned in her chair, reaching for a mirror that she kept close for female customers. Tentatively, she assessed her reflection, pulling the end of her braid over her shoulder, to run her fingers over it.

Emotion was thick in her eyes, and she swallowed, as if nearly moved to tears.

It was enough to make his own chest tight.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Cassian grinned, squeezing her shoulders.

“It’s what you deserve, Em.”

She observed his work for a few seconds more before she shifted back around. He only had a moment to prepare himself before her arms were around his neck, a rare embrace from the otherwise aloof Illyrian.

Cassian squeezed her tightly, a surge of affection overwhelming him.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into her hair. “You’re better than all of them combined. We’ll make sure they know it. You deserve to celebrate too.”

Emerie laughed, wetly, wiping roughly at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Come on then,” she said, pushing to her feet. “Show me what I would have missed out on. Maybe we’ll even coax your mate out of her nest before nightfall.”

Following her to the door, Cassian laughed, soft and warm.

And as he watched the young Illyrian walk up the street, confidence in her step, he felt that this was what made everything worth it.

To spend these days with the people he loved, and to share the things that meant the most to him, and his people.

It was a privilege, and one that he wouldn’t forsake. Not now, not ever.

With a lightness in his heart, he followed after her, more sure than ever that the future was bright.