Chapter Text
Windhaven is just that; a haven for the wind. The icy, katabatic wind that roars across from the northern steppes, up the glacier carved valley, up into the mountains. Its voice is always audible; sometimes just a whispering hiss, sometimes a high whining howl through the pines, sometimes thunderous gusts that rattle the windows and make the embers flare in the fire pits. Right now it’s a thin, petulant wail that promises worse to come.
Cassian trudges across the stony valley floor from the training field to the huddled rows of rock-walled houses. He keeps his wings tucked tight for warmth. The only warm parts of him right now are his knuckles, scraped and bloody, and his jaw, throbbing where Mischa landed one good punch before learning his lesson. He takes a direct path through the tents, careless of the muddy track, too fizzy with righteous anger to worry about the state of his boots. Ice is forming on puddles already, now that the sun has gone down behind the ridge. He’s freezing, and he’s mad, and he suspects he’s going to be in a world of shit.
At the largest building, two warriors stand guard at the door.
“What d’ye want, ye wee bastard?”
“Captain Ilya sent me. Says to ask for the Commander. Got a note.”
“Been fighting again?”
Cassian shrugs, and stares the guard down, daring him to comment on the bruise he’s sure is blossoming on his jaw.
“You’ll have to wait,” says the other. “Got the Ironcrest crew in with him, still.”
“I can come back later?” Cass suggests hopefully.
“No you fuckin’ can’t. Get in there. Wait in the corridor.”
The corridor’s drafty and dim. Nowhere to sit. Cass lingers outside the heavy oak doors to the Commander’s meeting room. He can hear voices inside. Damn shame it’s Ironcrest. That’ll put Devlon in a filthy mood, he knows.
He hears a fist hitting the table and can’t resist peering through the thin gap between the doors. Inside, at the big table, he can see Devlon and his Ironcrest counterpart, Commander Petyr, or at least the back of Petyr’s sleek head. Devlon, facing toward the door, looks ratshit compared to Petyr; blocky and unwashed, like an angry bear. Three Ironcrest warriors are standing in one corner. Their leathers, armour and swords are bloody beautiful. Not for the first time, Cass wonders whether his life would’ve turned out different if he’d been dumped there instead of here; spent his formative years in the biggest camp of all, the one with all the money, instead of this shithole.
Still. Devlon makes real warriors. Suffering makes real warriors. And Cass fully intends to be one of the greats, one of these days.
In the farthest corner, there’s one more person. Hard to make out. He’s standing back, in the shadows. Cass doesn’t look too hard. That kid gives him the creeps.
“Nothing more to say, then,” says Devlon. “We’ll see you at the Rite.”
“Your prerogative,” says Petyr with a shrug. “Next year, perhaps, we can come to an agreement.”
“It’ll never happen,” says Devlon.
The Ironcrest commander stands, and Cass steps back smartly, out of the way. He keeps his eyes down as the visitors leave, launching themselves into the sky as soon as they’re outside the building.
“Fuckers,” says the Commander. He turns to go back in, and then sees Cassian standing there.
“Not you again.”
“Got a note, sir. From Captain Ilya.” Cass proffers it unenthusiastically. He doesn’t know what it says, but it’s not likely to be good news for him. Devlon grabs it and pushes Cass into the room, closing the door behind them. He stalks over to the fireplace and sits in one of the two large chairs flanking it, reading Ilya’s note.
Cass edges closer to the lovely warmth of the fire and perches on the other chair. The Commander just barks “No,” and Cass bounces back onto his feet and tries to look repentant.
“This has got to stop,” says Devlon at last. “This uncontrolled aggression.”
Which is so stupid. “We’re here to learn to fight, aren’t we?”
“We’re not here to brutalise one another. We’re here to form a fighting corps. Just remember that you’re fucking lucky to be here. You’re fucking lucky to have a home.”
“Sir.”
“It sounds like the lad’s going to be in the infirmary for days.”
Cass shifts from foot to foot. He really hadn’t meant to hurt him that badly.
“You’ve got to learn to control it.”
“Maybe, sir… maybe I’m just ready for siphons?”
Devlon looks at him incredulously. “Absolutely not. You regularly put your peers in the infirmary. You’ve got no control, no discipline. You’ve got no chance of managing a siphon, you fool.”
Cass bites his tongue and says nothing. The Commander sighs.
“Listen. I know they give you a hard time. I’ve heard the things they call you. But you’ve got a lot going for you, lad. Look at you; bigger than the others, stronger, your aerial work is phenomenal, your sword work too. But you can’t control your temper, and you can’t control your power. So what am I going to do with you?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“You’re banned from the training ground for a week.”
“No! Sir, please, I promise —”
“Shut it. I’ve got a job for you. Azriel. Come here.”
Out of the shadows, a narrow form emerges. Pale, lanky, his wings drooping. That cold, blank face, and the writhing shadows that follow him. The shadowsinger; Cass isn’t even sure he’s heard his name before. He tries not to let his feelings show on his face. Best not to get on the wrong side of this one.
“You know each other?”
“Uh. Sort of. Hey.”
Azriel says nothing.
“You,” says Devlon, pointing at Cass, “need to learn self control. He’s got it. And you,” pointing at Azriel now, “need to learn to use those pathetic curtains you’re carrying around on your back, and this one knows how. So there you go. You’ve got a week. At the end of the week, I want both of you flying, and both of you able to put up a solid shield without blasting your comrades over a cliff. Now fuck off.”
Azriel bends down to the Commander and murmurs something urgently in his ear. Tendrils of shadow writhe around his jaw.
“No. No, I’ll manage it without you. I’ve let this go on too long; you’re too old for this bullshit. You can come back when you can fly. Go on, fuck off. And shut the door behind you.”
Back out in the gelid dusk, the two look at each other warily.
Azriel still says nothing.
Cass sighs. “See you in the morning? Meet by the mess?”
Azriel ducks his head in agreement, and disappears down an alleyway.
It’s going to be a long week.
*
Cass can smell dinner before he’s even opened the door, and all of a sudden he’s completely ravenous. He makes a beeline for the kitchen, where he finds Rhys writing laboriously at the table and his mother slicing a warm, fresh loaf.
“Hello,” she says, and then, “You look like you’ve had a day.”
Rhys, little tosser, says, “I heard you got in trouble again.” His voice cracks halfway through it, which embarrasses him and gives Cass a lovely little burst of schadenfreude.
Throwing himself into the chair closest to the fire, Cass shrugs. “’S nothing.” But Aunty comes round and takes him by the chin, tilting his face towards the fire.
“That doesn’t look like nothing to me, young man.”
“You should see the other guy,” says Cass without thinking. And then he winces, remembering that the other guy, in this case, actually got a lot more than he bargained for.
Of course, Rhys already knows. “Mischa’s in the infirmary,” he tells his mother. “Cass launched a power bomb and Mischa’s got a broken arm.”
It hurts to see Aunty’s face fall like that.
“Cassian. You know better.”
“I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”
She puts the bread in the middle of the table, moving Rhys’s books out of the way, and brings out bowls. Fills them with stew, while she collects her temper.
Rhys glances at him, and Cass sneers back. Pretty boy Rhys, so perfect. So totally in control of his High Fae powers, even though he’s nearly two years younger. It’s fucking enraging. Just like it’s fucking enraging to be the object of his and his mother’s charity, and be judged by them.
But it would be more fucking enraging to be out there in the cold, in some scavenged and holey tent, instead of here in this nice warm kitchen in this nice warm home. Well, relatively nice and warm. It’s Windhaven after all.
Aunty never makes him feel like a charity case, never has, but he knows he is. Knows he owes his comfort to Rhys. Damn him and his perfect powers and his pointy ears and his title and all the rest of it, including his compassion that’s given Cass a home.
Aunty says, “Do we need to make a plan, Cassian? Do you need help? I’m sure Rhysand wouldn’t mind spending more time with you, helping you control it.”
“Nah,” says Cass, sopping up the last of his supper with the bread crust. “Devlon’s already punishing me with a tutor.”
“Oh? Who?”
“That weirdo who’s always lurking behind him. The one with the, you know…” He swirls his fingers around his head in a poor imitation of Azriel’s shadows.
Rhys snickers. Cass kicks him under the table and Rhys snarls.
“Boys,” says Aunty tiredly, and they both say sorry at the same time.
“I don’t think he’ll be much of a tutor,” says Rhys. “He never comes out. He never does anything. He never speaks to me.”
“Why would he,” says Cass, and then, “Sorry,” before Aunty can say anything.
Aunty says, “I don’t know him, but he’s… rare. Those shadows of his. Not many like that; it’s no wonder Devlon keeps him close and guards him. He’s valuable. Useful.”
“Yeah, but he can’t even fly,” says Cass. “It’s pathetic. Devlon says we’ve got a week. He’s got to teach me control, and I’ve got to teach him to fly.”
“A week? No chance,” says Rhys confidently.
Aunty looks thoughtful. “Have you ever taught anyone to fly?”
“Nah. Can’t be that hard though. Everyone can do it. Even Rhys, and his wings are fake.”
“You’re just jealous ‘cos you’re stuck with yours all the time.”
“Boys. Listen, Cassian. I have taught people to fly,” and she smiles down at Rhys. “And I can tell you this; that leap of faith is incredibly hard. Even for someone who’s young and carefree. For someone like that boy… it’s not going to be easy.”
“Plus he’s got no strength,” says Cass, flexing demonstratively and pounding a fist on his own, objectively awesome pecs. “No way he’s going to be able to lift off. You should see his wings, they just kind of hang there.”
“Feeble,” says Rhys, and Cass has to grunt agreement on that one.
Aunty’s having none of it. Gathering up their bowls with a clatter, she says sternly, “You don’t know the first thing about what’s gone on in his life to make him that way. It can’t have been easy, whatever it was. You be good to him, Cassian, you hear me?”