Helen is not of Troy
and not of Sparta.
She does not live in the towers of burning Ilium,
or the ruined palaces of once-great Greece–
No, she is found between the folds of history
over and over and over again.

Blamed and de-famed and cruelly scorned,
She is every woman who bears the burden
of the faults of men and gods.

She is all of us–
History repeating itself,
maybe to punish
maybe to teach
maybe to remind
But it does not matter–
Whatever might be the ill-taught lesson,
the shouts of the imprisoned and deprived
are forever lost in the clanging of weapons,
false pride
and forgotten women.

Sing, o goddess, the rage of Helen
–which launched not a thousand ships
but was stifled and silenced
by a war fought wrongly in her honour.

—  sing, o goddess, the rage of helen | by prithvi. p

For @wtfmulder@perplexistan and @frangipanidownunder​ who so kindly encouraged me to emerge from lurking in the shadows and write this based on my 1 AM anon response to @wtfmulder​‘s ask prompt: where do Mulder and Scully get it on?. I’ve never written any X-Files fanfic before, so hopefully it’s not as awful and awkward as my brain insists on telling me it is 

“It’s a Halloween party, Scully. Not a funeral.”

Mulder is tipped back in his chair with his feet propped on the desk amongst various casefiles and his tongue working its way around a sunflower seed. His eyes rake over her black floor-length Victorian pinafore and his pouty lips twist into a teasing grin.

Scully scowls, her long puff sleeves swishing as she crosses her arms.

“For your information Mulder, this is a nearly exact replica of the dresses Marie Curie wore while conducting her groundbreaking scientific research on radiation, which led to her being the only person - male or female - to win a Nobel Prize in two different sciences, despite being denied access to higher education because she was a woman.”  

Mulder swings his legs off the desk and stands. He’s dressed head to toe in a black spandex bodysuit printed with the skeleton of the human body. Unlike the baggy pants of the early years of their partnership, this suit concealed nothing. Scully can see all of his, um, bones. Every single one. He crosses their cramped basement office to her and fingers the lacy ruffles of her high-necked smock.

“Don’t worry, Scully. I still think you look very cute.”

Scully keeps a face of neutral composure, determined not to let her quickening pulse betray her. She cocks her eyebrow and fixes her cool blue gaze upon him, giving him that look. She was already displeased at having to spend her first free Friday night in a month at the annual FBI Halloween party and his jokes are not helping.

She had barely contained her ire a few hours ago when Skinner announced that the party was now mandatory, as part of the Bureau’s new “Healthy Work/Life Balance” initiative. To be fair, Skinner was not overly thrilled with this new development either.

“If I have to go,” he’d said with an edged monotone that brooked no argument, “everyone has to go. No exceptions. I’ll see the two of you there in four hours.” He’d resignedly plopped a cowboy hat on his head with all the enthusiasm of being forced to attend a UFO convention with Mulder, “Yee haw.”

“A skeleton?” she shoots back. “Really, Mulder? How very spooky of you.”

“Not just any skeleton, Scully.” His boyish grin grows as he steps behind her to flip the light switch, plunging the office into darkness. “A glow in the dark one!”

She’s grateful for the newfound darkness that hides her begrudgingly amused smile and eye roll. The press of his hips into her backside and his sudden gravelly voice in the shell of her ear makes her heart jump and her cheeks burn.

“Wanna bone, Scully?”

Her stomach flutters in response to his offer and the closeness of his body. Licking her dry lips, she turns to face him, tilting her chin in defiance. Mulder knows this not because he can see her in the dim greenish glow of his suit, but by the warmth of her breath on the underside of his jaw.

“I dunno, Mulder,” she says in a low voice, her hand coming up to cradle his cheek. “With 206 of them, however will I choose?”

Scully brushes her thumb over the fine sandpaper of his jaw. “Should I go with the mandible?”

She can feel his Adam’s apple bob as she trails her hand down his neck, sweeping over his collarbone. “Or maybe the clavicle.”

Dragging her hands lightly down, “Sternum,” her fingertips pause over each bone as she goes. “Rib 1…2…3…4…” She can feel his heartbeat jackhammering in its cage, his chest rising shallowly because he’s forgotten how to breathe.

 “10…11…12…” Scully’s hand smooths over his waist before settling firmly on his hip. “Mulder, did you know that the pelvis has three different regions?”

Whatever breath he had left catches in his throat, his mouth too dry to make any sounds remotely resembling human language. He shakes his head in response, even though he knows she cannot see.

“The ilium.” She begins her descent over the curve of his hip. “The ischium.” Her hand sweeps up his groin to palm his barely concealed spandex bulge. “And the pubis.”

“Or perhaps,” Scully whispers, slowly sliding her hand through his quivering legs to press her fingers into his tailbone, “the coccyx.”

At her emphasis on that penultimate syllable, a strangled whimper drops from his lips.

“Hey Mulder,” Scully asks, her hand still between his legs. “You want to know the biggest difference between Marie Curie and me?”

The upward press and subsequent pause of her hand and forearm into his groin intonates that she expects a response from him. Mulder swallows hard, trying to wet his throat enough to form a coherent response.

“…uh yeah?” he asks weakly, unable to control the shaking timbre of his voice.

Reversing the path her hand traveled, trailing it back over his crotch and upward, Scully leans into Mulder’s broad chest and rests her smooth cheek against his stubbled one, her lips curving into devious smile an inch from his ear.

“Marie Curie wore underwear under her dress.”

She turns sharply on the heel of her black lace-up boots and exits the office, leaving a certain spooky skeleton speechless in the dark, bones glowing.

boy with hell in his smile and a summer storm in his eyes.

he will look at you and you will tell yourself that he isn’t all that beautiful (he is). when the casual graze of his hand against yours keeps you awake at night you will say you do not wish him to steal you and keep you in his arms until the sun comes up (you do). 

boy with a thousand nights of excess between his ribs.

you will decorate your hair with flowers and dance in the sun. you will lie to yourself when you say you don’t want to live the night the way he does and poison your body until you are so intoxicated with him that the only thing that’s real anymore is his breath on your neck.

boy with heaven in his tongue and a scorching desert on his fingertips.

you will try to erase the prints he has left on your skin but when they talk about ilium burning all you can remember is the way his mouth felt on yours and how he caught his breath when your lips were on his chest. he will make you forget what having a body felt like before you met him.  

boy who will steal your lungs and your guts and your heart.

—  [warnings to spring girls with restless hearts] (modern persephone x hades)- Carmen A.
A Lyric Hymn to Mercury

Horace, Odes 1.10

Mercury, Atlas’ eloquent grandson,
You who in your cunning shaped
The savage ways of primitive man
With language and the customs of
    The comely wrestling-ground,
I shall sing of you- the messenger
Of great Jove and of all the gods,
Creator of the curving lyre,
Cunning at hiding in joking theft
    Whatever’s caught your fancy.
Once, when Apollo, with threatening voice,
Was terrifying you, still a boy,
If you did not return his cattle
Stolen through a trick, he saw
    His quiver gone, and laughed.
And, too, it was with you as guide
That wealthy Priam left Ilium
And slipped past Atreus’ haughty sons,
Thessalian watch-fires too, and the camp
   Pitched to level Troy.
You set pious souls in their happy seat
And with your golden wand corral
The insubstantial throng of dead;
You please not only the gods above
   But those below as well.

Mercuri, facunde nepos Atlantis,
qui feros cultus hominum recentum
voce formasti catus et decorae
    more palaestrae,
te canam, magni Iovis et deorum
nuntium curvaeque lyrae parentem,
callidum quicquid placuit iocoso
    condere furto.
Te, boves olim nisi reddidisses
per dolum amotas, puerum minaci
voce dum terret, viduus pharetra
     risit Apollo.
Quin et Atridas duce te superbos
Ilio dives Priamus relicto
Thessalosque ignis et iniqua Troiae
    castra fefellit.
Tu pias laetis animas reponis
sedibus virgaque levem coerces
aurea turbam, superis deorum
    gratus et imis.

Bronze statuette of the god Mercury, holding a money-purse in his right hand; his left hand originally held a caduceus.  Artist unknown; 1st or 2nd cent. CE.  Now in the Louvre.  Photo credit:  © Marie-Lan Nguyen / Wikimedia Commons.

Sorrow | Mitch Rapp

From: American Assassin
Pairing: Mitch x reader
Word count: 3,678
Warnings: swearing (’cause, y’know, Mitch), terrorist attack (blood, bullets). 

A/N: I was listening to Today by the movie If I Stay (if you haven’t seen it, why are you still reading this?) and the thought of the reader being in a coma crossed my mind, so here I am, writing this for you guys. Also, I wanted it to be written from Mitch’s POV ‘cause I thought it would be better. Feedback is very appreciated, and hope you like it! Enjoy! x

“Here we are, in beautiful Ibiza, Spain. The sand, the waves, my favorite shorts, and my favorite girl, who is about to get… Oh, my God!” I exclaimed as the wave almost swept us away, making me nearly drop the camera in the crystalline water. 

“Mitch, give it to me! Stop recording, seriously!” (Y/N) protested as I attempted to get away from her who was trying to snatch the camera away from my wet hands.

“Honey, please, just let me record for a couple minutes, okay? This is like our honeymoon!” I whined because I wanted to catch every single moment of our vacation together.

“Oh, honeymoon? We’re not married,” she said and dove into the water like a mermaid, disappearing from my sight. Ha, she didn’t know yet

Keep reading


Asari have one of the most disappointing designs in Mass Effect series. The famous conversation in bar on Ilium makes little sense considering that they use the same model as humans, fans even theorised them having hypnotic powers. That theory is implausible for several reasons and conversation itself seems almost mocking considering that Asari are reskinned humans. I tried to make them more alien and interesting while keeping key features. They are supposed to be attractive by human standards, which I hope I achieved, and similar to turians salarians and humans. There’s not much from turians in this design because I couldn’t make a consistent and good looking whole, though the fringe is still there. I tried to give them turian hips but it looked awkward. The eyes are modified from one of the concept variants. The face and body shape is human both because of the way humans refer to them in game and to prove that it’s possible to create an attractive alien who can use human body and face animations without being completely human.

You Won’t Miss Much, Part Two

Hello! So here is chapter two, ft. Worried!Fenrys

I also learned a bit of history/mythology the other day! Sellene is one of the primordial gods in Greek history, and Endymion was her lover who was killed. They are also Rowan’s cousins, who are both mentioned in EoS! Sorry, my inner nerd.

Summary: It’s been months since the war that changed every aspect of life in Erilea. Aelin Galathynius has survived against all odds and now is the rightful queen of Terrasen, but there are demons that still haunt both her and her court. And when she sends her king to deal with the rising tensions in Eyllwe, those demons begin their assault on everyone’s mind. And in the midst of it all, another surprise will either be the making or breaking of Aelin.

Warnings: Mentions of rape. Suicidal thoughts, torture, insomina, ptsd, depression.

Word Count: 3070

Chapter One.  Chapter Three


If Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius didn’t get something to eat in about two minutes, he was going to end someone’s life. He glanced around at his companions, who all seemed to be sharing his feelings of coldness, tiredness, and hunger. He’d been on much tougher war campaigns, ones where they’d had to abandon their horses because the snow was too deep, or the ones where they’d gone days without rest or food, but somehow this one was fraying his nerves much more than those ever had. 

 Perhaps it was what Aelin had awoken him with last night…

 Rowan shook his head, and spurred his horse a bit, hissing as the animal clomped into a large puddle he hadn’t noticed. Aedion, who had been riding unusually quite beside him, laughed dryly.

“Not enough sleep last few nights, Your Majesty?” The male’s smarmy grin was enough for Rowan to get what he was suggesting.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, without looking back at him. Aedion made a sound of protest, and sped up his horse to catch up with Rowan. “Never mind that,” he said, the words coming out with a puff of steam in the cold air. The golden male looked back towards the rest of the party behind him, a smiling catching on his face as he saw Gavriel looking miserable at the back. 

They’d only brought three lords, the ones Aelin trusted, and three guards. But the lords, the finicky bastards, had insisted they bring a few of their servants with them. But still it was a small party, considering the task Aelin had sent him with; heal the bonds, ease people’s minds. Aedion had insisted they bring more, but Rowan had only said that more would look too much like an invasion.

“You know,” Aedion whispered. “It’ll take us two months to get there if we don’t hurry our pace.”  He was right, they’d miss their ship if they didn’t hurry. The plan was to ride to Ilium, then board on of the ship’s bound for Eyllwe. Rowan nodded his assent, the crown on his head heavy, and he raised a hand to steady it.

“Do I really have to wear this the entire journey?” He hissed, snapping his gaze to his general, who only laughed. “I suppose so.” Rowan braced himself as a wicked grin spread across Aedion’s tan face. “But, if you had agreed to taking a carriage—” Rowan groaned and let his head droop a bit. “You’d only have to wear it outside!”

“I am certainly not riding in a carriage like some polished little prince.” Aedion laughed, his eyes sparkling. Rowan felt another pang of hunger strike his belly, and he grabbed the pocket watch Aelin had thrown at him as he had been packing. It was nearly an hour past noon. But Aedion was right, they needed to pick up their pace, and, as Rowan glanced around, he found no place to stop. Rowan huffed. “We’ll stop in an hour.” Aedion nodded, and shouted the words back towards the group behind them. For a while the only sound was that of the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the snapping of the silver-and-green banners in the wind, then a grumble interrupted it. Rowan snapped his eyes to Aedion in question, and the male blushed.

“I’m hungry,” he explained.

Rowan rolled his eyes but reached over to his saddle bag with one hand, unclipping it and tossing it towards Aedion. “Aelin probably stuck some gross confectionery in there.”

Aedion laughed as he rifled through it, shouting his victory when he yanked out a small wax paper bag. “Why,” Aedion began as he popped what looked like a piece of chocolate into his mouth, “does she shove this stuff in here if she knows you aren’t going to eat it?”

Rowan shrugged in answer and scanned the road before them. The towering pines on either side of the road created quite the image; each dusted with last night’s fallen snow, the needles whispering in the faint wind. There was a snicker behind him that turned into a full guffaw, and Rowan raised his brows at Aedion, then saw what he was looking at… 

“Oh gods,” he groaned, a blush heating his face. Aelin— wicked and cruel Aelin had slid a book into his bag as well. He remembered that particular book well. It was a copy of one of Aelin’s favorite collections of poems. If you could call them poems, and not just explicit short stories.

“Why the hell do you have this?” he said after another minute of laughter. Rowan only shook his head. “Blame your queen, General.”

Aedion chuckled, “She reads this smut?” Rowan fixed him with a look of disbelief. “You’ve no idea.”

You minx, he said to Aelin.

Hmm, did you find my book?
Yes, but, as a matter of fact, Aedion, found your book
, he growled.

There was a pause, then, Oh. I hope he enjoyed it.

 Sitting at the table in her chambers, breakfast spread before her, Aelin scanned the paper before her, trying desperately to quell her disappointment at what she was reading.

Your Majesty,

Sellene and I have been trying feverishly to calm the many who think the Whitethorn’s aren’t appropriate rulers, and I am sad to tell you that we may have to forfeit this rule. Or perhaps, you and my dear cousin could come to Doranelle to speak on our behalf, we need more influence than the few decrees you’ve sent. With Maeve dead, centuries of tradition are disintegrating, and we need your help. There has been no violence to speak of, but we fear that it may arise. I am aware of the things going on in Erilea, but this is a plea, if only so we can keep this from escalating.

Your friend,

Aelin sighed heavily. She couldn’t leave to go to Wendlyn, not for the next few months at least, and she couldn’t spare anyone to go either. The tension in the kingdom had been steadily rising since the War, and it seemed it was at its tipping point. She scrubbed her face with a hand, then a few hard knocks on the door interrupted her, and she glanced towards the young girl who was pouring her a cup of tea. “Get that, please.” 

The girl scurried off with a quick bow, and Aelin adjusted the sleeves of her tunic as she heard the two sets of footsteps returning. It had been three weeks since Rowan had left, and she figured she had gotten maybe two whole nights of rest collectively. Maybe it was the nightmares that chased her from sleep, or the cold that had seeped into her bones. Aelin tipped back her head and sighed.

“You look like shit.”

Aelin righted herself to glare at Fenrys, whose tan face was serious. “Nice to see you, too, Fen. I’ve been well, how about you?”

 Fenrys didn’t smile as he pulled out a chair at the end of the table, helping himself to a plate of potatoes and sausage.

 “I’m serious, Aelin,” he said. “Are you feeling well?” 

Aelin rolled her eyes and braced an arm on the table, digging her fork into a piece of toast. “Is there a reason you’re here so early, Fenrys?” She said rather snappishly. 

The male raised a groomed brow in her direction, but shook his head, and fished something of his pocket, “This came a little bit ago.” He tossed a sealed envelope across the table, and she caught it with a hand. Suddenly, the scent of pine and snow and Rowan filled her, and a smile brightened her face. “Rowan,” she breathed.

She looked away from the sealed letter and towards Fenrys, raising a brow. “Why not just have a servant deliver this?” Fenrys looked out the window, his hands fidgeting with his fork. “Fenrys,” she growled. He winced a bit and met her eyes again. “Lysandra wanted me to check on you, she said you hadn’t been sleeping, and that you wouldn’t talk to her about it—”

Aelin bristled and clenched her fork a bit tighter. “And she said it might be good to talk to someone else…” Fenrys shifted in his seat, poking at the food on his plate. Aelin knew they were only trying to help, but they couldn’t.

 It was as simple as that. 

They had no way of knowing what it had been like inside that coffin, or inside that damned pit Maeve had kept her in. And she didn’t think she could ever tell them. Fenrys knew most of what had happened simply because he’d been there, and Rowan… She’d told him only what she could. 

There were some things that could only escape the binds she kept them in during her nightmares. And the things that had happened when she’d faced Erawan on the battle field… “I can’t talk about it Fen. I-,” she paused, considering what she was about to say. “I won’t talk about it.”

Fenrys nodded sadly and stood. “I have days like that too, but you can’t let it sit inside and grow into even worse monstrosities. We can’t let what happened to us defeat us after we’ve already survived it. You survived, Majesty, don’t forget that. And don’t forget that surviving isn’t the same thing as living.” With that, he left.

Aelin braced her elbows on the table, looking at her half-eaten breakfast in disgust. She’d told Rowan once that he made her want to live­— not just survive. And he did. Every day, but it seemed that ever since she’d been freed from that hellhole, she’d been going through the motions. 

She was Aelin Galathynius and she had survived Maeve, she had survived a fate that the very gods had predestined her for. But she was tired of just surviving. Perhaps she had forgotten those words she’d told her mate all those months ago.

Fenrys was lost in thought as he wandered down the hall towards his rooms, but as the ever-changing scent of Lysandra met his nose, he was drug out of his reverie. 

“Did you talk to her?” Lysandra practically shouted as he neared her.

 “I did my best, but,” he sighed. “This is something she has to be willing to do.” 

Lysandra frowned, but nodded. “Before Rowan left, he told me to keep an eye on her.” She dropped her voice, and glanced around the empty hall. “He said her nightmares had gotten worse, and that she wasn’t even telling him what was going on.” 

Lysandra scrubbed her face with a small hand. “I’m worried.” She said finally, and Fenrys nodded his agreement. “There’s quite a lot going on, maybe after everything’s settled in Eyllwe and in Doranelle, the stress will ease,” he said after a moment. “Maybe,” Lysandra whispered.

Aelin had forced herself to finish her meal before asking for the table to be cleared. Now, lying atop the covers in her bed, she smiled as she carefully unfolded the parchment, Rowan’s scent still clinging to the paper.

My dearest, Aelin,

I miss you. It is hard being so far away from you, Fireheart. By the time you get this letter, I’ll be on the ship, but for now, I’m lying in my dreadfully uncomfortable bed in the nicest inn Ilium could offer, wishing you were here. Unfortunately, I think the further we get from each other, the harder it is to get clear messages, so while I’m on the ship, you may have some silence. But I promise when I get to Eyllwe I’ll write more. And, I am unashamed to tell you that I have read a few of your little poems. They’ve giving me a few ideas, actually, especially the one atop page 55.

Aelin made a mental note to look that one up.

But, asides from your sinful literature, I’d like you to know how amazing Ilium is. This city is flourishing, and as are all the others we passed through on the way here. Aelin, when I get back, I think we should go around and visit the towns and villages again. Not just for their sake, but for ours as well. I think it would do us both good to see what we’ve done. The people are healing, from the War, and from the past. It’s inspiring. This morning, after we arrived, I went down to the temple to pray, and to look around. It has become a place of reverence again. You’d be honored, my love.

He went on to discuss the many happenings of their week and a half of travels, and of course, the topics he had decided to discuss in Eyllwe, but towards the end…. Aelin reread the last few paragraphs a few times.

Aelin, perhaps this a cowardly way of doing things, but I wanted to do this in a letter, if only because you cannot out right refuse the written word. I know there are things you aren’t talking about, with me, with Lys, with anyone. And I know you need time, I am prepared to give you the rest of your life if need be, but Fireheart, you can’t internalize these things. You can’t keep it in. It’ll destroy you. I know from personal experience.

You told me once that you can’t talk about the things that have happened to you. You told me that there was a rage. But that rage does not turn me away. I am not going to turn away. You’re my mate. My carranam. My queen and wife. And I love you more than anything in this damned world and in the next. And if you can’t ever talk about what happened. Then please just tell me what your feeling, Aelin. Please. You are not alone in this recovery process. You are never alone. No matter if I am thousands of miles away, my heart is with you, Fireheart. Always.

Yours Always,


She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear slipped down her face and onto the paper, smearing Rowan’s messy scrawl. Aelin set the paper aside shakily and rolled onto her back. They were right. Painfully right. She had covered everything up. Had buried it beneath false smiles and sarcastic remarks. 

Her mental health hadn’t been something she had even considered for the past six months. She had been so focused on her kingdom, and the wedding, and treaties and decrees and all the other bullshit that she had shoved away all the pain and sorrow and utter devastation at what had been done to her.

But they were wrong about one thing.  There was no talking about it. Aelin didn’t know what would happen if she did. It was something so revolting and destructive. That damn pit of memories. Aelin covered her face with a trembling hand, pressing her palm into her eyes until she saw nothing but black.

Fenrys was about two seconds away from slamming the petulant little guard’s face into the wall. “Let me repeat myself, I am one of the queen’s blood-sworn. Let me enter,” he growled to the now-shaking male. “B-but I am n-not supposed to let anyone i-in,” he stammered, glancing between Fenrys and Connall nervously. 

“We pose the queen no harm; we just have matters to discuss.” Con’s even voice seemed to soothe the man, and he stepped aside. Fenrys refrained from glaring at the man. “If she lights your asses on fire, don’t you blame me.” He grumbled.

Fenrys eased open the door, scanning the entryway as he stepped in. “Aelin,” he called softly. When there was no response, he and Connall walked in further, down the few steps that led to the main bedroom. 

Aelin lie on the bed, seemingly asleep. Her small weight barely made a dent in the large bed, and Fenrys exchanged a glance with his brother. Together, they approached the bed on near silent feet.

 Faintly, Fenrys could hear her breath, but she should have heard them enter, at least she should have heard them arguing in the hall. “Your Majesty?” Connall whispered, concerning edging his voice. Fenrys frowned when she did not respond, and reinforced his shield as her reached out a tentative hand to brush her arm. Aelin jerked up, a ball of flame flaring to life in her palm.

“What the hell!” She shouted, the flame extinguishing much to Fenrys delight. There were dried paths of tears on her cheeks, but as he caught sight of the opened letter to her right, he decided not to ask about them.
“We came to—”

“Check on me,” Aelin snarled. Connall gave Fenrys a pleading look, but he only shook his head. Their queen was right. 

Aelin angrily patted down her hair and snatched up her letter from the bed.

 “I’m not some toddler you must keep tabs on,” she said as she refolded her letter, and then leaned forward to slide it into the drawer of the nightstand. 

Smoothly, she hopped of the bed and began walking towards her closet. 

“Get out,” she said flatly. Fenrys felt the words as if they were a slap to the face, and from the hurt look in Con’s face, he felt the same. 

“Aelin, please, if this is about Rowan—,” Connell was interrupted by a viscous, cold laugh, one that made ice shoot into every vein in Fenrys body. 

“You think that this is about Rowan?” Aelin’s voice filled the room as she whipped her body around to face them. “Do you think that I’m some love-sick child?” The female spat, her hands trembling with rage.

 Fenrys held up his hands in a sign of peace. This wasn’t just the anger of a separated mate. No, this was something much deeper. Something much more sinister.

Aelin turned back to her closet “I’ll say it again. Get out! And leave me the hell alone!” With that she stomped into her closet and slammed the heavy door shut.

Aelin didn’t leave the closet until she heard them leave. So, she had sat there like a pouting child for a few minutes, and as she sat on her bed now, she realized how ridiculous she was being. They just wanted to reach her. They wanted to help. But… Aelin didn’t want their help. Out of everything, she’d always survived and figured everything out. She would this time to.