Malek's Rest

November 2nd, 628

As the Aretia summer turned into autumn, Brennan found himself growing anxious. His skin felt loose on his body and too often his nerves jangled like he was getting too much input or too little.

He'd never looked forward to November 2nd before. He had known people who did, who spoke with reverence about a lover or a parent that they waited to see, but Brennan had only been visited by people he had personally failed to save.

Naolin wasn't quite in that category, and Brennan almost worried that it would get in the way of him coming, somehow. There was more than enough guilt, though. That would have to suffice.

In Tyrrandor, he learned, it was considered bad luck to work on the holiday. Malek was resting, but that vacation could involve visiting the living. Best not to do anything that could catch his attention.

At sunset he found himself in the square outside of the temple of Amari, the largest one he'd ever seen, the one he'd been helping restore with his mending. With the sunset behind it, it was even more beautiful.

"My heart," came a voice behind him, and Brennan whipped around.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Here was his Naolin again, and three months was suddenly no time at all and an absolute lifetime had passed.

"I wasn't sure if you'd find me," Brennan murmured.

Naolin took Brennan's hand in both of his, tracing the scar there with the pad of his thumb. Brennan could have sworn he felt something inside of himself settle at the touch. "There's nowhere you can go that I couldn't find you, love," Naolin promised, threatened, promised.

Brennan let himself collapse against his husband's chest and wondered if it would ever get easier.

---

November 2nd, 629

Last year it had been too fresh, and frankly Lilith had always hated the idea of Malek's Rest when she first learned about it. The last thing she needed in her life were people coming back from the dead to remind her of every mistake she'd made. She'd never seen her parents, had no interest in Cass Mairi or Trace Cardulo coming by to remind her of the side she'd chosen.

There was only one person she was interested in seeing.

She sent Violet to bed, made sure Asher was absorbed in whatever he was reading in his office, and sat down at her own desk next door, planning to stay up later than usual. Not because she believed in it. Just to see what hope felt like for a few hours, because she'd forgotten what it was.

When Asher shook her awake it was well after midnight.

"What kept you up?" he asked, taking her hand so he could lead her to bed.

"Nothing," Lilith answered him, and it was the truth.

Brennan hadn't come.

---

November 2nd, 630

This time next year, Xaden would be at Basgiath. He didn't know how to feel about that.

Right after the executions, he'd wished he didn't have to wait. He'd been grieving and self-destructive and probably would have gotten himself killed at the first opportunity; he could be honest about that with himself.

His father had put a quick end to that the first year he came to Xaden on Malek's Rest. That first year they'd talked about grief and leadership, and things that had only been flying randomly around in Xaden's mind before had started to form up into a neat riot.

Last year they'd talked about patience, preparation. He'd been able to tell his father about Aretia's rebuilding, about the work he'd insisted Lindell and Lewellen let him take on. About training. About Liam, and Xaden's fear that he was using Liam as a replacement for Bodhi since Liam was all he had.

"Every time life gives you a chance to love someone, you should take it. Even if it's going to hurt later," his father had said, his eyes far away, and Xaden had wondered who he was talking about. Certainly not his mother.

Starting many years earlier than the ones where he'd spent this holiday with his father, he'd wondered if he would see his mother in the darkness. Part of him wanted to even now, wanted to be able to talk to her, to ask her questions, to know that it wasn't his fault she hadn't come back. That something had kept her away. At the same time, if he didn't see her, that meant she could be alive somewhere and he might see her again.

Even now as he sat with Liam, listening to his brother ramble about whether he might see his father or his mother this year, Xaden thought it might be nice and his stomach turned at the thought.

And then it didn't matter, because he saw his father's shade coming out of the trees alongside Colonel Mairi. Liam ran to his mother, while Xaden walked purposefully, an imitation of his father he'd started doing last year during meetings in Aretia and kept up until it became habit.

He saw the way people looked at him when he acted like his father. The time he'd walked in to a meeting with Tecarus and the man had looked at him like he saw a ghost was a particular favorite. He liked the respect they gave him, and he liked feeling a little bit like his father was with him all the time.

"Xaden," his father greeted him, nodding like the Duke and then opening his arms for his son. "It's good to see you again."

"You say that every year."

"And every year it's true."

The first year he'd seen his father, Xaden remembered still being so angry, not just at Navarre for killing his father or at his father for dying, but at himself. Each year since, that anger at himself came back like emotional muscle memory, quieter but lingering longer, flaring up at other times too. When he got letters from Bodhi, from Garrick, from Imogen, from the other children of the Apostasy about their situations and he couldn't do anything. When he faced the Assembly made up of Navarran defectors who took responsibility for his father's city and his father's rebellion, both of which were his by right.

When he dreamed about the day he cursed his father for the crime of wanting him to live, and how it was the last time he saw his father alive.

Xaden's father studied him in silence for what felt like an eternity, and Xaden couldn't help but feel all the ways he wasn't his father.

"Tell me what I've missed this year," his father finally spoke. "I want to know how you've been."

---

November 2nd, 631

Garrick and Xaden had gone down to the Iakobos together. They separated after a while, Xaden going over to the tree he liked while Garrick continued down the edge of the river. It wasn't really anything like the one he'd known growing up, but it was something. They hadn't discussed it, not really, but they both knew what day it was. Would anyone be able to come here, to see them? He'd seen his mother several years after she died, but had no visitors the years he was fostered in Calldyr. They came from infantry families though, they all knew Basgiath, but Garrick couldn't imagine anyone that was likely to show up for them feeling comfortable in the Riders’ Quadrant.

Fuck, Garrick still didn't feel comfortable in the Riders’ Quadrant and he was a rider now. Bonded to a dragon and everything! He couldn't even think about how he'd ended up here without his head hurting, which was why he'd adopted a philosophy that involved thinking about the future as little as possible.

As far as he was concerned, the future was Xaden's problem.

"You'll be finding the Duke's problems become yours faster than you think," a woman's voice said, and Garrick turned.

He was taller than his Aunt Morag now. He'd been almost her height the last time he saw her, so it wasn't surprising, but it hurt all the same.

"He's not a duke," Garrick answered her, his shoulders tense.

Morag laughed and clapped him on the back. "Garry, there's nobody here spying on the dead. That's beyond even Tauri."

He relaxed at that, feeling guilty and ridiculous for feeling guilty and —

"Stop that," she said like she could see what he was thinking. "No shame in being careful. You've been following that boy since you were knee-high and you'll probably follow him to Malek's domain like we did his father; doesn't mean you want to do it soon."

Garrick smiled. Gods above — or below, he supposed — it was good to be getting lectured by his aunt again.

He hadn't noticed her wearing her sword, but suddenly it was there in her hand and she nodded to him. "I want to hear all how you've been doing, my wee Garrick, but first how about you show me that you haven't got lazy with your sword."

---

November 2nd, 632

Malek's Rest has been Bodhi's favorite day of the year for a long time.

One of his earliest memories was his Granran's lap, and she featured in a lot of the warm, blurry memories of young childhood. Sophia Durran was young for a grandmother but old for a rider when she died, and Bodhi was just old enough to remember feeling proud he was allowed to share his stories about her alongside the grownups and his older cousins, and then hiding behind his mom's legs, not wanting to watch her burn.

"It's not about the burning," she'd told him. "It's about the living they did before that, and how we remember them after." He'd thought, when he was that age, that Granran was his mother's mother because they were so close. When he was older, and just starting to understand his parents' marriage, he heard someone say that she'd married his father because she wanted Sophia to be her mother. He'd never asked her about it, only taken the idea out sometimes and rotated around like it was a piece of the puzzle box of his parents. The older he got, the more he felt like he understood them, like he was closer to them now in some ways than he had been when they were alive.

He'd seen his mother every year since she died, but this year meant more to him than it ever had before.

"Can she?"

"I'm not sure anyone in the Empyrean has tried, but then I cannot imagine myself asking my elders."

"Can she try? Can we try?"

"Since it means so much to you." Cuir sent nothing but fondness down the bond. Bodhi imagined that if his dragon could ruffle his hair like his father used to do, that he would. "There will be much to discuss, afterward."

As the sun set, Bodhi waited at the edge of the flight field, not sure what to expect. What might be different. But she arrived as she always seemed to, pulling Bodhi into a hug before he even knew she was behind him.

Some years she wore formal clothes and some more casual things he remembered her wearing in life, but this year she was in rider black, her hair pulled back into short, braided strands of black woven through with silver. Of course she remembered what this year meant, Bodhi thought to himself. If her hair was shorter, or maybe if Bodhi let his grow out a little… people had said he looked like his mother when he was younger, and it had always made him wonder what they meant. But now, like this, he saw it and he was proud to be her mirror image.

"Let me look at you," she said as she spun him around, looking up to meet his eyes in the dusk. "Rider black is a good match. I'm so proud of you, Bodhi."

"Thanks, Mom." Bodhi laid his head down on her shoulder for a several long breaths. The little details of her seemed to get softer every year along with his memories; he couldn't seem to catch what she smelled like this year, even with his head against her leathers. Or maybe he was just too used to the way leathers smelled now.

A wind kicked up around them and Bodhi leaned back to see her face. "Mom, I wanted you to meet —"

She pulled away from him before he'd finished, her eyes blown wide. "Acur?" Her voice was almost reverent, her face softening and looking younger to Bodhi.

"How is it possible?" she asked, turning to Bodhi. "Why was it allowed —?"

"Tell her that it is a long story," Cuir said, lowering his head so she could reach for it, "and that I am Cuir in their records now. When you asked me to meet your mother I did not realize she would remember me."

Her hand was able to rest on his scales, but she still couldn't hear him speak, so Bodhi repeated what Cuir had said. No doubt Cuir could hear the questions circling his mind, because he added "Patience. I will be here tomorrow, Loyal One, and she will not."

And because that was true, Bodhi turned his full attention back to his mother as she thanked Cuir for looking after her son.

"Tell her —" Bodhi almost thought he heard Cuir hesitate, but that couldn't be true, could it? "Tell her my last rider took much joy in her, and that it brought me joy to bond you as her son."

His dragon left not long after.

"I haven't seen him since you were so young," she said, shaking her head. "In the darkness I almost wasn't sure, but there was something about him."

"He's wonderful," Bodhi told her.

"I'm so happy for you, my little arrow." His mother threw an arm over his shoulder, ignoring how much taller he was now. "Now, tell me everything you've learned so far…"

In the morning, when Bodhi made his way up to the flight field after breakfast, he thought about the conversation again. He remembered the advice his mom had given him as he mounted Cuir, finding it easier with his toes pointed slightly out so he had more of his boot catching the spaces between Cuir's scales.

"What you said last night about changing your name," Bodhi said to his dragon as they waited for the rest of his squad to mount and find their seats. "Why doesn't leadership know? I thought Sgaeyl-"

"Sgaeyl has many wonderful qualities, but blending in is not among them," Cuir answered, "whereas not even your professor up there seems to worry overmuch about telling one green from another."

"Doesn't anyone notice Acur is missing?"

Cuir took off, confident Bodhi would hold his seat, and of course he did. He was silent so long that Bodhi almost thought he'd shielded him out as they flew, but the answer came eventually. "They don't know who is missing or may have died riderless. Acur may as well be another ghost now."

"You miss my grandmother."

"I did miss her. Now I have someone new to keep me occupied."

---

November 2nd, 633

Violet was up on the turret, letting Malek's flames keep her warm tonight. She wasn't sure she believed in Malek's Rest. Few people talked about it, and Rhiannon had never heard of it. It seemed a mostly Southern belief, maybe originally from Tyrrish folklore. Violet wondered that she'd never thought to research it. She thought she remembered a grandfather's visit when she was young, but every year since Brennan died, she'd waited to see if he would visit her and he never had.

She'd written to Mira after that first year, to ask about it, and Mira had all but called her a silly child for even remembering the idea. It didn't stop her from wondering about it, just made her feel silly as well as disappointed when Brennan didn't turn up.

"Are you waiting for someone?" she asked Liam.

He looked up from where he was playing with his knife — it was too dark to carve properly, even by firelight — and studied her for a long time before he nodded. "One of my parents," he said. "Last year it was my mother."

There was laughter carried on the night air, and Violet and Liam looked at each other, unsure what to expect. Other cadets? A visitor for one of them? Footsteps rang on the stone steps and they both looked over, waiting to see who it would be.

Two men in scribe cream came into view, chatting comfortably, and both Liam and Violet rose to their feet and called out "Dad!" at almost the same time.

The men parted with a nod, Liam walking to the other side of the turret with his father as Violet ran into her father's arms. He looked well, almost better than she could remember him looking, and while he smiled, the look on his face was conflicted.

Violet followed his gaze down to where he looked at her flight jacket. "I — Mother insisted, after you died," she told him. "But I'm okay! I bonded two dragons, Dad." She smiled, she could feel the smile, paper-thin across her face. He'd be proud of her, even if her mother wasn't, even if this wasn't what he'd wanted for her. Wouldn't he? She realized she was still babbling, trying to say the right thing. “—Tairn. And the other is a feathertail, her name's Andarna, she's so fun —"

"A feathertail?" he asked, his eyes lighting up again. "Oh, tell me about her; there may be hope after all."

---

November 2nd, 634

October had been a whirlwind, and Sloane could barely comprehend all of the ways her life had changed in the last month, let alone the three before that.

The beginning of November caught her off guard, but once she remembered, she felt her nerves jangle with anticipation. It was Malek's Rest, the day Zihnal tricked Malek into stepping away from his work and the dead were given leave to visit the living if they were remembered strongly enough to find their way out of the sea of the dead and back to the surface.

She'd seen her mother or father every year since the Apostasy, but she didn't need to guess who she missed most keenly this year. There was a shadow under that thought, wondering if she had to share him, wondering how many other people missed Liam the most.

"Do dragons return as well?" she asked Thoirt, and her dragon laughed without making her feel silly for asking.

"There are some I would wish to see again," Thoirt said after considering, "but dragons do not know your gods, and where we go after is not somewhere we can return from." Not for the first time, Sloane wondered whether Thoirt had known Deigh, but her dragon ignored the question as always.

There were things dragons didn't speak to humans about, and that seemed to be one of them. Sloane didn't mind too much, though. Sometimes she wondered what her dragon saw in her, what was wrong with the gods that they'd let Liam die while she still lived… But more days than not, she was glad of the company.

And tonight, she would have Liam's company too.

---

November 2nd, 635

Privately, Imogen thought of Malek's Rest as Katrina's day. One day out of the year when she was still someone's sister, when she could remember what it was to have a family.

In the months of chaos since everything changed at Draithus, she hadn't had much time to think about any holidays. There was so much to do, and so many other things she was carefully avoiding thinking about. The day itself snuck up on her; she only remembered because Violet said something about having questions for her father.

But it was sunset now, and Imogen heard a door open even as her wards were undisturbed. She turned, expecting her sister as she had every year.

Instead, almost six months of grief she'd been setting aside swelled back up in her chest as Quinn smiled at her, opening her arms for one of the hugs Imogen only allowed from her.

"Quinnie —" she choked, "but — Jax —"

"You're not taking me away from her," Quinn assured her. "It's different, from this side."

Quinn held her until Imogen relaxed enough to cry, kept holding her until the tears soaked away, and finally leaned back to smile at her best friend.

"Well? Have you told him?"

---

November 2nd, 635 continued

Naolin found Brennan just before sunset this year, when the shadows were already deep in the garden of Riorson House. Brennan couldn't help smiling at the mental image of Naolin being so eager to see him that he found a way to leave the land of the dead early.

Tucked away in an alcove as they were, Brennan's husband was silhouetted in the fiery light of the fading sunset. He couldn't see the details of him, but Brennan didn't need to see Naolin's face. He knew those lips, that jaw, those arms.

They fell together as they always did, kissing so deeply that Brennan had to remember that Naolin didn't breathe. Every year touched like there was a chance of making up for the distance between them, and every year it wasn't enough. Brennan kept trying anyway.

Half an hour later, the sun had fully set and only a few pale mage lights illuminated the garden. Brennan side by side with Naolin on the bench in the alcove, their thighs pressed together and his ankle wrapped around Naolin's. Their fingers were twined together, and Naolin's head was on Brennan's shoulder,

There were footsteps on the loose stone path of the garden, and Brennan sat up suddenly. The steps were brisk and businesslike, and his body seemed to recognize them before Brennan had a chance to even look in the night's gloom.

Lilith Sorrengail looked back and forth between Brennan and Naolin, her face as unreadable as it had generally been in life. Brennan shot to his feet; the panic reaction of a seventeen year old caught with someone he wasn't supposed to be seeing took over.

"Brennan. I'm disappointed."

He had to bite back the urge to explain himself, even now. "I got used to that," he managed.

Lilith scoffed. "A venin, really? And I thought Violet's taste in men was atrocious —"

"What?" Brennan stumbled back, spinning to look at Naolin. "Naolin isn't — he's here like you are, he's a ghost —" But his voice shook just a little as he spoke, because Brennan was always too smart for his own good. Lilith didn't bother to say anything else, only watched as Brennan put the pieces together.

"My heart —" Naolin said, and Brennan sighed and stepped away from him.

"I think I knew," he admitted. "I just didn't want it to be true. But I spent too much time with Riorson in the spring, there were too many things, and eventually I couldn't avoid thinking about them." His hand pressed against his chest. Something there hurt. His heart, he assumed.

Naolin followed him, reaching. "If you knew, then… it doesn't have to change anything."

"How is Riorson, anyway? Vi won't tell me if she's had any contact." His voice was all business and Naolin flinched.

"He's better than I was at this stage." Naolin's tone shifted to match Brennan's, businesslike, solemn. "I won't tell you that he's doing well. None of us are well."

"What about —" Brennan started, but Naolin pressed two fingers to Brennan's lips.

"No, love. Not like this. But I'll find you again soon." The mage lights flared blinding-bright, and Brennan felt a brush of lips on his cheek before his vision returned.

He didn't bother trying to follow Naolin. He looked across at his mother's ghost instead and gave her a curt nod. "Okay, fine. Let's talk."