SHADOWLANDS
September 1986 — Harmonytis, Aelin
The first week after the rescue was a blur of medical examinations, debriefings, and the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn't quite touch. The Brotherhood had been held captive for seven days, seven days that stretched like years in their memories even after Sidney administered the Elixir of Lenore. The potion had removed the worst of the psychic stains, the soul-deep violations that would have destroyed lesser men. But it couldn't erase everything. The body remembered. The heart remembered. And sometimes, in the quiet moments, the mind remembered too.
They were home. They were safe. They were alive.
But they were not unchanged.
Jace had taken up residence in the royal quarters of the castle, and for the first few days, he barely left. Samantha brought him food, sat with him in comfortable silence, held his hand when the tremors came. She didn't ask questions. She didn't need to. The bruises on his face were fading, yellowing around his left eye, a cut on his cheekbone healing slowly, but the exhaustion in his amber-gold eyes remained.
Connor stayed with Indira in her quarters, wrapped in her calm, steady presence like a shield. She would find him sometimes standing at the window, staring out at the lavender sky, his emerald eyes distant. She would come to him without words, just her hand in his, her head on his shoulder, until he came back to himself.
Ricky was still recovering physically. The whipping had left angry welts across his back, and the infection from being sick during captivity had taken its toll. He stayed in the medical wing for the first three days, Erik rarely leaving his side. When he finally returned to his own quarters, he moved gingerly, wincing with every movement, but his spirit, that irrepressible Ricky energy, was slowly returning.
Nathan had Galena. She had moved heaven and earth to get them back: stood in the Oval Office, negotiated with presidents, mobilized Navy SEALs. Now she held him at night when the nightmares came, when he woke gasping with the memory of being helpless, of watching his brothers suffer. She didn't try to fix him. She just stayed.
Erik carried his trauma differently. He had volunteered to be captured, had walked into danger to try saving his brothers. He knew it had been foolish, but he didn't regret it. He carried the weight of what he'd witnessed: what had been done to Jace, to Connor, to Ricky. The Warrior's strength cut both ways. Rebekah understood. She held him when he finally let himself break.
The families came in the second week of September.
Connor's Parents
Jabril and Patricia Braydee arrived through the portal on a Tuesday morning, their faces tight with worry and relief. Jabril, tall, dignified, with the kind of presence that commanded respect, had Connor's dark coloring and intensity. Patricia was smaller, softer, with Connor's emerald eyes and an Irish lilt that turned every word into music.
Connor met them in one of the castle's private sitting rooms. The moment Patricia saw him, she closed the distance and pulled him into her arms.
"Oh, my boy," she breathed, her voice breaking. "My beautiful boy."
Connor held onto her, his face buried in her shoulder, and he was just a son again. Not the Visionary. Not the violated. Just Connor, held by his mother.
When she finally released him, Jabril stepped forward. His dark eyes swept over his son: cataloging the healing bruises, the carefully controlled posture, the weight of everything Connor was trying not to show.
"Walk with me," Jabril said quietly.
They walked through the castle gardens, just the two of them, the autumn air cool and clean. For a long time, neither spoke. Finally, Jabril stopped beside a fountain, the water's gentle sound filling the silence.
"You carry shame," Jabril said. Not a question. An observation.
Connor's jaw tightened.
"I..."
"Do not." Jabril's voice was firm but not harsh. "Do not carry shame for what was done to you, my son. Not the first time. Not this time."
Connor looked away, his throat tight.
"Men experience trials all through life," Jabril continued, his Persian accent warming the words with a weight of generations. "And not all have the strength and the power to endure the crimes that were forced upon you, my son. God did not make you a weak man...he caged a tiger within you that will strike when threatened and defend with ferocity." He paused, placing a hand on Connor's shoulder. "No matter what is done to you, no force in this world can truly destroy your mind, body, or soul as long as you remember to keep your eyes on God, and love despite the evil that is thrown in your face."
Connor's eyes burned.
"I tried to stop them. I tried to..."
"I know." Jabril pulled his son into an embrace. "You are a tiger, Connor. And tigers survive."
Later, Patricia sat with Connor in the same sitting room where they'd arrived. She didn't ask for details. She didn't probe. She simply held him, her hand in his, her head against his shoulder, and after a long silence, she spoke.
"I do not need to know everything that happened, my boy," she said softly, her Irish accent gentle as rain. "All I need is to know you are safe and within arm's reach of me right now."
Connor leaned into her, feeling something in his chest finally ease.
"I'm here, Mom," he whispered. "I'm here."
Ricky's Family
The Strathan family arrived in force: Darren, Amanda, and their youngest son Caleb. The moment they saw Ricky, still moving carefully because of his healing back, Amanda burst into tears and Darren's composure cracked.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Amanda breathed, her bouncy energy momentarily stilled by the sight of her eldest son. Then she was hugging him, gently, so gently, and crying into his curly auburn hair.
Darren stood frozen, his face working through a dozen emotions at once. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around both his wife and his son, his voice breaking.
"We thought we'd lost you," Darren said roughly. "When your mother told me what happened..."
"I'm okay, Dad," Ricky managed, though his voice was thin. "I'm okay."
Caleb, a couple years younger than Ricky and sweet-natured in the way only youngest siblings could be, hovered nearby, his eyes red.
"Brandon couldn't get leave," Caleb said quietly, holding out a folded piece of paper. "But he sent this."
Ricky took the letter with shaking hands and read:
Hey brother, Mom told me what happened to you and the band, and I am sick at the thought we might have lost you. I feel horrible for the whole band, too. I will come to see you when I get leave, hopefully soon. I love you, brother of mine. - Brandon
Ricky's throat closed up. He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his pocket.
Later, when Amanda had settled and was fussing over whether Ricky was eating enough, Darren pulled him aside.
"They told me what they did to you," Darren said, his voice low and furious. "That they whipped you because Connor resisted. That you were already sick and they..." His voice broke. "My boy. My son."
"Dad..."
"No." Darren's eyes were wet. "You didn't deserve that. None of you did. And it kills me..." He stopped, swallowing hard. "It kills me that I couldn't protect you. That you were there, sick and hurting, and they..."
Ricky hugged his father, feeling the older man's shoulders shake.
"I'm okay," Ricky whispered. "We're all okay. We're home."
But Darren wasn't just thinking about Ricky. Later, when Ricky was resting, Darren sought out Jabril Braydee.
"I want to see the Guardian," Darren said quietly. "Jace. I want to see him."
Jabril nodded slowly.
"As do I."
Erik's Family
Ivar and Britta Hahn arrived with the stoic dignity of Scandinavian immigrants who had seen hardship and survived it. Ivar was tall, broad-shouldered, with white-blond hair gone silver at the temples. Britta was softer, her blonde hair in a neat bun, her blue eyes warm despite the worry etched in her face.
Erik stood when they entered, and Ivar just studied his son: the bruises, the scrapes, the way Erik held himself with that careful Warrior stillness.
"You volunteered," Ivar said finally. Not an accusation. A statement.
"Yes, sir."
"To protect the others."
"Yes, sir."
Ivar nodded slowly. Then, surprising everyone, a faint smile crossed his weathered face.
"That was foolish."
Erik blinked.
"And admirable," Ivar continued. "Foolish, but admirable. You are your mother's son."
Britta stepped forward then, and the stoic facade cracked. She pulled Erik into her arms and held him tightly, tears sliding down her cheeks.
"My boy," she whispered. "My gentle boy."
Erik, six foot six, two hundred fifty pounds of pure Warrior strength, melted into his mother's embrace and let himself be held.
When they finally pulled apart, Britta cupped his face in her hands, studying the fading bruises and scrapes from his capture.
"You were not harmed the way the others were," she said softly.
"No, Mama. They didn't... I could hear it all. I couldn't stop it, but they didn't hurt me like they hurt Jace and Connor."
Britta's eyes filled with fresh tears.
"But you carry it anyway."
"Yes."
"Then we carry it with you."
Tobin
Galena had sent word to Tobin Elias the moment the Brotherhood returned to Aelin. She knew how close the brothers were, knew that Jace would need his brother even if he couldn't admit it yet.
Tobin arrived from the portal in the home of their Uncle Marcus, stepping through the portal with the same quiet intensity that marked all the Elias men. He was shorter than Jace, leaner, with piercing green eyes, but they had the same build, the same native features, the same way of holding themselves.
Galena met him personally.
"Prime Minister," Tobin said, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. "Where is he?"
"The royal residence," Galena said gently. "He's... he's been staying close. He hasn't wanted to see many people."
Tobin's jaw tightened.
"Will he see me?"
"I think," Galena said carefully, "that you are exactly who he needs to see."
She led him through the castle, through halls Tobin had walked before but which now felt different, weighted with the knowledge of what had happened. When they reached the private quarters, Galena knocked softly.
"Jace? Your brother is here."
Silence. Then, quietly: "Send him in."
Galena opened the door and stepped aside. Tobin entered, and she closed the door behind him, giving them privacy.
Jace was standing by the window, his back to the door. He was dressed simply: tattered jeans, no shirt at all, bare feet. Even from behind, Tobin could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself. The healing welts and bruises were still visible across his back. His little brother, broken in ways Tobin had never seen in twenty-eight years of knowing him. Tobin swallowed hard and moved closer, slowly. Jace didn't move.
"Tobin," he said quietly, not turning around.
"Wanga'a…"
And that was all it took.
Jace turned, and Tobin saw his face: the fading bruises, the exhaustion, the hollow look in those amber-gold eyes that had seen too much. And Tobin moved quickly to pull his little brother into his arms.
Jace broke.
He buried his face in Tobin's shoulder and sobbed, great, wrenching sobs that shook his entire frame. Tobin held him, one hand on the back of Jace's head, the other wrapped around his shoulders, and let him cry.
"Kimma io," Tobin murmured. "nüü pijabi'üü, Wanga'a."
[Come here. I love you, little brother.]
They sank to the floor together, Tobin still holding Jace with his own anguished tears spilling down his face, and for a long time there was nothing but the sound of Jace crying and Tobin's quiet reassurances. Eventually, the sobs subsided into shuddering breaths, and Jace pulled back slightly, wiping his face with the heel of his hand.
"Sorry," he rasped.
"Don't." Tobin's voice was fierce. "Don't you dare apologize."
Jace's laugh was watery and broken.
"I'm the Guardian. I'm supposed to..."
"You're my brother first," Tobin interrupted. "Before you're the Guardian. Before you're the King. You're my little brother, and someone hurt you. I'm allowed to be angry about that!"
They sat together on the floor for a long time, Jace leaning against Tobin, both of them quiet. Finally, Jace spoke.
"They got Connor too. And Ricky. Nathan and Erik had to watch them tame us upstairs. They heard everything, too."
"I know."
"I tried to protect them."
"I know you did, Wanga'a," Tobin replied. "I was told you fought like a lion."
Jace was quiet for another moment. Then: "I'm tired, Toby."
"I know you are, Wanga'a."
"Not... not physically. Just... tired."
Tobin squeezed his shoulder.
"Then rest. You've earned it."
They talked for hours after that: about the kidnapping, about the rescue, about the Elixir and how it helped but didn't erase everything. And eventually, Tobin brought up the Paiute reservation.
"You should come home," Tobin said quietly. "Bring the band. Let the tribe see you. Let them remind you who you are. Christina and the kids…they miss you. So does Aunt Maeva…your whole tribe wants you home, wanga'a. Just come home for a while."
Jace looked at him.
"I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"You don't have to be ready. You just have to show up." Tobin paused. "I'd heard about a Battle Cry convention fans have been organizing in Reno. April or May, I think. Your manager knows about it. Talk to him about it. You could time it so you do both: see the tribe, do the convention. By then, you'll be stronger. The whole band will be by then."
Jace considered this.
"The album will be out by then."
"Then it's perfect timing."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Samantha's voice came through, gentle but firm.
"Jace? Can I come in?"
Jace and Tobin exchanged a look. Then Jace called out, "Yeah. Come in."
The door opened, and Samantha stepped inside. She stopped when she saw them on the floor, her eyes immediately finding Jace's tear-stained face. But she didn't comment on it. She just smiled softly.
"Sorry to interrupt. I wanted to make sure you'd eaten something."
"Samantha," Jace said, his voice still rough, "this is my brother, Tobin."
Tobin stood, offering his hand.
"So you're the drum tech."
Samantha shook his hand, and something in her chest warmed at the gentle kindness in his eyes, so much like Jace's, but without the weight of kingship.
"That's me. And you're the brother I've heard so much about."
"All good things, I hope."
"Mostly." Her smile was teasing, and Tobin laughed.
They talked for a while, easy conversation that felt normal, that felt like life instead of aftermath. And when Samantha finally left to give them more time, Tobin watched her go with an approving expression.
"She's good for you," he said.
Jace's smile was small but genuine.
"Yeah. She is."
"You love her."
"More than I thought possible."
"Then hold onto that," Tobin said seriously. "Whatever darkness you're carrying, hold onto her light."
The Fathers and Jace
Two days later, Darren Strathan, Ivar Hahn, and Jabril Braydee requested a meeting with Jace. Galena arranged it in one of the smaller sitting rooms, a place that felt less formal, less intimidating.
Jace arrived looking wary. He'd known this was coming, Ricky had warned him that his dad was worried, that all three fathers wanted to see him, but that didn't make it easier.
Darren stood when Jace entered, his emotional nature written all over his face. Jabril remained seated but his dark eyes were fixed on Jace with an intensity that was both assessing and compassionate. Ivar also remained seated, studying Jace with subtle concern.
"Your Majesty," Darren started, and Jace immediately shook his head.
"Just Jace. Please. You're family. All of you."
Darren nodded.
"Jace, then. I..." His voice caught. "My son told me what you did. That you volunteered to go upstairs to protect Connor. To protect all of them."
Jace's jaw tightened.
"I'm the Guardian. It's my job to..."
"You're a man who was hurt protecting my son," Darren interrupted, his voice thick with emotion. "And I can't..." He stopped, pressing his hand to his mouth, his eyes wet. "I can't thank you enough, and I can't apologize enough, and I can't..."
He broke off, unable to continue.
Jabril stood then, moving to stand beside Darren. His presence was calm, grounding.
"What was done to you and to Connor was unconscionable," Jabril said quietly. "Evil. And while I am grateful beyond words that Connor has a king who would put himself in harm's way for him, I am also grieved that you had to endure such violation."
Jace swallowed hard.
"We all did what we had to do."
"No," Ivar said firmly, rising to join Darren and Jabril. "You did what a king does. What a brother does. You cannot shoulder this alone."
Darren wiped his eyes, composing himself with visible effort.
"My boy, Ricky, he's struggling with the fact that he was whipped because Connor resisted. He feels guilty."
"He shouldn't," Jace said immediately. "None of this was anyone's fault except the people who took us."
"I know. And we've told him that. But..." Darren took a shaky breath. "I also know that you're carrying the weight of all of it. And I wanted you to know that I see it. We see it. And we're grateful. And we're sorry. And if there's anything, anything at all, that we can do to help you heal, you only have to ask."
Jace felt something crack open in his chest, something he'd been holding tight and closed since the rescue. These men, these fathers, were looking at him not as the Guardian or the King, but as a young man who had suffered trying to protect their sons.
"Thank you," Jace managed, his voice rough. "That... means more than you know."
They sat together for a while after that, talking quietly. Not about the details of what happened, Jace couldn't bear that yet, but about healing, about moving forward, about the strength it took to survive. All three fathers made clear their admiration, not just for Jace but for all of them. In that room, without ceremony or declaration, Battle Cry was folded into three families as if they had always belonged there. It was something Jace would carry in his heart always.
When Jace finally left, he felt lighter. Not healed. But lighter.
Diana Wallace
Diana arrived a few days after the other families, stepping through the portal with the determined expression of a mother on a mission. Samantha met her, and Diana immediately pulled her daughter into a fierce hug.
"Are you all right?" Diana asked, pulling back to study Samantha's face.
"I'm okay, Mom. I wasn't the one who..."
"I know. But you love him. And watching someone you love go through hell is its own kind of trauma."
Samantha's eyes filled.
"Yeah. It is."
Diana cupped her daughter's face.
"How is he? Really?"
"Healing. Slowly. They all are. I can feel the torment he still feels, Mom. This was horrifying for all of them," Samantha replied. "But Jace, Connor, and Ricky took the brunt of the abuse."
"I want to see him. I want to see all of them. If they'll have me."
Samantha smiled through her tears.
"They will."
Diana made the rounds that afternoon. She visited Nathan first, finding him in his residence with Galena. The moment she saw Nathan, she crossed to him and pulled him into a firm hug.
"Nathan," she said, holding on before pulling back to look at him. "How are you?"
"I'm healing well," Nathan told her. "We all are."
The Prime Minister welcomed her warmly, and the two women talked while Nathan sat quietly, grateful for the distraction of normal conversation.
"Your husband is remarkable," Diana told Galena. "You should be very proud."
"I am," Galena said, reaching for Nathan's hand. "Every day."
Diana visited Ricky next, finding him in the gardens with his family. Ricky smiled when he saw her and stood up to greet her slowly and with a stiffness that broke her heart. She hugged him gently, careful of his healing back, and told him she was glad he was safe. She spoke with Darren and Amanda, asking them to keep in touch with her.
"We're Brotherhood family now," Diana told them. Darren's eyes went wet immediately. He hugged her without another word, and when he pulled back, he couldn't quite manage speech, just a nod that said everything.
Then Diana found Connor with Indira, hugging him carefully and touching his face, declaring that those bruises had better finish leaving because she said so, which made Connor chuckle and agree. She sat with Indira for a while, admiring the flowers she was tending at Connor's residence, and even knelt down with her in the dirt to help with the lantern vines while Samantha and Connor watched and talked.
"I feel like I have five moms, now," Connor chuckled. "I spent a long time talking to Amanda Strathan and Britta Hahn, and got properly mothered by both of them. Then I got a letter from Nathan's mom, telling me they would come to see Nathan and all of us in a day or two. She told me she looks forward to giving 'her Visionary son' a warm hug. And now your mom. She's awesome, Sam. Very loving, genuinely concerned, and worried."
"Worried?" Samantha asked.
Connor nodded.
"After what just happened, she is worried you will get caught in the crossfire and get hurt."
Samantha looked at her mother and sighed slightly. Diana was calm on the surface, but Samantha knew her too well, and Connor's telepathy never failed. She would need to have that conversation before her mother went home.
Diana stopped in Rebekah's bakery to see Erik, and she was delighted to see him helping her in the kitchen, bringing up flour or other ingredients from the basement. She managed to get Erik to put down a huge sack of flour long enough to pull him into a hug. She spoke to Erik with the same motherly concern she'd given to his brothers, and let him continue doing the task he'd taken on for Rebekah.
"He's pouring himself into helping me or working with the farms in the county," Rebekah said. "I don't think he's trying to push the pain away, I think he is literally trying to work through it. I sometimes have to make him stop and rest. To take a few breaths and be gentle for a while."
"He witnessed a lot of horror," Samantha replied. "And he walked himself into it, unfortunately."
"It's admirable, really," Diana told her. "His first thought was to protect his brothers. He didn't consider the harm he could take by allowing his own capture."
"He has a very strong sense of loyalty," Rebekah admitted. "It's one of the things I love about him."
Diana managed to get Erik to stop moving long enough to plant a motherly kiss on his cheek, and then she and Samantha left.
And then she found Jace. Samantha thought it best to allow her to sit privately with him.
He was in the training yard, not training, just sitting on a bench, watching the guards go through their drills. He looked up when she approached, surprise flickering across his face. He smiled warmly at her.
"Diana."
"Hello, Jace." She sat beside him without asking permission. "How are you holding up?"
He considered deflecting, giving her the polite answer. But something about Diana's direct gaze made him tell the truth.
"I'm tired," he admitted. "And angry. And..." He stopped.
"Scared?" Diana supplied gently.
Jace's jaw tightened, but he nodded.
Diana reached over and took his hand.
"My daughter loves you very much. And I've come to care about you too, about all of you. You're good men. You didn't deserve what happened."
Jace's throat closed up.
"And I know you're used to being the protector," Diana continued. "The Guardian. The King. But right now, you're allowed to just be Jace. A man who went through something terrible and is trying to heal. You're allowed to lean on the people who love you."
"I'm trying," Jace said quietly.
"I know you are." Diana squeezed his hand. "And for what it's worth, I'm proud of you. Not because you're the King or the Guardian. But because you're a good man who's choosing to heal instead of letting this break you."
"There are times I wonder if I still might," Jace admitted. "Days where I don't want to move, get out of bed. Sometimes not eat. Just nothing."
Diana took his hand into both of hers.
"That is depression, and it is not unusual after what you endured, Jace. But you are stronger than you know. I'm not psychic or anything, but even I can feel the fight still in you. You may have powers you can wield, but the strongest power you have is just being who you are. Don't let anything that happened to you make you lose who you are."
Jace smiled at her, feeling the sincerity of it settle into him like warmth. It was the balm his soul needed that day.
When Diana left to return home a few days later, she pulled Samantha aside.
"There are more marriages coming," Diana said, a knowing smile on her face.
Samantha blinked.
"What?"
"I've been watching. Connor and Indira. Erik and Rebekah. The way they look at each other, the way they hold each other through this." Diana's smile widened. "You're not going to be the only wedding I'm attending."
Samantha laughed despite herself.
"You're very observant."
"I'm a mother. It's my job." Diana kissed her daughter's cheek. "Take care of him. And take care of yourself."
"I will, Mom."
The Studio
The decision to build a recording studio in Aelin came from practical necessity and emotional survival. None of them wanted to go back to Los Angeles. The thought of returning to that city, to that warehouse, made Jace's skin crawl. Nathan had nightmares about the parking lot where he'd been ambushed. Connor couldn't even hear the name without flinching.
So Galena, in her infinite practicality, had a solution.
"We will build you a studio here," she announced at a Brotherhood meeting in late September. "State of the art. Everything you need. You will not have to leave Aelin to make your music."
Jace stared at her.
"Galena, that's... that's incredibly generous, but the cost..."
"Is irrelevant," Galena said firmly. "You are the Brotherhood of Aelin. You protect this island. The island will provide for you." She paused. "Besides, my husband is one of you. I am not letting any of you go back to that city if it can be avoided."
Nathan reached for her hand under the table, his eyes suspiciously bright.
The studio was completed by mid-October. It occupied a converted warehouse building near the castle, close enough to be convenient, far enough to feel separate from the weight of royal duties. The Aelinian engineers had outdone themselves: soaring ceilings with acoustics that made every note bloom, a control room stacked with cutting-edge equipment, isolation booths for vocals and individual instruments, and a lounge where they could decompress between takes. Everything they needed, and none of it in Los Angeles.
When they walked in for the first time, Ricky actually cried.
"This is ours?" he breathed.
"This is yours," Galena confirmed, standing in the doorway with a satisfied smile. "Make good use of it."
They spent the first few days just getting comfortable with the space: testing the acoustics, setting up Jace's drum kit (with his beloved triple kick pedals), arranging the equipment. Sidney oversaw it all with the careful eye of a man who'd spent decades in the music industry.
"This is top-tier," Sidney said, running his hand over the mixing board. "You could record anything here. Film scores. Orchestras. Whatever you want."
"Right now," Jace said quietly, "we just want to record."
They started in early November.
Recording Shadowlands
The album had been forming in their minds since the rescue. Songs born from fury, despair, terror, survival. Some had been written before: Nathan's old breakup song from his twenties, a few political pieces Connor had been working on. But most of them were new, raw, wrung out of what they'd endured.
The first song they recorded was "House of Thieves," a political rant that felt safe, distant from the personal trauma. Connor's vocals were sharp and angry, and the recording went smoothly.
"Good warm-up," Nathan said from the control room. "Let's work up another political one."
They worked through "Divide The Ground" and "Snap Decision" over the next few days. The political songs were cathartic, a place to channel rage that wasn't about what had happened to them personally.
But eventually, they had to face the harder songs.
"How About No" was scheduled for a morning in mid-November.
Jace walked into the vocal booth with a tension in his shoulders that everyone could see. He'd written the song, had penned the lyrics in a single furious sitting shortly after the rescue, but singing it was something else entirely.
"Ready?" Nathan's voice came through the headphones.
Jace closed his eyes.
"Let's do this."
The track started, hard-hitting metal rock, guitars and bass building a wall of sound. And then he started singing.
"Stop knocking at my door
I've told you where I stand
I'm not going out with you
It's my choice not your command"
His voice was raw, powerful, every word a refusal, a reclaiming. When he hit the chorus, something in him broke open.
"How about no
That's my answer
Just so you know
Not a maybe
Not a kinda
Not a we'll see
How about no
Leave me be"
By the time he reached the spoken section at the end, "Will you let me be? Stop knocking! I'm NOT going out with you!!", he was pouring everything into it. Every ounce of rage, every moment of helplessness, every desperate "NO" that hadn't been enough.
When the track ended, Jace stood in the booth, breathing hard, his hands shaking.
"That was..." Nathan's voice was thick. "Jace, that was incredible. But are you okay?"
"I need a break," Jace managed.
He came out of the booth and sat heavily on the couch in the lounge, his head in his hands. Connor sat beside him, not speaking, just present. After fifteen minutes, Jace looked up.
"Again. I want to do it again."
"Jace..."
"Again."
They did three takes total. Each time, Jace poured himself into the song until he was spent, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. The second take was the one, raw and powerful and utterly real.
When they finally wrapped for the day, Jace went back to the royal residence and slept for fourteen hours straight.
The video shoot for "How About No" came weeks later. It was a simple concept: Jace performing, shadow hands reaching for him, the imagery dark and haunting. By the end of the shoot, after take after take of giving everything he had, Jace passed out from sheer emotional exhaustion.
The image they used for the album cover was from that video: Jace with a shadow hand over him, his face a mixture of defiance and vulnerability.
Not Your Possession
Connor recorded his trauma anthem on a cold December morning. The song was a pure "Fuck You" to Sorienne, the sorceress who'd kidnapped him in 1984, who'd carved herself into his soul and left a shard of herself behind that he still felt sometimes. But it was also about Lillian, about 1986, about every violation he'd endured.
He stood in the vocal booth, the lyrics in front of him though he'd long since memorized them. When Nathan gave him the signal to start, Connor closed his eyes and let the fury rise.
"Hands above my head
Enchanted chains at my wrists
You said I asked for this abusive thread
While you took my one true gift"
His voice was clear and edged with rage, each word landing like a strike. When he hit the chorus, his voice cracked with emotion.
"I am not your possession
Not the chains around my fear
You carved yourself into my soul
Left a frozen shard of you to remain"
By the bridge, tears were streaming down his face, but he kept singing.
"You're gone
But you still linger
In the corners of my sleep
That splinter in my heartbeat
Cutting every time it beats
I won't polish your reflection
I won't carry what you hid
This fragment in my chest is proof
Of what you did
What you did"
When the song ended, Connor stood in the booth, his chest heaving. Then he opened his eyes and looked through the glass at his brothers.
Nathan was crying. Ricky was wiping his eyes. Erik's jaw was set in that grim line that meant he was holding back his own tears. And Jace, Jace was staring at Connor with an expression of fierce pride and shared pain.
Connor took off the headphones and walked out of the booth. He stepped into the control room and shut the door behind him quietly. No one spoke at first. Then Jace grabbed Connor's arm and pulled him into an embrace that was joined by everyone else in the room. Once again, the Brotherhood surrounded their Visionary and held on.
Crimson Flame
The story of "Crimson Flame" became one of the band's favorite inside jokes.
Connor had overheard Jace's thoughts one afternoon, lustful, appreciative thoughts about their drum tech, Samantha Wallace, as she'd walked past in her usual jeans and tank top, her red curly hair catching the light. Connor, being Connor, had immediately dragged Nathan aside.
"I have an idea for a song."
They'd written it together, basing the lyrics entirely on what Connor had overheard from Jace's mind. When they presented it to the band, Jace had no idea it was about Samantha.
"One of you wrote this about some redhead," Jace had said, reading through the lyrics.
"Your voice would suit it perfectly," Nathan said, trying not to smile.
"Why me?"
"Just try it."
Jace shrugged.
"All right. I like to sing, so fine."
He recorded the track without really thinking about the lyrics: just focusing on the melody, the energy, the feel of the song. It wasn't until he was halfway through the final take that something clicked.
"She's a wildfire burning the night
Flaming locks, setting hearts alight
Those jeans hug the curves just right
She's a storm no calm in sight"
He stumbled slightly over the next line as realization dawned.
"Every step a sweet little quake
She's the thunder make no mistake"
Oh shit, he thought. This is about Samantha!
But he kept singing, and by the time he hit the chorus, a smile broke through.
"Crimson flame, can't look away
She's the game I want to play
No man can tame her
They all burn away
But I'll be the fool who dares to try"
When the take finished, Jace came out of the booth and fixed Connor and Nathan with an accusing stare.
"Did you write this about Samantha?"
Connor tried to keep a straight face.
"No. We wrote it about what you were thinking about Samantha."
"Ya sneaky bastard," Jace said, his face flushing. "You were listening to my thoughts?"
"You think very loudly sometimes," Connor said innocently.
Nathan was openly laughing now.
Jace covered his face with his hands.
"Oh my God."
"It's a good song," Ricky offered helpfully.
"I hate all of you," Jace muttered, but he was smiling despite himself.
"You love us and ya know it," Connor laughed, swatting Jace on the shoulder.
After that, every time they recorded or rehearsed "Crimson Flame," Jace grinned. Especially because Samantha was usually right there beside the drum kit, and he could see her moving around, being herself, the Crimson Flame in question.
It wasn't until weeks later that Samantha heard the final recording and realized the song was about her. She'd cornered Jace in the studio lounge, her face flushed.
"That song. 'Crimson Flame.' That's... that's about me?"
Jace had the grace to look sheepish.
"Apparently my thoughts are not as private as I'd like."
"You were thinking about me like that?"
"I..." Jace ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I was. I am. You're…" He gestured helplessly at her and sputtered out, "You're you."
Samantha had kissed him then, fierce and sudden, and when she pulled back, she was grinning.
"I like being your Crimson Flame."
Scars Like Medals
Connor's second major trauma song came near the end of the recording process.
"Scars Like Medals" was different from "Not Your Possession," less rage, more triumph. It was about refusing to be defined by what had been done to him. About choosing healing over hate.
"I'm done fighting with the past like it's my fault
Done bleeding for the bruises that I never caused
These broken pieces are shaping me now
The damage will not be my undoing
It's my victory, my victory
Every scar I've got
I wear it like a medal now."
When Connor sang those words, there was a strength in his voice that hadn't been there at the beginning of the album. Something settled and certain.
By the final chorus, he was smiling, actually smiling, as he sang about wearing his scars like medals. It suited him.
When the song wrapped, the entire band stood and applauded. Connor had done it. He'd turned his trauma into victory.
Oh, My God. Dude.
The final track was pure catharsis.
"Oh, My God. Dude." was an instrumental, chaotic, energetic, letting them all just play. No words, no weight. Jace's triple kick pedals sounded like a machine gun, the drumming relentless and powerful. Ricky's guitar wailed and screamed. Nathan's keys added layers of complexity. Erik's bass and Connor's rhythm guitar held the foundation under the chaos.
When they finished the final take, they stood there, breathless and grinning.
Then Ricky, in perfect comedic timing, looked around and said: "Oh my God, dude."
Slowly, Nathan began to chuckle, joined by Connor and Jace. Erik followed suit.
"That's the title," Jace declared. "That's the one."
And so it was.
Looking Forward
By the time they wrapped recording in late December, they were all wrung out, but the hollowness that had lived in all of them since September was gone. The album had been therapy, catharsis, a way to process what they'd endured and come out the other side still whole.
They planned to release Shadowlands in March 1987. And Tobin's suggestion had taken root: they would time a trip to the Paiute reservation in Reno to coincide with a rock convention happening around the same time.
"We'll go home," Jace said one evening as they all sat in the studio lounge, listening to the final mix. "See the tribe. Do the convention. Show the world we're not broken."
"We're not broken," Connor agreed quietly. "We're just... scarred."
"Scars like medals," Ricky added, grinning.
Nathan raised his glass.
"To Shadowlands. To survival. To the Brotherhood."
They all raised their glasses: beer, water, soda, didn't matter.
"To the Brotherhood," they echoed.
Outside, snow was beginning to fall over Aelin, the first of the winter season. Inside the studio, surrounded by the music they'd made from their pain, the Brotherhood of Aelin was healing.
One song at a time.