We Don't Love Like Flowers
Three hundred years after Under the Mountain, the High Lord of Night finally calls in his bargain with the newly widowed Lady of Spring. Vibes: angsty, with plenty of longing and political intrigue. Word Count: 34,000
Unwise and Undone
Feyre shows up to her second week at the Night Court critically ill, and against his better judgement, Rhys brings her to Velaris to care for her. Vibes: lots of hurt/comfort with emphasis on the comfort, and some smut. Word Count: 59,000
House Rules
Feyre rents out Rhys's basement apartment. Vibes: modern AU with ddlg undertones. Word Count: 21,000
Bad Investment
Feyre catches her fiancé kissing another woman at his company holiday party. Thankfully, his hot boss is there to help. Vibes: NYC/Finance AU with revenge sex. Word Count: 13,500
A Formal Feeling
The last weeks of the first war. Vibes: Pre-canon whump. Written for Rhys Week 2026. Word Count: 5,200
The Awful Daring
Rhys’s POV of the night before the third trial. CW for noncon (between Rhysand and Amarantha). Vibes: just 6 pages of angst and pining. Written for Rhys Week 2026. Word Count: 2,600
An Illyrian Fever
Rhys returns from Windhaven with a fever, and Feyre makes him take a sick day. Vibes: soft, post-canon sickfic where Feyre and Rhys learn to take care of each other. Word Count: 3,700
The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep
In a world where Amarantha comes to Prythian fifty years later, Rhys searches the human lands for the painter from his dreams. Vibes: Strangers to lovers to enemies to soulmates. A medium amount of smut, not too much angst, and an eventual ending UTM. Chapter Progress: 11/12
Then Moon, Then Stars
For the first time in half a century—in maybe his entire life—Rhysand is truly happy. His family survived a war, his city has rebuilt, and he and his mate are expecting a child. But peace is fragile, and he’ll go to great lengths to protect the people he loves. Vibes: A canon-compliant first-person retelling of ACOSF from Rhys’s perspective. Chapter Progress: 8/21
Prince Nyx, Dragon Slayer
Feyre and Rhys indulge their toddler in a game of pretend. Written for Feysand Week 2025. Vibes: Unbearably cute and silly. Chapter Progress: 4/7
Reader, She Marries Him
When Feyre accepted a position as artist-in-residence at the secluded Hewnfield Hall, she’d never even heard of Rhysand Rochester. She certainly didn’t plan to fall in love. But Rhys is beautiful, his friends are kind, and his house is enormous. Unfortunately, there’s a red-haired woman locked in his attic. Vibes: Jane Eyre but make it Feysand. Chapter Progress: 3/15
"And yet I found myself deciding that if you took his hand, I would find a way to live with it. It would be your choice."
I sipped from my wine. "And if he had grabbed me?"
There was nothing but uncompromising will in his eyes. "Then I would have torn apart the world to get you back."
-A Court of Mist and Fury
Lucien steals Feyre away from the safety of the Night Court as she and Rhys train in the Illyrian Steppes. Winnowing her to the Spring Court and Tamlin, Feyre must contend with the consequences of leaving while held against her will.
An ACOMAF Chapter 47 divergence.
Thanks to @witch-and-her-witcher and @foundress0fnothing for beta reading and giving me amazing advice!
It’s my birthday and…
This is a lil dramatic divergence I’ve been working on for far, far too long. So now it’s your problem!
Chapter under the cut or Read on AO3.
Lucien moved us, again and again through the fabric of the world, his face straining and sweat dripping from his forehead. I screamed and wrenched against him as we winnowed further and further south, barely glimpsing the changing seasons as he pulled us through the courts. I could only tell the distance by the air against my face: a brush of heat, the blast of an icy wind. The misty mountains of Illyria trailing further behind us as he dragged me south.
I knew where he was taking me. My body screamed as I clawed and fought, useless now against his iron grip, and the further we got the more I felt that something inside me had turned brittle and was ready to break.
Rhys. Rhys. Rhys.
Where are you?
My skull was a prison, my mind trapped within. Just moments earlier it had been free - scanning the little blur of impressions from birds and rabbits in the woods, reaching out to listen, shivering from the brush of the other mind that nuzzled against me, and asked me and played with me.
I felt for that bridge, for that gentle pulse around my chest, once so tangible I thought I could feel it as strong as my own heart.
But there was nothing. I was empty - hollow. All my magic had poured out, and Rhys along with it. No cunning amusement, no smiles or violet eyes teasing at the edges of my mind.
No Illyrian warrior to draw me back from this hell.
As we whipped through the courts, I knew with growing horror what awaited me at the end of this journey. A scream was building within me and I didn’t know if it would come out through my mouth or simply keep building inside me until I burst.
⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰
Ten Minutes Earlier…
I didn’t hear the dripping of melting snow, the rush of the creek, or the howling of the wind. Not against the rush of blood in my ears.
Lucien. He found me. But –
“Feyre,” Lucien whispered, his red hair like a beacon in this black and white forest of ice.
In a blink, we weren’t alone. Spring Court sentries dressed in black and covered in weapons banked him on each side.
“Lucien. You shouldn’t be here.” The rushing river inched closer to me as I risked a single step, my stomach churning as he followed me forward, his boot crunching through the frozen top layer of snow.
His hand extended to me. No weapon in his palm, but he didn’t need one - now that I had trained my own powers, I could feel his own thrumming under his skin. The flesh of my arm prickled in warning. I wondered if the icy winter of this place would dim him, or if he could still set the forest ablaze, as I had with Autumn Court fire just yesterday.
“Put down the bow, Feyre. I’m here to take you home.” His voice was soft, strangely gentle.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.
My mind was churning like the river, my thoughts a frantic blur against the blood rushing in my ears. Lucien. How had he found me? And Tamlin - gods, was he here? I haven’t used my powers in battle yet - what if someone gets hurt? What if I’m not ready? Rhys - he had to be close - would the High Lords rip this forest apart?
As if in answer, my shield dropped that small space we opened for each other, a tendril of my dark power spearing into the air.
Rhys! -I shouted into the void, just as the red paint stroke of Lucien folded into nothing. So quick I didn’t even take another breath of the cold Illyrian Steppes before his warm hand was on mine, and he had snatched me away into the space between worlds.
When we appeared again, we were still in the Steppes but somewhere higher - the air colder, the fog thick in the air.
I was going to scream, I was going to tear at him, but before I could even think, my power was coiling and twisting under my skin.
Lucien - my friend, whose life was in my debt three times over, had taken me. Was dragging me back - to him. The full length of Prythian wasn’t enough to escape it - this rot in the Spring Court, that gave them over to this haughty entitlement, this feeling of possession over me…
I swallowed the cold air into my lungs, letting the ice and panic hone my senses. With an exhale I threw my mind out to the forest like a swift wave, my body seeking his.
Where are you?
The grip of Lucien’s hands on my wrist was crushing. But my bones and joints shifted under his grasp as my fingers elongated and claws began to form, dark like black onyx. Fangs sprang to my mouth and I wasn’t even sure what I was turning into, just that I was in danger, I was angry and I was going to explode. Lucien wasn’t paying attention, was scanning the forest desperately, panting with exertion as I raised a clawed hand in the air.
“Fuck!”
But he was more prepared than I - using his grip on me to pull my body forward and off balance as he dipped to the ground and rolled out of my stumbling reach.
My jaw was widening, bones were popping and transforming in odd ways that probably should have been painful, but I wasn’t aware of such things. Anger burned through me and I felt my canines scrape against my lip as I roared, roared.
On the ground, Lucien turned pale as he scrambled backwards in the snow.
“Holy Mother,” he whispered, and threw something into my face.
Blue powder exploded against my cheek as the small satchel burst. Blue powder down my lungs like sharp metal dust, scratching and burning deep into my chest.
Whatever bones and sharp edges I was growing winked away in an instant, like a candle snuffed out. I didn’t feel the snow as I pitched forward, coughing and choking on the powder and the sudden breathless snap of my power disappearing within me.
In between the rasping coughs, I felt a silence, a cold and empty room within my mind - not a shielded space of mine, but a void of nothing.
Lucien gripped my wrist firmly as I coughed and sputtered, reaching over and over again inside of me for the power that was now gone.
“What did you do?” I screamed, the powder burning in my lungs.
“You’re not yourself, Feyre,” he said, breathless and shaking. He held my arm like a vise but kept me at the edge of his arm’s reach. “This is to protect you as much as me.” Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced. He was as tense as I had ever seen him - scanning the white and black landscape around us, a subtle glow coming from him, trying to pierce through the fog.
“We’ll get you free of him, Feyre,” Lucien whispered now, like we were being watched. I desperately hoped we were - imagined deathly black wings and piercing violet eyes descending on us through the haze –
The air around me whipped away into darkness as Lucien winnowed us from the Steppes.
⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰
When we landed in Spring, on the cobblestones in front of the manor, Lucien and I collapsed.
He was on his back beside me, chest heaving, gasping for air.
It couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes.
Birds were singing in the forest beyond, the sounds becoming clearer as my breathing slowed. A warm, gentle breeze blew over us. A peaceful spring day, a mockery of the fear and anger burning inside me like a forest fire.
My muscles shook and I heard my quiver of arrows clatter against my back.
She didn’t want me to rely on my powers alone, that gentle voice echoed back at me.
I had been human, when I first walked these paths and up these stairs. No powers or even decent senses to speak of. Ridiculous, how much I’d come to rely on them.
Now I had two Illyrian knives strapped to my thighs.
In an instant they were in my hands, and I leapt onto Lucien with a snarl.
He barely caught my arm in time and my shaking limbs fought against him, pressing forward, the knife in my hand shaking above his head.
“How dare you!” I screamed, spittle flying into his face.
“Tam!” he bellowed. Even without my powers he struggled against me, my knee on his ribcage, my sweat dripping onto his pale strained face. “Ow, Feyre, Cauldron, stop –”
Bruising hands wrenched my arms and legs into the air, restraining me. Someone loosened my fingers one by one until the knives clattered to the ground as I thrashed.
I scented him before I saw him. Grass and rain and roses.
My body froze, my heart stuttering. A wave of something cold and prickling traveled down my skin as the sentries set me on my feet in front of him, my arms still in their wrenching grip.
Tamlin stood, rooted to the ground at the foot of the manor. His face had gone white, his eyes wide and blazing as he looked at me. An outfit of green and gold, a blur of muscles and power.
“Feyre,” he said gently. As if he had run into me unexpectedly, as if I was a ghost haunting the woods. As if he hadn’t sent Lucien and his sentries to take me.
The sight of him after so many months - his face so familiar yet so estranged, made anger and terror mix together into something sickly and thick in my body, dripping down my stomach like acid.
The last time I was here, I had been a prisoner. Locked inside until the walls choked the breath from me.
“No,” I whispered, my limbs beginning to shake. Moments ago my body was buzzing, humming like a panicked animal. Now I was frozen. My mind went black except for the steady chant inside of no no no no…
“Let her go,” Tamlin growled, that High Lord power of his command compelling even me to tremble. I was set down gently on the stones, my knees giving way, every part of me shaking.
Tamlin stalked towards me, the beast within him cautious, his eyes wide. An apex predator, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Feyre,” he said again, striding closer. “You’re back. You’re free.”
You’re free, Mor’s voice whispered in my mind.
Something in me jolted and I scrambled back from him on the cobblestones. I didn’t get far until my back was up against the legs of one of the sentries. I hated this trembling fear in me. I was a wolf, I was the Cursebreaker, I was made from all seven courts. But here I was nothing more than a trapped rabbit.
The High Lord kneeled in front of me, extending a hand, palm down, so similar to Lucien in the woods. Tentative, calming.
Like I was a feral creature to be tamed.
“What have you done,” I said, swallowing down a sob in my throat.
Finally, his eyes left me and flickered to Lucien, now standing behind him, his hand wary on the jeweled hilt of his sword.
“We found her in the northern woods,” Lucien replied to his silent question. “I winnowed, but her powers…I had to use the faebane.”
A muscled jaw clenched tightly, as Tamlin looked back at me. He was thinner than I remembered him - the lines of his muscles under his tunic stark, his cheekbones sharp against his sallow skin.
“Was he there?” he asked Lucien, still staring into my face.
“I didn't see him, but he was close. We got out before he could interfere.”
I needed my powers - my strength, my weapons. But not even my body would obey me now.
Come find me, come get me
“You’re home, Feyre. We’re going to help you,” Tamlin’s voice waivered, and he swallowed thickly. “He’s in your mind, but we’re going to get him out.”
Something cracked inside my chest. The birds were singing and a sweet scent was in the air and I was terrified and alone. Hot tears were running down my cheeks.
“No, he’s not,” my voice was saying, but I was far away. “He’s gone.”
Tamlin furrowed his brows at me. I could see the pain on his face, in his forest green eyes. As if I was hurting him.
He stared at me for a long moment, as I willed my tears to stop, as I willed them to turn to waves of the ocean or daggers of ice. But no power echoed in my blood, my bones. I was an animal, caught fully in their trap.
The High Lord of Spring reached for me and I felt the scrape of phantom claws on my skin, the bruise from Lucien’s grip still burning onto my wrist –
“Don’t touch me!”
Tamlin’s face was white with shock, and something like devastation. He froze before me with what seemed like an eternity.
“Bring her inside,” he finally said.
And I was hauled up by my arms and carried back into the manor, prison bound once more.
I’m already salivating over their wedding night: https://www.tumblr.com/quantum77-writes/821616700931866624/wip-wednesday?source=share
I'm trying to write the most over-the-top, indulgent loss-of-virignity scene I can possibly imagine.
“High Lord—Rhysand—” Something was wrong. Something terrible was going to happen if he didn’t stop. She was going to lose consciousness if she gave into it. Lose control of her magic. Of herself.
Rhys. His mental voice was strained almost to breaking. Call me Rhys.
“Rhys.” The familiarity was absurd, but she hardly had enough focus to care. “You have to stop.” A shudder wracked through her entire body. “Oh—Rhys. Please.”
You want me to stop? When you’re so close?
“Close to—” He did something wicked with his tongue, and the sentiment was lost in a moan that ripped from her throat. I think I’m going to set the bed on fire.
Feyre grabbed his wrists, steering them from her hips to the ties on the front of her trousers. "You're going to give me everything?" she breathed.
Her scent sweetened, flooding the cave with a rich perfume. Rhys's head spun. "Yes."
"Then give it to me," Feyre demanded.
I swear I didn’t mean to start another WIP, but then I went on a historical romance reading binge, and out of my docs popped a Feysand regency-hewn-city mashup loosely based on Devil in Winter by my new queen Lisa Kleypas, and LOOK AT HOW EXCITING IT IS:
Rhys was right: the girl was a poor dancer. She didn’t stumble, but her first steps were uncertain, and they didn’t gain confidence even as the other dancers found a rhythm. There was a sweetness to her inexperience, and he found himself pulling her needlessly close.
Rather than avert her eyes in embarrassment, she assessed him with a cool, storm-grey gaze. “I have a proposition.”
“Propositions from beautiful females are my favorite kind.” If she proposed a liaison, he would have a hard time refusing her. She was slighter and younger than he usually preferred, but her fresh-faced innocence was at odds with the wariness in her eyes. He indulged himself for a moment by imagining her nestled in the white down of his duvet, naked and blushing, her eyes colored with lust rather than cleverness.
“You should marry me.”
Mother above. “Ah, that’s my least favorite proposition. I get so many marriage proposals that they’ve become tiresome.”
“Once you choose a wife, you’ll no longer receive them. You’ll be able to hold court unencumbered by dolled-up girls and fathers with ulterior motives.” The statement was punctuated by an unintentional stomp on his left toes.
He wondered if she’d bring her boldness to the bedroom. “Why should I choose you, Miss…?” Instinctively, he reached out to pluck her name for himself, but his power bounced off an impressive boundary of solid mental iron.
“Feyre Archeron.”
“Your father is the Prince of Merchants? Unless I’m mistaken, you have two older sisters.” If Archeron was throwing his youngest daughter at Rhys like this, he must be truly desperate. “If I wanted to connect myself with your family, why wouldn’t I have chosen one of them?”
“Just because they don’t interest you doesn’t mean I won’t.”
“And why should I be interested?” The music swelled, and Feyre tensed as he lifted her by the waist in a turn. “You have the rest of the waltz to make your case.”
The pale length of her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the only sign of faltering confidence. “I’m aware of your… proclivities, my Lord, and if you were to marry me, I would expect neither your attention nor your fidelity.”
He pulled her close enough that her breath brushed against his collar. “Go on.”
“I will come to your bed upon request until I bear you an heir, and in the meantime, you will be free to do what—and who—you please.”
“Just one son?”
“Two, then.” She didn’t miss a beat. “If that would reassure you.”
“Hmm.” He touched his nose to her temple and pretended to consider. She smelled incredible, like lilac and pear, her scent amplified by the exertion of dancing. Perhaps he could spin this in his favor yet. “I could negotiate a similar arrangement with any number of females, and the Archeron bloodline is not particularly powerful. I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”
“My family might not be powerful, but I am.”
It wouldn’t be the first time someone had lied about their power in an attempt to snare him. “Is that so?”
She gave a barely perceptible nod against his collar.
“You’ll have to be more specific. How far can you winnow?” Poor Feyre, sent here by her father to sell herself to him, and he was engaging with the offer in bad faith. The longer he had her pressed against him like this, though, the more he felt the deception would be worth it to get her in his bed. His body was already responding to the small hands clutching at his jacket in an attempt to follow the waltz, but sweet, determined Feyre didn’t appear to notice.
“I’ve yet to try a distance that proved challenging.” There was a touch of childish pride in her voice, and he resisted the urge to press his lips to her forehead.
“What’s the furthest distance you’ve done?”
“Cesere and back. My mother wanted to buy a carpet.”
He almost missed a step. Archeron’s wife had been dead nearly a decade, which meant Feyre was claiming to have winnowed halfway across the Night Court, presumably towing her adult mother, when she was just a child.
It was laughable, really. Rhys renewed his effort to slip through her mental shields, eager to catch her in the lie and see a little mortified color on her face. “Winnowing isn’t an unusual skill,” he said, buying time. “I’d expect the mother of my heir to have other talents.”
“I can do more than winnow,” she said with a hint of endearing defensiveness.
“The waltz is nearly over, darling, and I’m starting to consider better uses for your tight lips.”
It’s not a discussion for polite company. The soft whisper against his mental barriers made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, so intimate and sweet he could almost taste it.
He missed a step, then. Just a small one. You’re a daemati.
“That boy seems nice. Is it serious?”
“No! No. Definitely not. Just a couple of dates.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
Feyre looked down at her lap. “I don't think so. The chemistry just isn’t there.”
Rhys took a seat next to her. “That’s good. It’s good to know what you want.”
In the end I hope it's you and me (in the darkness I would never leave) - Chapter 2
A Feysand fic. Mates UTM. It's all very inconvenient.
Read Chapter 2 on AO3, snippet below...
The High Lord sighed, running a hand through his blue-black hair. The gesture made him seem so normal that Feyre felt a sliver of her anger ebb.
“Unless I am mistaken,” he said eventually, with an easy arrogance that suggested he believed he never was, “it’s a…bond”.
His violet eyes glittered with stars before he tore them from her gaze, stepping away from her and walking over to a bureau where he poured a splash of ochre liquid from a crystal decanter into a tumbler.
“A bond?” Feyre echoed, the word uncomfortable in her mouth. Not as uncomfortable as the godsdammed tugging at her chest as he walked away, though. She’d only ever heard of one type of bond between the Fae and surely… “You mean like a…a ma-”
“Don’t say it,” he interrupted, his voice like gravel. But it was confirmation enough.
“Twenty years old, huh?” Cassian bounced his spoon between his fingers. “Rhys doesn’t go for anyone under a hundred. My point being, if you go through the heat, I would be more than happy to—“
Heat?
I didn’t hear him finish that sentence because a blur flew across the table and sent him crashing backwards. The next thing I knew, Rhys was on top of Cassian with his hand in a fist, landing blow after blow in a way that didn’t appear sportsmanlike in the slightest.
A cozy ACOMAF rewrite that explores Feyre’s stubbornness, Rhysand’s yearning, and the limits of sexual tension
“Is there anyone I can call? A parent, or a boyfriend?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “No, no, I’m okay. I’m fine, I promise.”
“Shh, baby, it’s okay.” A warm, tender feeling burst in his chest. She had no one. She needed him.
Tarquin was easy to like. She tried to fantasize about what it would be like if he took her home. Something told her he was a bad kisser. He’d go down on her, but it wouldn’t quite get the job done. He’d ask is this okay? at least one too many times.
Rhysand would be a good kisser. For a moment last night, she’d deliriously thought he would kiss her, and she was still curious what would have happened if she’d accepted his invitation for a drink.
She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about him, though.
"The House of Wind stairs make no sense!" - a mathematically backed rant
(I meant to post this rant in the notes of my fic but it turned out... weirdly long.)
So listen! I know her name ain’t Sarah J. Math, but I DESPISE those stupid stairs with a burning passion. And I KNOW that she’s obsessed with the number ten thousand and didn’t think about it once when she slapped “10,000 steps” onto the page.
Because it makes no fucking sense!
Not only is it absolutely unhinged that you can’t winnow up to the HoW, but it would also take an insane amount of time to actually take the stairs to get up to the House (to, y’know, have an audience with your High Lord, because for some reason that’s his official residence).
And we already know it takes a long-ass time to get up the stairs, but I don’t think you understand just HOW long it actually takes.
So! Petty bitch that I am, I decided to do the math!
In this essay I will—
First off, even if you’re physically fit enough to take on 10k steps, it would take an absolutely ludicrous amount of time to get up or down.
There’s usually 21 steps in one floor, so that equates to the HoW stairs being 476ish floors tall. The sheer thought of doing nearly 500 floors on a stair master is enough to bring me to tears, honestly. For comparison, the Burj Khalifa has 163 floors. So you’d essentially be walking up three Burj Khalifas stacked on top of each other.
Now, we could keep calculating with the Burj Khalifa. But for the sake of simplicity, I’ve referenced the Tianmen Mountain Stairway (or the “Stairway to Heaven”) to calculate how long it would take to climb the cursed HoW stairs. The Tianmen Mountain Stairway has 999 steps and takes an average of roughly 30 minutes to climb. So assuming you’ll climb the 10k steps without a break and without tumbling to your death halfway up, it’s gonna take you 300 minutes, or 5 HOURS! Even if you’re a speedy climber and consistently take one step a second for the entire 10k steps, it’s still somewhere around 3 HOURS! And that’s ignoring the fact that the HoW having a spiral staircase is making the entire thing even more of a hellish experience.
Going down the stairs would be a little easier, because it usually takes about a third to half the time to go down the stairs, compared to going up. But going all the way down would still be 1–2.5 hours of continuous walking in spirals without pausing or tripping.
Now you might argue that Fae bodies are superior physically and that it probably doesn’t take a reasonably fit Fae that long. And you might be right, if those bitches were normal stairs.
But wait, there’s more! Because not only is it 10,000 steps, but they are “each a foot high” (ACOSF ch. 8). The standard riser height for stairs is somewhere between 5 and 7 inches. With one foot in height, those are insanely tall steps. And each step being one foot tall also means that the mountain itself is at least 10,000 ft high. So almost two miles.
Now how does anyone get up there, really, if you can’t winnow to the HoW? Do you just accept a 5 hour climb every time you want to appeal for a tax break? What if you’re sick and can’t walk all those stairs? Does every Fae in Velaris just have glutes of fucking steel? Just sporting an entire bakery? As a matter of fact, how did Rhys’s DAD get up there? Did he take the stairs every time he left the house? Did he have his wife/son/daughter fly him up and down? What did he do before he was mated to an Illyrian? Did he just winnow into the air above the House and free-fall to the balcony every time he had to get in? Every option just seems WILDLY impractical.
And… where is the library in all that? Because Nesta goes to work there every day, and she can’t even manage 200 of the stairs in the beginning, so the library seems to be right under the HoW. But then… how does anyone else get to the library? Do you have to take 9,500 stairs from the city in the valley just to go to the library? I know the priestesses don’t want to leave, but there seem to be people allowed into the library, even if they have to ask permission from the priestesses first. So… do those people have to take the stairs to the library as well? And are those the same stairs Nesta walks? Is there like… a secret elevator that no one told Nesta about?
What about the Starfall guests? Is there just a horde of Fae in fancy black-tie attire climbing those stairs for Starfall? In heels or dress shoes? Is there an Illyrian taxi service? Does Rhys just deposit a legion of Illyrians in suits in Velaris for Starfall to get all his fancy guests up to the HoW? Because in ACOSF, Kallias and Viviane were at Starfall when Viviane was heavily pregnant. And I doubt that she took the stairs or did the whole free-falling method while eight months pregnant.
Well, I guess at least with the mountain being two-ish miles tall you have plenty of time to question your life choices after jumping from that balcony to winnow out.
(The mountain’s height is nowhere close to consistent across the books btw. According to ACOWAR chapter 15, it’s only supposed to be a “thousand foot drop” from the HoW balcony to the valley. And while that would make a lot more sense for the mountain, mathematically, and would fix all the problems with the mountain’s height, it would also make the stairs EVEN MORE ridiculous. Because for there to be 10,000 steps in a 1,000 foot mountain, the stairs would have to be barely more than one inch tall each. Have you ever climbed stairs that flat? With a spiral staircase, that’s basically a very bumpy slide.)
Which brings me to another can of worms entirely! The mountain’s height. Especially when comparing it to Ramiel, the mountain on the Night Court’s insignia.
Knowing that Ramiel is one of the three sacred mountains in Prythian (alongside the UTM mountain and the Prison), you’d assume that it’s probably the tallest mountain in the Night Court, right? And that the random mountain next to Velaris can’t be anywhere close to the height of a legendary sacred mountain, right? Well, let’s do some more math!
Calculating anything with the HoW mountain is pretty easy, since we can assume Velaris is at sea level. So let’s compare Ramiel to the HoW mountain.
Easiest way to do that is by comparing climbing times. Nesta, Gwyn and Emerie climb Ramiel during the Blood Rite. During that climb, Gwyn’s leg is so injured that Emerie has to carry her part of the way. So for the sake of calculating, I’d say it’s safe to assume that injured Fae climbing speed = reasonably fit human climbing speed. In chapter 68 of ACOSF, they wake at the foot of Ramiel at dawn of the last day of the Blood Rite. And Gwyn and Emerie make it to the peak of Ramiel just before dawn the next day while Nesta fights off Bellius.
So, one full day to climb Ramiel.
Thankfully, I don’t need to do the full math for the HoW mountain, since the irl Mount San Jacinto (or the “C2C Hike”) is pretty much the perfect comparison. From its lowest to its highest point, it has an elevation gain of 10,352 ft, and it takes one day to finish (the recommended climbing time is 1–2 days since normal people have to do stuff like sleep, but it’s doable in one day).
So! Ramiel and the HoW mountain are probably around the same height, or rather Ramiel probably has a prominence of ~10,000 ft.
(On a Nesta-related sidenote, I know the stairs are supposed to be symbolic, but once she manages to get down more than a few hundred steps, HOW is it harder to take the rest of the stairs down than climb thousands of steps back to the HoW? I think at some point she makes it more than halfway down and instead of just going down the rest of the way she… takes more than 5,000 steps back… up? Have any of you ever tried climbing even a few hundred steps? Going down the same amount of steps is a BLESSING in comparison.)
By the way, with a normal riser height for each step (again, somewhere between 5 and 7 inches usually), the mountain would be at 4,100–5,800 ft. Which would be much more reasonable, even with the 10k steps, but unfortunately that number is backed by absolutely nothing in canon.
So I guess my point is that no matter how you look at those fucking stairs, they make no sense. At all. Either the mountain is FREAKISHLY tall, or the stairs are FREAKISHLY flat.
That’s the only two options. Either the mountain really is almost two miles tall and getting both to the HoW and the library is an absolute nightmare, or the mountain is normal sized at 1,000ish ft and the stairs are one-inch-neck-breakers.
One-Shot • 2.6k words • CW: Nonconsensual sex is depicted, but not gratuitously.
Just one more night. One more. Tomorrow, we’ll all be free, or we’ll both be dead.
For @officialrhysweek Day 5, "Masks:" Rhys's POV of the night before the third trial.
“I’m tired of you for tonight,” I say, smooth and sardonic. Like kissing her meant nothing, like the ink on my hands means nothing. Like my body isn’t screaming to drag her back, get her out.
I shove her toward the door and smile when she stumbles. “Go back to your cell.”
She looks over her shoulder, and for one treacherous heartbeat, I think she’s looking at me. But her eyes slide past, to where Tamlin stands at Amarantha’s side.
Whatever she sees makes her face crumple—Cauldron, this human can’t keep her emotions hidden for one godsdamned second—and she sulks out of the throne room, bare feet slapping on the cold stone, door thudding shut behind her.
If Tamlin had any sense, he’d ignore her.
If he really loved her, he wouldn’t be able to.
My own gaze lingers on the door for a moment too long. When I finally turn, Amarantha is grinning, and I can’t tell if it’s from genuine, wicked pleasure, or from having caught me staring. I let the cruelty linger on my lips, shooting her a smirk before sauntering toward the opposite end of the room, to a red couch tucked in the corner. She’ll find me if she wants to.
I can’t help but reach along the bond, gently enough that she won’t notice my presence. An unusual connection, our bargain. Probably because it’s tied to her life. I remind myself of this often, which is almost the same as believing it.
There’s anger on the other end. Disgust.
Tonight, it’s hard to remember that this is what I want. Disgust is better than apathy. Anger is less painful than torture at Amarantha’s hands. I should be grateful that she’s alive to hate me at all.
I slump in my seat and hope that I look merely lazy. Just one more night. One more. Tomorrow, we’ll all be free, or we’ll both be dead.
The green-skinned female from earlier is slinking across the throne room, perhaps keen to finish what we’d started. She’s new here. From Spring. She doesn’t yet know that no one has me but Amarantha.
I sit up straighter and beckon her anyway, encouraging her to crawl back onto my lap. In the throne room, it’s better to be occupied. Her fingers begin to trace over my chest, lingering at the buttons of my jacket, and I swallow a shudder. It’s natural to cling to whatever scraps of power we can down here, and even in this state, I have more to offer than most.
She smells like sea foam and freshly cut grass, and I breathe it in. She’s not the one I want, but she’s not Amarantha, either.
“What a stupid girl,” she croons in my ear. “Thinks she’s worth something.” But her glamour is poor, and her fear clogs my nostrils. Anticipation for tomorrow seeps like mud from around her mental shields.
“A silly human,” I agree. “Impatient and stubborn. Imagine falling in love with her.”
Rhys dunks in the championship basketball game and pays for it later on.
G- General audiences
1,345 words
This story was inspired by my own lived experience. My partner, who is 42, plays in an over-30 basketball league with some of his buddies. They're a great team and they have a great time. My partner also has an injury that is bothered by playing basketball, yet, as the saying goes "ball is life."
Anyway, please enjoy my submission of whump for @officialrhysweek (and my highlighting his creaky knee)!
Read on AO3 or below the cut.
With an accepted pass from Helion, Rhys raced up the court, bobbing and weaving between his opponents, the hoop completely open, his opportunity to dunk within sight.
His mind was made up - their de-facto coach, Kalias, encouraged him you’ve got it man go for it, Tarquin continuing to guard Eris while Cassian and Azriel took on Tamlin.
His eyes flicked to the scoreboard above the hoop, the numbers whizzing by 9-8-7-6-5, he advanced forward, ignoring the twinge of pain each step brought him. He had no choice, if he scored the tie would be broken and the Knights would be the season champs for the third time in a row.
4-3-2-1 and -
He takes a step, pushing all of his strength into his right foot to lift him off the floor, the sensation as if he grew wings to be able to fly just enough to land the ball through the hoop, the swish of the net matching his groan of victory - quickly followed by pain, lancing through him from his knee down to his ankle.
Cheers erupted from behind him, the stands full of friends and family of both teams exclaiming their glee and frustration at the sudden broken tie.
“And with a dunk from Rhysand Sterling, the Knights break the tie, becoming your division champions for the third year in a row!” The sound of the buzzer followed the announcers’ call, signaling the true end of the game. His teammates crowded around him, clutching on as they all jumped up and down, their whoops and cheers enveloping him.
The Knights and the Sentinels - consistent rivals in the over-30 league - lined up to high-five, wishing each other good game, great job. Despite every fiber in him wanting to shove into Tamlin, Rhys extended the sign of sportsmanship, joining his team at the announcer’s table to be presented with the trophy and take their picture, marking their championship status once and for all.
Rhys didn’t care about the trophy - not really, anyway. Of course, he was proud of their team and how they pulled together week after week. More than anything, he was grateful for the time with the guys and what it signified - that after years of friendship and life lived, they could still find time to be together.
After the celebration concluded, he scanned the crowd for the familiar blue-grey eyes of his wife, finding her immediately, the sight of her the icing on the cake of a perfect season finish.
Well, the sight of her and the sight of their two children, the boy possessing eyes like Rhys and the girl with eyes like her mom, Feyre.
He winced in pain, trying to fight the grimace by forcing a grin as he began to cross the gym towards them, wishing he could snap his fingers and be laid up in bed with his family already.
He could see that his wife wasn’t buying it before he got within three feet of her.
“Dad you dunked! You did it!” Their son, Nyx, cheered excitedly when Rhys got to them at last.
“Daddy I didn’t like the buzzer,” Luna, their daughter who was still rather young, complained.
Rhys chuckled, tried to kneel to meet his kids but thought better of it when his knee barked in protest. Instead, he opted to bend at the waist, picking up Luna and settling her on his hip before ruffling Nyx’s hair.
“I know baby, it’s very loud. But did you have fun?” Rhys asked, sneaking a glance at Feyre to find her lips fixed in a straight line.
“Yeah! You were so fast!” Luna exclaimed.
Rhys beamed before turning to Feyre, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek. “Let’s take the kids for ice cream before you tell me all the ways I was reckless, hm?”
She rolled her eyes, mirth behind the gesture before reaching for his hand and wrapping her other arm around the shoulders of Nyx, leading them all towards the exit.
***
Rhys plopped against the mattress after dressing in his night clothes, the relief from the shower short-lived as the barking pain in his knee reared its ugly head yet again, his eyes screwed shut in response. He was able to mask most of his pain throughout ice cream with his family, but the walk home, up the stairs and climbing in the shower damn near did him in.
He groaned, futilely massaging the joint, regretting the decision to dunk earlier that evening all together.
The quiet steps of his wife made him open his eyes, knowing the inevitable couldn’t be put off any longer.
He sighed as he met her gaze, putting on his best front of a wounded-animal instead of the injured 42-year old he was.
“So, you decided tonight would be the night you’d dunk,” she started as she sat on the bed next to him, a caddy of miscellaneous first aid supplies in hand.
“Yes, and I am remembering why I stopped doing it after college,” he grunted in response.
She tsked above him, moving to settle his leg across her lap while swatting his hand away and taking over.
The smell of icy-hot hit his nostrils, relief beginning to find him once again as he felt her hands begin to apply it on his knee.
“There’s some Aleve on the nightstand for you. Take it and I’ll get this wrapped.”
He followed her instructions immediately, mindful not to jostle his leg too much. The knee injury was from high school and as the years went on, it got progressively worse. Manageable, but anytime there was a storm on the horizon, Rhys could feel it.
He couldn’t help it, though, when the guys wanted to start up a 30-and over team. He missed playing with his guys, and he wanted his kids to be exposed to as many hobbies and activities as possible.
Plus, he knew Feyre secretly loved watching him move up and down the court and took pride in the fact that her middle-aged husband “still had it in him,” as the wives of his teammates liked to say.
Right now, though, he didn’t know how she saw him as anything other than pathetic. What business did he have pushing himself to the limit like this, reigniting old injuries to the point that he couldn’t even kneel to talk to his own kids?
He grimaced at a particularly sensitive spot, Feyre’s actions bringing him back to the present.
He was in pain, but the sight of his wife, with her messy bun and baggy shirt (his shirt, he noted) - melted it all away.
Or it was the icy-hot but he didn’t care, relief was relief.
“You looked good tonight,” she murmured, her eyes trained on the wrap in her hands. Rhys could see the beginnings of a blush forming, turning the tips of her ears pink.
“Oh yeah?” He purred, infusing as much suggestion into his voice as he could through the pain.
She hummed, tightening the wrap in a manner tighter than was perhaps necessary. “Yes, I just love seeing my husband wreck his body needlessly.”
He snorted, then reached for her hand. “Feyre,” he whispered, her attention snapping to him immediately, her head tipping in encouragement to continue.
“Thank you for taking such good care of me.”
She fought a grin, his words melting her instantly. She set the caddy aside and crawled up to lay her head on his chest, tucked beneath his chin, arm wrapped around him.
“You know I’ve got your back,” she sighed, settling into him completely.
He carded a hand through her hair, placing a kiss on the top of her head.
As much shit as she liked to give him for trying to live out his glory days, he knew that she loved what it meant to be able to care for him like this. That they can both be vulnerable about whatever pain they felt, physical or otherwise, and still love and respect each other - that was a beautiful thing he would never take for granted.
“Feyre,” he called, her name sounding like a plea on his tongue.
For his sake—or for hers, she couldn’t tell, Feyre paused. She stopped right beside him, shoulders almost brushing as she stood facing the castle and the ball and the festivities, Rhys facing the gardens and the darkness and the loneliness.
“It is highly discourteous for a lady to be alone with the King’s…” Feyre hesitated on the word. “Shadow.”
She avoided the use of the word Assassin at every chance she got.
Rhys knew it, too.
“It has never stopped you before,” he replied quietly, fingers moving just slightly to brush against hers.
