Fic Summary: A curse. Divine punishment. Rhys didn’t know what it was that kept the cycle in motion. All he knew was that he was going to break if he had to hold his mate on her deathbed again.
OR;
The Feysand Reincarnation AU
AN: For @sajirah, one of the most wonderful human beings I know. I'm honored to have been trusted with your @acotargiftexchange gift and even more honored to call you a member of my Inner Circle. I hope this is everything you hoped for.
Also, a thousand kudos to my confidants and betas, @whatishowedyouinthedark and @jsmelodies, your words of encouragement have been pivotal for boosting my confidence in the angst department.
Chapter I CW: Smut, Praise Kink, Mild Torture, Temporary MCD, Mentioned/Implied Non-Con (NOT FEYSAND), General Angst
You won't see dark!rhys behavior until chapters 3 & 4.
Chapter Summary: Feyre and Rhys meet during the First War when the Seraphim fight beside the human army.
Chapter I: I Can't Keep Pretending
Rhysand
Rhys thought it was an exaggeration, the snap of the mating bond. It was an incessant itching under his skin, muscles winding tighter and tighter each time he saw a male approaching her.
The cruel little thing knew she was torturing him, too. He first saw her when she passed his chair in the camp infirmary. He'd been so shocked by her arrival that he'd nearly snapped at the healer when her needle pushed through to close the nasty gash across his forearm.
The healer was a human, and clearly unimpressed with his irritation, often expressing opinions that could ultimately be boiled down to “fae males are fools, slaves to their instincts.” He both loathed and respected her for it.
“I saw to the girl earlier,” the healer finally told him. “Feyre Archeron. One of Drakon’s commanders. A free spirit if I’ve ever seen one. You’ll have your hands full.”
He smiled, flexing his arm as his magic aided the careful stitching. “Good. It would be boring otherwise. Thank you.”
Rhys made it across the camp with new determination, checking in with his own soldiers along the way. Unfortunately, he could only catch glimpses of the female who was apparently kept busy with her own assignments.
While the human healer had been the one to give him Feyre’s name, it was Miryam who truly called him out. “You’ve been an irritable bastard today, Rhys. Some are even starting to say unstable,” she almost teased. “So, what’s the problem?”
He ground his teeth, unamused. “The problem, Miryam, is that your mate is keeping mine from me.”
She blinked at him for a moment, a smirk slowly blooming across her lips. “Oh, now this I’ve been waiting to see. Though I have to say, a war is hardly the ideal time to bond. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
He scowled. “Feyre Archeron. Can you spare her for a few moments or not?”
Her smile softened. “It’ll be a shame to lose her, if she lets you drag her back to the Night Court. I’ll make sure she finds your tent when I see her.”
“Thank you.”
~~~~~
Feyre
“So, you’ve landed yourself a prince.”
Feyre huffed, assessing her friend. “I hear he’s arrogant.”
Miryam laughed. “Oh, undoubtedly. I’ve yet to meet a young soldier or prince who wasn’t, though.”
Feyre hesitated. “You know him well?”
She shrugged. “Well enough. He’s always been someone Drakon trusted.” Crossing the room, she squeezed Feyre’s shoulders. “He’s a good male, Feyre. One of the best I know.” There was a long pause. “But it’s not his ego or character concerning you, is it?”
“I’ve trained with our legions for decades, Miryam. I know nothing of foreign customs. I’d be treading water, trying to navigate their politics.”
“Would you, though?” Miryam was grinning the next time Feyre turned to face her. “The political scene is a battlefield of its own kind, Feyre. You have the wit for it, I’m sure. It’s that soft heart of yours that’s going to get you in trouble in the seat of Night.” Leaning her hip against the table, her friend raised a brow. “You know where his tent is?”
Ten minutes later she was standing outside of his tent, trying to work up the courage to announce herself. One of the canvas flaps flicked open before she could say a word and she assumed Rhysand was just as in tune to her scent and presence as she was to his.
“Hello, Feyre darling.”
“Rhysand.” He waved a hand, inviting her into his space. It was modest, but inviting. Just large enough to lay down a large sleeping pallet and a few small tables and a pair of chairs. Enough floor space remained to tell her the tent could be used to hold necessary meetings. “Miryam said you wanted to see me.”
His hands froze over the twin goblets set out on the low table across from his pallet. “You had no desire to meet me.”
He wore his mask well enough, but it didn’t quite hide the shock of emotion rolling down the bond. Speaking only a few words, she had already hurt him.
Feyre crossed her arms, guilt’s nasty claws already sinking in. Still, she knew she couldn’t dodge the question. And she knew she couldn’t throw Drakon in the path of Rhys anger just because she wanted to avoid this discussion.
“Is it not better to remain apart for now?” she ventured. “Neither of us will be at our best if a mating bond is manipulating our instincts. And even if that wasn’t a problem, who’s to say that one of us won’t be reassigned in the coming weeks or months.” She shook her head. “It’s better to suppress it for the time being. The war is too tumultuous and—”
“How long?” He stalked closer and she shifted back a step. “How long, Feyre, are we supposed to suppress the bond? How long should I try to pretend I don’t want to pummel the males I call brothers just for speaking to you as their comrade?”
He sighed, twisting a lock of hair that had slipped free of her braid. “I’m sorry. That was…” He let out a heavy breath. “You’re right. Now isn’t the time to formally accept a bond. A mating frenzy would be less than ideal. If there’s one thing I ask, it’s that you don’t push me away completely. Consider it all before—”
“I have no intention of rejecting the bond, Rhys.” She shifted awkwardly. “I just don’t have the slightest clue how to navigate this right now.”
Rhys gave a slow nod, withdrawing and running a hand through his hair. “It would be a big change. The life that’s been planned for me—for my spouse—I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But it is also difficult to escape.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to walk away from everything you know, Rhys.”
“Yet you think I’d ask it of you.”
She swallowed. “I’m a commander, Rhys. As many people look up to me, I am replaceable. The Heir to the Night Court is not.”
She could only imagine the target on his back if he tried to abdicate. It was common knowledge his magic already rivaled his father’s. The consequences of that—vendettas, ruthless and petty—would only grow. Escaping his fate as the heir was not an option. “But that isn’t a discussion for right now,” she finished, voice soft, just shy of trembling.
“No,” he murmured, stepping away. “It’s not.”
“If we—”
“Commander Archeron,” a gruff voice interjected from outside the tent.
“I’ll take that as my cue.”
Rhys gave her a hesitant smile. Sad, almost, to leave this unresolved. “Until next time, darling.”
“Yes. Goodnight, Rhys.”
~~~~~
Rhys claimed he’d never been this irritable, but there was no way a bond left in limbo was causing such a shake-up. Still, Feyre humored him, spending what little time they had between camp movements and her assignments under Drakon’s command in his company, talking late into the night. Every moment they spent together Feyre felt herself lingering a moment longer, waiting, longing for… something.
What, she wasn’t sure. Her resolve about waiting to accept the bond was iron-clad, of course. There was no other choice when they were fighting in the heart of the war. When either of them could be reassigned—pushed to the front, into the thick of it—or pulled from the fight entirely.
It concerned her enough that she’d tried to slip out of the war tent ahead of him a quiet night weeks after their first meeting. Stood frozen when his hand closed ever so gently over her wrist. Trembled when his brows knit, his other hand settling at the small of her back without hesitation to guide her out of the path of other soldiers and into a pocket of shadow she didn’t think was entirely natural.
No one questioned the easy maneuvering. Even without a formal declaration it was no secret most of their mutual free time was spent in each other’s company, not to mention Rhys’ blatant possessive streak around other males. That bit was driving her insane. Feyre was just glad it only amused Drakon.
“Something’s wrong,” Rhys said, not bothering to beat around the bush. “What is it?”
“I just—”
She let out a shuddering breath. In the pocket of shadow he’d bent to his will, only a sliver of moonlight managed to penetrate their cocoon, casting his face in a muted light that managed to enhance the sharp angles of his face and the rare shade of his eyes. She could hardly think with him looking at her with such concern. Could hardly breathe.
“I need…” He cocked his head, sliding his hands into his pockets as if he had sensed she needed a bit of space. “I never meant to get this close to you.” Rhys flinched. “Not while we’re caught in the middle of all of this. We don’t have enough control of things here to logically—”
“Tell me one thing that’s logical about this, Feyre. A mating bond is not something meant to be controlled or manipulated or suppressed. Not as long as we have, and certainly not as long as we may need to to meet all the terms you’ve set in place.
“I don’t want control or logic, Feyre.” He twisted the length of her braid around his fist, tipping her head back. By the time he winnowed them back to his tent her front was pressed flush to his, his other hand a firm presence at her back. “I just want you.”
She swallowed, trying hard not to flick her eyes to the pile of bedding behind them. “We don’t know what’s coming, Rhys. Movement from Hybern—”
“We’re not discussing the war.”
“Rhys.” But his mouth was covering hers, the hand in her hair dropping to wrap around her throat before she could withdraw enough to scrape together an argument with some half-hearted foundation. A flex of his fingers, soft and brief, and she melted into him. He pulled back for a moment, nose brushing hers as he assessed her new acceptance. Gave her a triumphant smirk before claiming her mouth again.
The first kiss between them had been cautious. Just firm enough to silence her protests, soothe her worries, draw her into the catastrophic storm their heightened emotions could and would bring about, but careful all the same.
The second was pure sin. A promise for how the night would end. Settle the countless bets that had been rolling through the human army the past several weeks. He had knocked her walls down so easily, they both knew she wanted this as much as he did. She had to give Rhys credit, he was a little too good at getting her out of her own head.
It was only when her back hit the bedding behind her that she froze beneath him, unease creeping through the haze that had started to claim her conscious thoughts. Even bedding males of her own race, she’d never allowed someone to pin her wings before. But Rhys had distracted her so efficiently. “Easy,” he purred, already lifting his weight.
“I just haven’t—”
“I know. Illyrians are sensitive about it too. I wasn’t thinking.” She grimaced, shrugging out of her leathers once he’d opened the laces. “There are other positions,” Rhys continued. “Or if you’re still having doubts we can stop. I’ll walk you back,” he offered, even as the leathers fell away to expose her upper body.
“I…” She bit her lip, busying her shaking hands with the buckles and laces fitting his armor as well, exposing inked flesh she’d only caught glimpses of on the evenings she left something behind when returning to her own part of the camp. She’d heard of the Rite markings and knew what they meant, but she’d never laid with an Illyrian—had never seen them inked upon flesh. He stayed quiet, carefully reaching from under one wing, running a finger down each ridge of her spine, letting her trace his tattoos at her leisure—an easy excuse of absent wonder—as she gathered herself again. “I trust you.”
He trailed his nose along her jaw, easing her down more carefully this time before unlacing her boots and baring her lower half from there. She relaxed into the pallet beneath her, eyes half-lidded as Rhys pressed a tender kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Good girl. So sweet once you stop fighting yourself. ”
Oh.
She’d received marks of approval before. She hadn’t been thoughtlessly gifted her position of command or pushed through the ranks without feedback. But there was a clear difference between the gruff pride of a Captain and what Rhys was delivering now.
Because her mate’s praise wasn’t objective in any fashion. A half-dozen words and he’d stripped her bare, a fist wrapping tight around the heart of her desire and forcing her to face what she’d buried in her pursuit of becoming the unshakable soldier. A violent shiver ran through her body and she arched against him. The only invitation she could manage at the moment.
He looked at her like she was a feast, finally deigning to dip his head to her breast, tugging her nipple with his teeth, content to watch her whimper and writhe beneath him. “Still so sure you want to push this down?” Rhys murmured, breath dancing across tender flesh. The tip of his finger grazed her knee before he nudged her legs apart, cool air teasing the slickness between them as much as his fingers did.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “Gonna stay this sweet for me?” he asked. “Tell me, Feyre, who else has seen you like this?” His thumb brushed her clit then and she let her head fall back, baring her throat once more. He hummed softly at her silence, leaning down to claim her mouth once again. For all the things she’d learned to predict, she didn’t see his next move coming.
His thumb and forefinger fell to the bottom of her wing, locking down on the thick bone leading to where her wing met her skin. Her soft cry was muted by the kiss, lips parting in welcome. Yielding to her instincts as she was, her mental shields were already fractured—weak enough for her mate to sink those midnight talons ever so gently into her mind. “Who?” he crooned, a slow twist of his wrist coaxing another whine from her lips.
Feyre shook her head. She didn’t need to give a response with the grasp he had on her, but she found herself hurrying to answer. “No one. I don’t let them see. Can’t let them see.”
He eased out of her mind then and her next breath was a shallow, trembling thing. As intrusive as the act was, part of her had been almost comforted in feeling him there. It was steadying. An anchor to cling to whilst forced to endure his teasing, one hand mapping her right wing—feather, ligament, and bone—while the other pushed deep into her core. Buried to the second knuckle, he curled them sharply, leaving her legs shaking.
Her hands found the sleep mats beneath her, but the slick fabric did little to ground her against the mounting arousal. Leisurely, relentless. The quiet whispers of praise and encouragement only quickened the climb, every bit of it a far cry from the quick fumbling of the few partners she’d let herself use as a distraction in the past. She’d never considered a male could be so focused on taking her to the brink, forcing her to claim her own pleasure.
It made her wonder if it was strictly to do with the bond or if he’d been equally attentive with other females. Something hot and sharp shot through her at the thought. Why should she envy them, though, when mated males were so unlikely to stray?
She let one hand fly up to his hair when that first release tore through her, tangling her fingers through the dark silk of it and tugging hard. He growled, nipping her lower lip in warning.
Feyre growled right back, barely collecting herself before making her next demand. “Get out of your pants. Now.”
He chuckled, a wide grin curving his lips. Moments later he was teasing her with the tip. “This what you want, darling? Want to be fucked nice and slow?” The sharp points of his teeth dragged down her neck. “Been fighting this for weeks. I should make you give me a few more before I come inside you. Make up for lost time.”
She whined, her strongest means of rushing him dying the moment he pinned her hands over her head, catching them easily in one of his. “Rhys, please.”
He clicked his tongue. “My mate, so pretty when she begs.”
Finally, he pushed the rest of the way into her, the sudden fullness bordering on discomfort. He rolled his hips in soft strokes until she’d adjusted to the feeling of his length inside of her, nodding ever so slightly and reaching to grip his shoulders when he released her hands so he could brace himself over her and continue exploring her body.
“Such a good little girl,” he murmured again. She clenched down at the soft roll of his words and his next thrust was a little sharper. For his teasing about getting a few more orgasms out of her, the tension locking his body told another story. “Fuck,” he hissed, pace quickening, his breathing heavy against her collar.
Feyre whimpered under the brutal pressure of the next kiss, nails biting into his muscled shoulders. The gentlest brush of his finger at the base of her wing was the end for both of them. Clenching tight, she bit down on his lip, crying out with her next orgasm when he thrust deep, hitting her cervix. “Gods,” she choked.
Rhys groaned, feeling her spasm around him again. “That’s it. Just like that, darling.
“Tuck your wings,” he instructed when she regained some clarity. Face buried in his neck, she did as she was told, not moving an inch when he rolled them so she was draped over his chest. The worst of it was when he pulled out of her, this time leaving her to come to terms with the newfound emptiness. “Sweet thing.” He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, arms locking around her, presumably for the night.
Feyre hummed, raising her head in quiet request. That kiss was the catalyst, his claiming of her lips finally drawing their bond into a quiet, growing light. Building like the brightest star, the bond stretched taut between them, the almost violent snap a thing of endless resonance.
“Rhys,” she whispered, voice shaking.
He ran a hand through her sweat-damp hair. “Hush, darling. We’ll face it in the morning.”
~~~~~
She wanted to claim it was the early light of dawn that woke her, but that would be a blatant lie when the reality was that her mate had chosen to start the morning with his head between her legs.
She couldn’t exactly complain when he clearly knew what he was doing.
“Oh, my—”
He huffed against her core when her hand gripped his hair just as firmly as the night before. “Good morning to you too, darling.”
He said nothing more than that before returning to his task, each stroke of his tongue less precise than the one before it now that she was awake and writhing against the hands he kept locked over her thighs. She was a shaking mess, her very blood singing right beside the newborn bond when she shattered beneath him. “Fuck. Rhys.”
He chuckled, once again shifting to his back to let her up. He was already half-dressed for the day, only his upper body bare for her perusal. For the better, of course. Preparations needed to be made. The units stationed off the plains were becoming restless, feeling like sitting ducks after weeks of silence.
Something was brewing in the ranks they were set to fight. What, was the question.
She sighed. “Please tell me there was at least a sound-shield in place last night.”
Rhys laughed, eyes bright even as morning drowsiness lingered. “There are very few ways I can be considered a gentleman, Feyre, but they’re there.” He cupped the back of her neck, pulling her closer even as she wrapped herself in a scratchy sheet nearby before they could start in on each other again. “I may not be the first male to have the pleasure of hearing the sounds you make when you come, Feyre darling, but I will be the last.”
He released her, smirking at her soft blush. Taking a breath, she withdrew, only allowing herself to reach out and frame his jaw with both hands, his morning stubble rough against her palms. “This doesn’t… Not everyone respects bonds and stations mates together, Rhys. Even if we aren’t in the full frenzy this is reckless.”
“I know, darling. We’ll figure this out. That I promise.”
~~~~~
Rhysand
A week later Rhys was standing before his father in full uniform. Presentation was the least of the High Lord’s concerns at the moment. “You’ve been off task, from what I hear. Distracted.”
“I’ve done perfectly well in my—”
“Do you think your men respect you for your crown, or your dedication to making your stance in this war known? For being their prince, or a brother in arms? Now a female is driving you away from your duty. Some power-hungry—”
“Commander Archeron isn’t a power-hungry anything. She has no greater focus as a leader in Drakon’s ranks than winning this war. We all know what their next means of elimination would involve.” He clenched his jaw, sick at the thought of Feyre being tortured or killed for her race. “She isn’t High Fae. Her life could become just as treacherous as a human’s if we lose this war.” As if allying with the humans wasn’t a death sentence in itself.
His father took a step closer and froze, nostrils flaring. If someone had reported Rhys’ distraction involving Feyre, he wasn’t sure how the mating bond, common knowledge now amongst the camp, hadn’t been mentioned as well. “What will they think of us?” his father mused, that frigid mask unyielding. “Two generations on the throne mated to lesser fae.”
Rhys would have lashed out for the comment if it wasn’t his mother they were discussing. His father was a monster in a thousand different ways, but he loved his mate, twisted as their union had become. Would he be that kind of male a few hundred years from now? A monster whose obsession broke his lover’s wild spirit? He swallowed. That wasn’t something he could afford to ponder now.
Something flicked across his father’s face. If Rhys didn’t know the male as well as he knew himself, he’d almost think it was guilt. “You’ll be leaving when camp breaks. Your next assignment,” his father finally announced, a slip of parchment appearing between two fingers. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
He was still grinding his teeth when he stalked back to his tent, his orders long since misted in his frustration. What he found waiting for him only worsened his mood.
His mate didn’t have much to move into his tent, but it was still jarring, not seeing a jacket tossed over the back of the wooden chair in the corner. To see one rucksack instead of two. Still holding the tent flap open, a fresh wind rustled a sheet of parchment left on his pillow he was quick to snatch up.
My legion’s being sent to a camp on Montesere’s eastern border. I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye, face to face. I’m sorry, Rhys.
Above all else I hope
He sighed, letting the paper flutter back to his pallet. “You hope what, Feyre?”
~~~~~
Feyre
Thriving, vibrant, steady.
Endless miles between them and the bond was ever present, liquid starlight singing beneath her skin. It’s why she was so concerned when that singing went quiet. A seizing in her chest, then a void of shadow, the starlight dancing down it winking out in an instant, like water to a flame.
“Rhys,” she breathed.
The human beside her looked up from his sheaf of papers, raising a brow. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. Yes, I—”
But that would be a lie, and if the hesitant glint in her companion’s eyes was anything to go by, the inexplicable protectiveness rising in her was written all over her face. Her commander—a seasoned fae warrior—could read her better.
“You have your orders, Archeron. Directly from the High Lord of—”
“We’re not in Prythian, last I checked. Nor am I a citizen of the Night Court. I answer to Prince Drakon.” A male who was not present to take her side in this problem. “The only orders I’m required to follow from my station here are yours. So tell me, are you going to try to keep me from my mate?”
The human was gone within a matter of seconds. She had to look near feral at this point, her worry and fears growing like a wave rising to high tide. “Desertion does not come without consequences, Archeron.”
Feyre lied low for a time, keeping an ear to the ground. The High Lord of Night was a rather unpopular figure among the humans, even belonging to another territory entirely. The estrangement of his son was an even hotter topic. It didn’t take long for Feyre to have confirmation of what she’d long suspected. Been too much of a coward to stick around and ask for herself. The High Lord had caught wind of her orders and sent Rhys in the opposite direction, right into the heart of the conflict.
She left in the dead of night, a half-full rucksack and her twin blades her only company, the light of the full moon overhead a newfound comfort.
~~~~~
Rhysand
The pain wasn’t the worst part of it all. Yes, he’d certainly seen better days than these weeks he’d spent as a prisoner of war. But even after being strung up with his open wounds left to become infected in the filth of the woods, it was nothing compared to the guilt eating him alive every time one of his brothers died for the secrets he harbored.
Still, he could not break. He knew that, they knew that. Understood and respected him for it. That didn’t mean their screams wouldn’t haunt him for centuries to come.
By the third week he had to wall off his heart. Could barely look them in the eyes when the Hybern grunts strung them up to cut open. The one consolation was that his original wish hadn’t been granted. That Cassian was thousands of miles away, a grunt in their own armies. That Azriel remained close to his father in service to the crown. And Feyre… He couldn’t feel the bond between them with the ash in his wings and the strange neutralizing shackles he wore, but he had to believe she too would survive her assignment in Montesere. That she hadn’t fallen into some trap with her battalion and ended up in a position to mirror his own.
That fragile hope was all that kept him going. What still let him spit in the face of his enemy as the next blow hit his fractured rib. He could endure it a while longer. Push down the pain to keep his chin up. They hadn’t found his weakness. Hadn’t realized his wings were the key to breaking him. So he stood his ground. Stood his ground and plotted their downfall.
On the eve of his retaliation, it all began to crash and burn.
They had found where to strike. Not his wings, but his heart. Standing before him, wings crushed painfully against the chest of the Captain in charge of his torture, was his mate. One look at her and that fragile hope was lost, ashes in the wind.
A feral snarl tore out of him, chains rattling as he rallied new strength, fighting like hell to free himself. All he could see was red, blinding rage taking hold of his senses.
The Hybern soldier chuckled, eyes darting between the pair of them. “Well, well. I bet you thought yourself unbreakable, didn’t you? Tell me, Your Highness,” he mocked, “how will your little mate sing when I carve her up?” An ash dagger cut into the tender flesh of her throat until she let out a soft whimper, blood pooling against the flat of the blade. “Piece, by precious little piece.”
Feyre stiffened, even as he saw a flash of fear in her eyes before she lifted her chin. And after weeks of resistance, Rhys cracked. “Wait. Just… wait.”
“Don’t!” Feyre barked, jerking forward even as it deepened the fresh cut against her throat.
Then there were two sharp snaps, her flinch of pain silent as her pinky and ring finger contorted, bent too far. “Eight more,” the captain taunted, hauling Feyre up against him when her knees buckled. “Perhaps I’ll save them for later.” Stroking the curve of one wing, he addressed his comrade. “I’ll be needing another set of chains.”
The second male smirked. “Of course, Captain.”
She fought like hell every second it took them to chain her and undiluted pride filled his chest, even now, in such a hopeless situation. Torture, he could handle. Had been trained against it since he was old enough to stand it. Watching his mate come to harm… no one had the means to prepare him for that.
Even with the bond silenced, every strike was a phantom pain inside him. Every snap of bone, every muscle severed, every scream that rang in his ears resonated in his soul. Never once had he imagined himself begging for mercy, but by nightfall his throat was raw with his pleas for her release.
Trapped, helpless, unable to claim her mind and take her pain, what kind of mate was he to her? But for all his guilt, Feyre held strong. Urged him to hold his silence through all of the pain wrought between them.
So despite being forced to watch them carve her up, burn her flesh—ruin her body and wings bit by bit—that wasn’t what loosened his tongue in the end. What broke him was watching them touch her, by then too weak to stop it, the voice he could confess with lost.
~~~~~
His heart broke when he finally took her in, the dawn light his only aide. Broken at last, exhausted from the feeble fight she could manage under the weight of the Hybern soldier’s who’d taken to using her. “Don’t,” she’d choked in one of the rare moments they had the illusion of privacy. “They won’t stop, either way. Don’t give them what they want.”
They were alone once more, short a time as it would be. There was nothing he wanted more than to speak to her, to comfort her. But bound as they were, he could not take her in his arms. She needed rest, not his half-baked plots and empty promises. What a pathetic plot it seemed now, regardless. His strength was drained in every sense of the word. There would be no getting free to make some grand last stand against Amarantha. Not after this.
Perhaps he should have seen a mercy in Jurian’s arrival. Might have, had he the will to care. Might have, had Jurian actually pulled it off. If he’d repeated his victory against one sister when it came to the next. Might have, had his mate not be struck with a killing blow in the crossfire.
He’d roared then, raging in the way only a mated male could. At last tore his chains free of their anchors, only to be put down by a clever blow from behind and the fatigue earned from these past weeks, the adrenaline fading too rapidly.
The only mercy, it seemed, was the last glimpse of her he was blessed with. After days of agony, she finally seemed at peace.
I swear, I tried to wait. Today was just a lot and I really needed something to go right. The other parts of your advent calendar will drop tomorrow and Friday morning, still.
Also, @sajirah, I promise the Disney advent was created before we even had assignments and you were reading too deep, but yeah, we definitely know each other 😂
Hello, lovely giftee. I just wanted to drop in to remind you that you’re amazing and ask how you’re doing.
(I’m hoping that making conversation will stop me from giving into the little voice telling me to post your fic ahead of schedule 😂)
Hello Santa!!!
I'm actually kinda terrible at the moment (I have a pretty nasty cough) but I'm always delighted to hear from you and you always brighten my day! 💜
Is the little voice named @reverie-tales by any chance? Because she slid into my DMs and whispered in my ear about how I should post early. She's very convincing too because, before I knew it, I was posting my gift a week before I had originally intended. 😂
The little voice this time is actually just my own impatience. I didn’t help myself any by submitting my ao3 draft to the exchange collection.
Anyways, I have the fic queued for midnight on the twenty-first (it will technically be the twenty-first, okay?) and I’m forcing myself to not look at the post anymore 😂
On the Eighth Day of Christmas Your Gremlin Offers You, One Final Snippet
It was just a week from Winter Solstice when the first snow dusted the rooftops of Velaris, painting the art district in sheets of glistening white. Bundled from head to toe, artists and customers bustled through the streets and in and out of shops. Some were beginning their work day, whilst their potential buyers perused the vendor carts and studios that lined the square.
Feyre hadn’t had the means to acquire a stand to set out her own paintings, though she couldn’t truthfully claim she’d made much of an attempt. It had been less than a year since she’d crossed the borders of Velaris, and voicing an interest in training her craft had been nerve-racking enough. To sell it… she couldn’t quite muster the courage. Her art was her happy place, and in her twenty short years she’d faced enough scrutiny without exposing that part of herself. She wasn’t sure she could handle criticism from the first people to show her kindness.
On the Fourth Day of Christmas Your Gremlin Offers You, A Second Snippet
“I don’t care.” A wariness danced across his face for a moment, the uncertainty gone with the flicker of light and shadow the roaring fire had cast upon his tragically beautiful face. “I am a human, Rhysand. I stopped believing fate favored me the moment my father’s ships went down. Your beloved bond is a hoax. You are nothing to me.”
If her words had wounded him, the mask he’d repaired just a moment before revealed nothing. Seeming almost disappointed in her, Rhys reached to grip her by the chin, leaning in close enough that his whispered promise was still crystal clear. “You don’t have to accept the bond, darling. But one way or another, you’ll learn to accept my help.”
On the Second Day of Christmas Your Gremlin Offers You, A Snippet of Her Choosing
“How long?” He stalked closer and she shifted back a step. “How long, Feyre, are we supposed to suppress the bond? How long should I try to pretend I don’t want to pummel the males I call brothers just for speaking to you as their comrade?”
He sighed, twisting a lock of hair that had slipped free of her braid. “I’m sorry. That was…” He let out a heavy breath. “You’re right. Now isn’t the time to formally accept a bond. A mating frenzy would be less than ideal. If there’s one thing I ask it’s that you don’t push me away completely. Consider it all before—”
“I have no intention of rejecting the bond, Rhys.” She shifted awkwardly. “I just don’t have the slightest clue how to navigate this right now.”
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