Your series is amazing!! It has to be one of my favorite Feysand fics🥹🥹🥹
IMTYMIS? I’m so happy to hear that, thank you anon ♥️ It’s been really fun to write too, despite the break I took. I love it when Feyre takes no prisoners.
I’ll (hopefully) add some more things soon! Little extra oneshots, perhaps? If anyone has anything they wish to see I’d love to write some. (Perhaps a Rhys POV of the first two chapters?)
Feyre has Emotions and hates them. And Rhys sure has a mouth on him… sure has…
Read on AO3 + Tumblr Chapters Overview
General warnings: Rhys' mouth, 9k
~*~
We took refuge from the harsh morning sunlight in the library soon after finishing up breakfast. The sprawling chamber with built-in bookcases at least thrice my height laid on the other side of the palace, with the large, open windows that characterised the building’s architecture facing the west. As it was early still, the horizon was painted a dark blue; Rhys had flicked his fingers after we entered and put up a myriad of tiny, flickering stars to offer additional lighting. One floated near each of our faces, bathing the papers and books in a silvery glow.
Though I’d expected to fall back into the familiar, trusted bickering that Rhys and I had cultivated during our brief altercations the previous week, Mor’s presence ensured that we both remained relatively amicable with one another. My temper was tempered, and Rhys’ ferocious appetite for being as annoying as he possibly could be to coax reactions out of me was relaxed. How she did it, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps Mor’s general air was just strong and cheery enough to cut through my irritation like a knife through butter. Perhaps she just urged Rhys to be less of a prick by way of existing in the general vicinity of him. Whatever it was, I found myself less snarky; Rhys held his tongue and reworded whatever he drivel he emitted more often than not. Both helped immensely to keep the atmosphere somewhat pleasant.
My progress in reading, writing, and mind-shielding was the subject of our discussion. As Rhys could check the latter at any time, we’d inevitably latched onto my swiftly improving literacy: Mor, at least, seemed utterly delighted at how well I was doing.
“It’s like you did nothing but practise,” she said cheerily, shoving the marked paper my way. I had to write the words Rhys and her dictated down and had made an almost negligible amount of mistakes. “Were your weeks in Spring that boring?”
Not boring, per se—but I wasn’t going to tell them that. “I just found myself with a surplus of free time.”
“Well, it paid off.” Mor grinned at me. “Leaps and bounds, Feyre. Really.”
“Yes,” Rhys drawled. “Remarkable. I’d imagined you’d have been far too busy accepting your fiancé’s enthusiastic welcome to occupy yourself with writing lines.”
“Imagined me accepting an enthusiastic welcome often, did you?” I shot back, tone frosty. Rhys sat back with a smirk, though he did seem a touch flustered. “But no. I just had nothing better to do.”
“Nothing?” Rhys asked, at the same time that Mor said, “Ah.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t you be busy with other things?” Rhys continued, before Mor could say anything else. He ignored the sharp look she sent him with ease. “I would’ve thought you’d be swamped with doing all kinds of Lady things.”
“Like what?”
“Like,” he flapped a hand, “managing the household, picking out dresses, having tea parties, starting up embroidery. Those things. Ladies do those, don’t they?”
“You sound like someone we both despise,” Mor muttered. He shoved her chair and she stuck her tongue out at him. “Just saying…”
I punched out a sigh through my nose, mouth tight and shoulders pulled up to my ears, it felt like. “Yeah, no.”
“No?”
“No,” I confirmed, and then I said, before I could calculate whether it was a good idea to tell them, “the wedding’s off indefinitely, so I’d wager I won’t become the Lady of Spring any time soon.”
Mor’s mouth fell open. Rhys, for his part, didn’t show more shock than a small jump of his eyebrows.
“I’ve decided it’s best to wait until we’ve both healed,” I said stiffly, “before we make any hasty and relatively permanent decisions like marriage.”
“Ah,” Mor repeated. When I looked her way, her face was tight but, I thought, vaguely approving. “I understand.”
She reached over and patted my wrist, and I pressed my mouth into a thin line and nodded. Rhys chewed absently on his lip and refrained from doing much of anything but stare at me—I personally refused to look at him directly. To an almost irrational degree, I felt frightened that he might be able to see what had occurred prior to my refusal to marry Tamlin. I didn’t know how he’d react, what he’d think; though I suspected he’d be angry for me, I had a nagging, anxious suspicion that he’d think I’d pushed Tamlin too far too soon.
“My life so far is just a small blip for the rest of my immortality, as someone kindly reminded me,” I said regardless. “And I fear that if we were to marry now—”
I halted. Too much. Too much information. They didn’t need to know about the ins and outs of my relationship with Tamlin, all the grievances and frustrations that came with it. My intermittent coldness towards him. The bouts of apathy and compulsion for cruelty I’d feel when he was near.
If anything, Rhys, upon realising I’d been unhappy lately, would find a loophole to keep me here. That seemed just like the kind of thing he’d do.
“Yes?” Mor prompted.
I cleared my throat and played with the edge of the marked sheet. “He’s a choice. We’re not—fated. I don’t want to forget that.”
Right after I said it I bit down on my cheeks so hard that my mouth flooded with something wet and warm that had to be blood. It was odd—faerie blood didn’t taste like slightly salted copper. It tasted sweet and cloying. More like lead.
My hands clenched and unclenched repetitively.
None of us said anything for a moment, though Mor seemed to be searching for words. Rhys didn’t; he just stared at me with those star-flecked eyes of his, almost calculating but with a hint of vulnerability.
He’d caused it. The revelation he’d admitted to, the gift the cauldron had offered us and he’d deemed proper to share in a drunken stupor, had made me realise I had a choice. I didn’t need to be with Tamlin just like I didn’t need to be with Rhys.
It was like he’d yanked the wool off my eyes.
“You know,” Mor said then, “I once—was engaged to be married.”
I stared at her.
“After I’d bled for the first time and my powers awakened, I was to be married off to a male I didn’t know well and into a family that would treat me as a broodmare.” Mor didn’t smile, didn’t soften. “My virginity was the highest asset in this. And because I wanted to have a choice, I lost it to a male who would become a friend.”
I knew virginity was important in the human world. I didn’t realise it was here as well, within the faerie realms of Prythian; it seemed like such a small, dismissible thing in comparison to immortality.
“The reaction was violent,” she said. “Rhys and his family, of course, weren’t happy about the political implications, but they all understood why I did it. My family, however,” and then she swallowed, the only tell of her discomfort, “was so furious that they tortured me when they found out. I was dumped into the Court of my betrothed with a note nailed to my stomach that I was his problem from that point onwards. A—another friend rescued me and brought me to Rhys, where he and his family nursed me back to health and allowed me to stay if I so wished.”
“Who was your fiancé?” I asked in a whisper.
“Eris Vanserra,” she said. “You probably saw him in that bitch’ Court. He’s the firstborn.”
Eris. I’d seen him, yes; only shared the smallest resemblance with Lucien, but that may have been because of their hair colour alone. He was the one who’d snarled at me when I told Amarantha my name.
My warning to Nesta before Tamlin took me away rang through my head in a dizzying echo. His father beats his wife and the sons do nothing to stop it. The Lady of Autumn seemed regal but drawn; I would’ve assumed that that came from being imprisoned under the mountain, had I not known that Beron was a horrific piece of work.
“Good that you got away and avoided… what could’ve happened,” I said.
“Yes.” Mor’s smile was tentative and brief. “We always have a choice, Feyre. Even when it doesn’t look like we do.”
We continued our work after that. Rhys hadn’t spoken up to add anything to Mor’s story, nor did he pipe up with additional information afterwards. The only thing he did was go back to helping me work through difficult words with many syllables, much like Mor did as well. He did seem a bit more subdued somehow, however—like something had left him reeling.
They coaxed me through my stumbling over difficult and long words before slowly and carefully moving on to intertextuality and the effects of word choice. I knew much of it already — I was an adult, after all, and was rather fluent in our language — but the underlying meaning woven into sentences and their structures was quite different from regular speaking language. Rhys explained how words and phrasing could affect the meaning of a text or speech, used to strengthen or weaken arguments; Mor explained the more exact examples of it, like rhetorical questions and unreliable narrators, metaphors and motifs.
Knowing these, recognising these, was key to navigating the world of the Courts, Rhys told me. Faeries spoke in riddles and the courtly fae even more so, for their entire life was bathed in political games—I needed to be able to move past them in order to survive, or they’d eat me alive.
“Of course,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind eating you, if you catch my drift.”
I threw a balled-up piece of paper at his head, nailing him between the eyebrows. As he spluttered — for show, I suspected; he would’ve been able to mist it if he so wished — and Mor giggled obnoxiously, I demanded we just continue with my lesson.
As was par for the course for Rhys, he wrote down ridiculous sentences for me to read out loud before I was tasked with copying it down and explaining the word choice. Mor let him do so if only because I did a lot of eye-rolling and sighing as I completed my little tasks and continued to throw little balls of paper at his stupidly perfect face. Rhysand is in possession of a wingspan that pales all others, Rhysand will sweep you off your feet without warning, Rhysand shan’t hold back and will break Tamlin’s nose the next time that welp puts his paws anywhere near Rhysand’s person, et cetera; I could tell the self-centred nature of the sentences originated largely from his mission to annoy me as much as humanly — well, faely — possible, but that didn’t make me any less annoyed.
If I was being honest, it was brainless work: simplicity woven with increasing difficulty in an attempt to keep me on my toes. It’s why I didn’t feel my brain make a connection until I’d copied half of the sentence ‘Rhysand shall obliterate all the pathetic enemies he will come across on the immortal battlefields spread across Prythian’—a realisation that felt so sudden I nearly broke my pen.
“Tamlin doesn’t believe there will be a war, by the way.”
There was an elongated beat of silence before either of the cousins blinked.
“What,” said Mor, without any inflection.
“I suggested I would start training,” I said, “but Tamlin vetoed it, as he believes it’ll put a target on my back and there won’t be a war for me to fight in anyway.”
To my horror, my tone was irritable. The idea that Tamlin thought he could order me around like I was his subject, like he had any right to tell me what to do, did still annoy me. It was actually so immensely frustrating that I still saw red when I thought about it for too long.
“I thought him being allowed to remove the masquerade mask Amarantha cursed him to wear would have made him less blind,” Rhys said sharply, “but it appears I was wrong.”
“Rhys,” Mor chided, but it didn’t have a lot of heart behind it. “He genuinely doesn’t believe war will come, Feyre?”
“I thought he did,” I said honestly. “He’s been pacing the perimeter of the house and often gets called out to the border. There’s been an increase in sentries too. But I think—the danger he’s seeing is in his head.”
Mor’s stare was hard, calculating, and appallingly neutral. For a moment I felt laid bare, like she could see right down to my bones, to what I hid there and refused to say. I shifted and looked away.
“Feyre,” she said slowly, “when you said you had time to study—”
“I had time to study,” I intoned.
“Right.” Mor paused. “But did you have time because—”
“Mor,” Rhys snapped.
“I’m worried,” Mor cried instantly, turning to face her cousin. “Can’t I be worried? Feyre is one of the first friends I’ve made in centuries and I want to make sure she’s—”
“She can tell you whether she is on her own time,” said Rhys, sparing me a brief, apologetic glance, “not during a round of questioning she’s not comfortable with.”
“Like you haven’t done the exact same thing,” Mor replied. “I know you, Rhys, and I can tell when you’re brooding…”
“I’ve never brooded a day in all five hundred and thirty-six years of my life—”
“By the Gods, you’re old,” I blurted, “that’s like, twenty-one human generations.”
Silence fell almost instantly. Against my better judgement I sank a touch the moment both immortal gazes fell upon me, fiddling with my pen. And then, after what felt like an age of tension-riddled quiet, Mor burst into loud, witch-like cackles.
“Well,” said Rhys, tone about as dry as high land during a drought, “I can confirm you’ve managed to land a solid kick against the royal plums of my ego, Feyre, darling. Thank you.”
Mor collapsed onto the table. “Old—”
“It’s true, though,” I defended weakly. “Humans can barely reach eighty years before they die of old age—sometimes a hundred, if they’re lucky and have good teeth. Rhys, you were born when humans still practised the old religion en masse.”
“Twenty-one generations—” Mor hiccupped.
“Tarquin, Summer’s High Lord, is eighty,” Rhys said, “and he’s like a teenager. I’m quite certain he hasn’t even started growing pubic hair yet.”
“How the hell would you know that?”
“OLD!” Mor yelled, face having turned red. “Rhys—Rhys, you’re geriatric…”
“Frame of reference,” Rhys said, before he told Mor in a tight voice, “you are a year older than me, Morrigan.”
Mor sobered within seconds and bared her teeth. I turned my lips inward and bit down on them to keep from smiling or, worse, gaping.
“It’s impolite to reveal a lady’s age,” she snapped.
Rhys grinned. “It’s a good thing you’re not a lady then, but a horrific harpy instead—”
He flattened himself on the table in the next moment, so quickly it would’ve been a blur for human eyes, as Mor went to whack him with a rolled up sheet of paper. What happened next was just as swift: Rhys twisted, reached up, and grabbed Mor’s wrist to prevent further whacking. Mor retaliated by bringing her leg up and kicking so hard at his chair he went sprawling with a yelped curse.
I pressed both of my hands against my mouth, but it did very little to muffle the snort that escaped me. And as Rhys climbed back upright, frazzled, head popping up from under the table with his mouth open like a fish, the chuckles that fled my mouth could no longer be corralled and brought back. My hands fell, and I was smiling, and Rhys’ expression became laced with wonder.
Mor snickered along in merriment, though I barely registered it. The sudden burst of laughter, a kind of mind-blowing amusement that flooded all throughout my body, was as unnerving as it was relieving; I couldn’t genuinely remember the last time I’d laughed, let alone at others. I thought my time under the mountain and my brief death had sucked that ability out of me.
But it was here now. I shook with the force of it, the twinge in my cheeks and the pressure on my stomach stark reminders of how long it’d been.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I stuttered, gasping, and I felt a spark of panic at how difficult it was to stop and calm down. “I haven’t—I—”
“Don’t say sorry,” Rhys said quietly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before.”
He hadn’t. I’d never smiled in front of him, at least—as far as I could remember, though perhaps my nights drugged with faerie wine had urged me to. But maybe he’d thought it wasn’t real then. Ingenuine.
As sudden as the unignorable amusement had been, it got replaced by something heavier and more painful, and the tears of joy morphed, very suddenly, in tears of grief.
“Oh, fuck,” I choked out, and the amazed expressions on the faeries’ faces made place for concern. I took a shuddering breath. “Sorry, sorry, I—”
“It’s okay,” Mor whispered. She was beside me in a blink, hands hovering before resting loosely atop mine. “It’s… been a while, hasn’t it?”
I nodded, staring resolutely at the blurred table. Tears dripped from my lashes at a frankly impressive pace, some falling on my lap but most trailing down my cheeks to my jaw, then down my neck and collarbones to be absorbed by the collar of my tunic. Every breath stuttered on both the inhale and the exhale; I couldn’t close my mouth, lest my bottom lip trembled so much it would fall open anyway.
“This is ridiculous,” I breathed, choking on a sob. “I was just—laughing, it’s not—”
“The first time I laughed after I was tortured, I had a panic attack,” Mor said gently. “When Rhys came back after you freed him…” she paused, head twisting to look at him, before she swallowed, “—and he laughed at something one of our friends said, he threw up so violently he spat blood. It’s… normal, and understandable, to be shocked when you do something you haven’t done in a while. And it’s normal—”
I sobbed louder. Mor tucked some hair behind my ear and squeezed my hand. And then Rhys said, hoarse and quiet yet perfectly audible:
“It’s normal to grieve the person you were, and what you could do.”
I jerked and looked at him. His jaw was tight, eyes intense, brow low.
“We’re made up out of our experiences. Those experiences all change us, just slightly. What you went through…” he swallowed, “…is more than enough to change someone nearly beyond recognition. But when you get a sliver of your old self back it’s a shock to your system.”
I bit down on my cheeks again, so hard my mouth flooded once more with my sweet, cloying faerie blood.
“Don’t apologise for something you can’t help, Feyre,” Mor said firmly. “Don’t ever.”
“Especially not,” Rhys added in a murmur, “when it’s a step towards helping you breathe.”
~*~
It was safe to say the lesson didn’t continue after that.
It could’ve. Rhys called for tea as I was making significant progress in calming myself down with the help of Mor, and after the teapot had been emptied, the only evidence of my sudden tears were my swollen eyes, the itching tear tracks, and that wrung-out kind of exhaustion that only followed a bout of intense emotion.
I asked to go to my room, however, for a bath and a nap. The cousins acquiesced. Mor said that I could ask for her whenever I was ready, and she’d be there; Rhys merely guided me to my room with a steadying hand between my shoulder blades and nodded as I entered, disappearing into a far less extravagant swirl of shadow than usual.
I could call for him whenever I wanted, I knew. He’d come. I figured it was the bond that tethered him to me so much that he couldn’t ignore my requests, which didn’t do much more than make me feel miserable—especially now that Mor had hammered down on the concept of choice so much.
Perhaps it was different for male faeries. Or perhaps it was because the bond hadn’t snapped for me yet — I figured the word ‘snapped’ felt like a literal snap somewhere in your chest, rather than the mild, dismissible pull I usually felt around him — that I was able to ignore him, but as it had snapped for him he couldn’t ignore me.
I was too tired to commend him for his self-control though, even to myself, and simply slunk into the bathroom to soak for a while, undoing my braid before slipping out of my clothes. The water, as always, was the perfect temperature; I shivered at the feeling. After a few seconds of letting the heat wash over me, my body relaxed carefully, in increments, lessening the ache that accompanied loosening back.
I groaned and sunk under, scrubbed at my face to rid myself of the tears, then went back up for a breath. Poured soap into my hand and scrubbed at my hair. It smelled like bergamot and cedar this time, warm and soothing.
Confusion and warring emotions were a constant in the Night Court, I decided. In Spring, my emotions had recently been limited to anger, sadness, numbness, and terror, but Night only made me feel confused with the comfort it brought me. And yes, of course I felt annoyance, strong and firm; I felt anger and frustration; I felt that bone-deep longing for something I wasn’t sure of as keenly as I usually did.
But my moping was different. My emotions felt heightened, less subdued. I had a feeling I could rage as much as I wished and nobody would judge me for it. I could hurl shoes and pieces of paper at its High Lord’s head and all he would do was laugh, rather than yell.
And, Gods—I’d called Rhys old to his face and in front of the overseer of the Court of Nightmares, and all that happened was a sulk and a cackle. I’d burst into tears and there was no panic from them. I could probably tell Rhysand I found him unappealing, and scary, and oblivious as to understanding me… and he’d probably just grin tightly, jest a little before nodding, before moving on.
It’s like a part of me knew for certain, doubtless in its confidence, that if I asked Rhys to be better, to improve—he would do it without whining. He’d work on himself. He would give me the results I wanted to see.
It was terrifying.
It felt like a betrayal of the highest calibre.
I rinsed my hair and climbed out of the bath, exhausted but head whirring. I didn’t want to think and compare and do all those things that made me feel like a horrible person, but it’s like I couldn’t stop it—the way Mor, as a friend of Rhys’, pushed back and ridiculed him at every available opportunity, but how Lucien bit his tongue more often than not, disinclined to trigger the beast that lurked below Tamlin’s skin.
I was still dripping water as I rummaged through the armoire — my dress was still in there — for underwear and a comfortable nightshirt. When I pulled both on, the fabric darkened where the droplets still stuck to my skin; my back felt sticky where the ends of my hair dribbled moisture.
Then I crawled into the bed, that massive, fluffy nest of a bed, kicked off a variety of decorative pillows, and curled beneath the duvet. Closed my eyes. Gripped at the pillow. Buried my nose into the fabric and inhaled the scent of the detergent, cold mountain air.
My eyes were leaking again. I gritted my teeth against it, wanting to scream; because why was I sad, now? Why did I need to cry?
It was fine. Everything was fine. The Spring Court was stifling and though I’d anticipated the Night Court to be worse, it was not. Nobody pressured me to act like everything was okay. Nobody told me I didn’t need to do anything because I’d already done so much. Nobody said I couldn’t leave the palace because it was unsafe to do so. I could wander wherever I wished without encountering even a single faerie; no sentries at my back, no expectations to dress a certain way.
The day was still so long, so bright. My eyelids were orange. But I burrowed deeper into the blankets and drifted away, stomach coiled into a knotted mass of writhing serpents.
~*~
The most quizzical thing happened then, because I woke up that evening and could barely move.
It was a momentous struggle to climb out of bed and dress myself into something more appropriate for dinner; every single step I had to take up to the large, open space felt heavy and laborious, like I was walking through syrup. I could barely pay attention to Rhys’ and Mor’s light-hearted bickering during dinner either, too focused on making sure I chewed and swallowed—and I had to beg off Mor’s offer to have a glass of wine and some cheese as dessert, because I was so tired I felt like I’d fall where I stood.
Sleeping that night didn’t help me, even with the peace and calm that the moonstone palace emanated. My energy remained low, as if sapped. The apathy was lingering on the edges of my consciousness, ready to take over. And most tellingly, I completely stopped rising to Rhys’ taunts.
It worried him. It worried Mor too, because I ceased to react the way I’d had to her too. It was plain on their faces. I couldn’t tell them that my guilt for—for feeling relief here, that it ate away at my ability to act like myself, so drained that I could barely lift my hands to wash myself, could barely climb out of bed, could barely dress myself. I could read though, and write, even if the lessons didn’t truly register; my wall of adamant remained firm in spite of my exhaustion.
No matter what those two threw at me — Mor’s gentle kindnesses and Rhys’ teasing flirtations, their shared banter in attempts to make me smile, the outrageously absurd sentences Rhys had me write — I was almost too weak to even speak.
On the second day, I didn’t join them for breakfast. On the third, I only joined them for dinner. The fourth, I ceased leaving my room at all; and though they visited, together at first and then alone, I remained in the solitude of my bedroom.
I slept a lot, of course. Better than in Spring. The architecture of the palace gave me comfort unlike anything I’d ever felt—so open, so wide; the scent of jasmine that permeated every room, the scent of snow on the breeze fluttering past the gossamer curtains, the endless sights of mountains and sky. My nightmares were easier to struggle out of, and the aftershocks had lessened in intensity. I actually slept. I slept, and I ate, and I kept things down. I breathed in fresh air and read in the sunlight and took baths that lasted hours.
But I was still exhausted beyond belief. It shocked me, frustrated me, in spite of the apathy that had taken up residence inside of my chest. The sedentary and lonely hours prompted a discomfort that I could only equate to terrible nerves: my muscles were always a little bit tense, my heart always felt a bit constricted, and my stomach was always tight. As was my chest, for I felt some subtle kind of additional guilt whenever I hid myself away again.
I read a lot, now. Folktales and history, and one book on mates that’d snagged my attention and I was slowly parsing through. Then, on the fifth day, or sixth, I hadn’t been counting—but at the tail-end of the week, I exited the bathroom to find Rhys on my bed once more.
“Hi,” I greeted, and I turned to dress myself, but mainly not to see the disappointment flitting over his face at my lack of reaction.
“I thought we could just relax today,” he said. “Mor has business in Hewn City to take care of, so we could just read. Or do other things, with this new privacy she’s so kindly afforded us.”
His tone was teasing, sounded like an insistence—play with me, come on, do it. But I just shrugged, tugging on my underwear under my towel before letting it drop.
I could hear him swallow.
Not paying him any mind, I slipped into small bodice and a sweater, then some loose, billowing trousers I remembered seeing Mor in before. The clothing, at least—getting out of the clothes I slept in helped me stay awake during the day, rather than just letting myself rot.
I turned, blindly twisting my hair into a knot resting at the back of my head. Rhys sat staring up at me like I was some sort of apparition.
“So you want to just sit and read?” I asked.
He blinked, shrugged. “Like you’ve been doing anything else? Do you want to paint instead, Feyre?”
My mouth flattened. “You’re not funny.”
“I never claimed to be,” he replied. “I’ve just been taking note of your hobbies.”
“My hobbies,” I repeated flatly.
“Yes, your hobbies.” He rose to his full height in one smooth moved, stuffing his hands in his pockets and sauntering closer. “The ones you’ve been so diligently performing here. Reading, sitting, sulking…”
My jaw clenched.
“You can’t be bothered to climb a set of stairs, so you take all your meals here,” he said. “You can’t be bothered to talk to anyone, so you don’t leave this room. All you do, I’m assuming, is sit, stare out of windows, and read. Why can’t I join you in such ambitious endeavours? Hard work is always better done together.”
His voice dripped with a mixture of vitriol and teasing. He was grasping at straws to get me to react to him the way he wanted me to.
“Sure,” I said, tonelessly. “Okay.”
Rhys’ chin tilted up, eyes slightly wider than usual. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeated, brushing past him to pick up the book I’d been working my way through. “Go ahead. Do whatever you wish.”
He stood frozen, even when I made my way to the room’s balcony to take a seat on one of the chairs there. It was a good place to zone out and stew, I’d found. Much better than under the cover of the building.
It took a few seconds, but eventually Rhys stalked out into the sunlight to join me.
“You’re not even going to protest?”
I didn’t look up from the book, despite the fact that the words on the page didn’t even register. “Should I?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you should. You ought to—I don’t know, complain that I’ve entered your room without your permission? Tell me to fuck off, maybe? Call me a prick with a bloated ego the size of Prythian?”
“How dare you enter my room without my permission,” I intoned. “Fuck off, Rhys. You’re a prick with an ego about as big as Prythian itself.”
Rhys snapped his teeth in frustration. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Sounded like it.”
“No,” he snapped. “No, it’s—Cauldron, Feyre, this is the problem. You laugh once and shut down? Did it shock you thatmuch? Don’t you ever laugh in Spring?”
“What’s the Spring Court got to do with it?” I asked, heart kicking up in speed. I squeezed the book tight. “I just don’t want to do things, Rhys.”
“Like smile?” he retorted, barking out a sharp, mean laugh. “Like talk to people who care?”
I squeezed the book harder.
“I—Mor and I waited for you,” he said. “Every single morning, we wait for you until Nuala or Cerridwen announces you won’t be joining us. Then we wait for you to join us for lunch. Then for dinner. Feyre,” he said, insistent, “you can go anywhere you’d like in my Court, but you’ve just been staying holed up in your room—”
“I thought I was only supposed to learn how to read, write, and shield my mind,” I said quietly.
The sound of chair legs screeching across stone told me he’d collapsed in one of the chairs. “That doesn’t mean it’s all you need to do.”
I chewed on my lip, nostrils flared and staring resolutely, unseeingly, at the book. The upper edge of my nails had gone a pale yellow with pressure.
“Is that it?” Rhys asked, tone awfully close to begging. “Do I need to take you somewhere? To a—to a town? Or the woods? To a peak of one of the mountains, or an Illyrian encampment, or a frozen lake?”
I sighed harshly through my nose. “Why do you care what I want, Rhys?”
He froze in my peripheral vision. I lifted my head, looked at him: his eyes were wide and bright, jaw tense and jutted slightly forward. Did I have him there? His frustration with my indifference had to be nothing more than the mating bond rearing its head—it was in the book I was reading, that a mated faerie felt an almost impossibly strong urge to protect and cherish. Though it was about a mutually accepted bond, I figured it wasn’t that different.
“It’s not just the bond,” he said. “Feyre, I—”
“Get out of my head,” I bit out.
“I’m not.” Rhys bared his teeth and looked away. “I just know that damned book.”
Oh. Without bothering to mark the page, I snapped it shut.
“So what’s it then?” I asked. “Pity for the once-human? Afraid your little toy has broken beyond repair?”
He laughed without humour, a quick, hiccupping expulsion of breath. “I just like you.”
I felt my mouth pull into a scowl.
“You glowered at me, and sneered, and glared,” he said. “You were scared of me but you taunted me despite it. You threw the bone that killed the Wyrm at Amarantha and walked away, even with your arm broken, even while covered head to toe in excrement and mud. You were a fox in a Court of wolves and won—”
“So I was just intriguing, then,” I concluded, oddly disappointed. I wanted to accuse him of masochism but didn’t have the energy to. “A fun little jester—”
“You reminded me of my friends.”
My mouth closed.
“You reminded me of Mor, and Azriel, and Cassian, and Amren,” he told me, voice hard and slowly rising in volume. He didn’t seem to have realised that I had no idea who three of those people were. “You ensnared the Middengard Wyrm like a fucking rabbit, you flipped me off, and I could see people I hadn’t seen in nearly fifty years, whose voices I’d almost forgotten, who I tucked away to protect—I could see them, standing right alongside you, throwing that bone. I like you, Feyre, as a human and as a faerie, and—”
“You liked the idea of me,” I said, mouth dry. “I’m not the idea, Rhys. I’m the whole person. And I’m not the girl I was who went under that mountain—”
“You’re being smothered,” he hissed. “Can’t you see it? The human you were, the faerie you are—by… by just letting time pass, by refusing to let yourself breathe, you’re allowing her to win.”
The fire inside of me was cold. Freezing.
“I’ve done enough,” I breathed, though it didn’t feel true. “I’ve died.”
“And you were granted life,” he said. “You were Made. You’re immortal—you can do anything you fucking wish, but decide to waste the days away sitting idle?”
I stood. “I don’t need to hear this.”
“Yes you fucking do.” Rhys stood too, footsteps announcing he was following me inside. “Do you want to give up? Feel nothing? Do nothing? Tell me you do, truthfully, and I’ll leave you alone.”
I breathed. My grip on the book was so tight the hardcover edges were cutting into my palms. I felt cold all over.
“I want to do nothing,” I said.
He laughed again. “That’s a lie.”
And I didn’t know what happened exactly, but all I remembered later was a surge of emotion, high and hot and cold, and me whirling around to launch the book at his awful, beautiful, infuriating face.
He caught it, hissed, and peeled his fingers off the cover with a grimace. “Ice. Winter Court. Good job, Feyre darling.”
“Leave,” I murmured, eyes wide. “Get out of my room.”
“No,” he replied, arching a brow. “No, I don’t think I will. Not when we’re finally having a riveting conversation again.”
“It’s one-sided,” I said, taking a few steps back.
His smile was fanged. “You’re still replying to me.”
“I’ve been trying to shut you down.”
“Doing a bang-on job at that, my love,” he crooned. “Not feeling very ‘shut down’ here, actually. No, I think you do want to talk to me, but you simply think you don’t.”
My heart was stuttering, and I briefly thought he’d gone mad with resisting the pull—or I was dreaming. And if I was dreaming, then I was lucky it wasn’t a nightmare, because it meant I was in control here.
Wasn’t I?
“Just get out,” I whispered. “Just listen to me for once—”
“I’ve always listened,” he said. “I keep listening to you. Every emotion, every want, every fucking thought you allow to filter through your shield—I watch, and I listen. Did you know your nightmares still reach me?”
My breath caught.
“I can see them, I can feel them…” he snarled at nothing in particular, “so much so, so vibrantly, that I can’t tell whether it’s your nightmare or mine. Of course I fucking listen—”
“You took me away from my wedding against my will,” I whispered.
“You asked,” he hissed. “You demanded it. You said no, three times, and you stepped back so I came and took you so I had an excuse to be there!”
“You still took me,” I continued stubbornly, like I hadn’t been insurmountably thankful for it in the days after. “You took me when I didn’t want to go. And before—before, you twisted my broken arm to get me to agree to the bargain, you dressed me up in a dress that was more like a cobweb, you drugged me—”
“I twisted your arm,” he said heatedly, “to set the open fracture. You recall the bone was sticking out of your arm, don’t you? And the dress, the faerie wine… I explained why, because Amarantha would have simply killed you if she figured out you were more to me than just a human toy, and I was terrified the debauchery of the revels would break—if you saw what she made me do—”
“You could’ve explained it,” I snapped, anger, familiar and hot and sudden, sparking through my veins. “You could’ve been nice! You could’ve—could’ve grabbed me a day before the wedding, or a month, not as I was about to walk down the aisle!”
“Cauldron, Feyre,” he groaned, “you’re saying it as if I didn’t do you a damned favour—”
“I can’t exactly see you jumping at the chance to ‘save’ me as a favour.” My voice dripped with derision. “Weren’t you waiting for it? You said so, didn’t you? You may have tried to ignore it, but you still listened…”
Rhys stared at me, chest heaving, and he laughed incredulously for a third time. Threw out his hands, shook his head.
“All of Prythian was aware of the wedding,” he said. “Everyone—even those in—High Lord Tamlin of the Spring Court and Feyre Cursebreaker, saviours of the High Lords,” he spat, “united at long last; love that conquers all. And all I could think about was the inevitable happiness and pleasure that I’d feel because you’d feel it. I was prepared to numb myself into incoherency just for the chance I would only remember the barest hints of it the next day.”
I set my jaw and tried to glower, because I shouldn’t care. His happiness was not my responsibility. But he advanced, face dark and eyes bright, like smouldering purple coals in the remains of a hearth fire, and I forced myself to stumble back, back, back—pressed myself against the door so as to not meet him halfway.
“Imagine my surprise,” he said quietly, “when I, having gone through fucking bottle of liquor already, barely able to stand upright, didn’t feel happiness or joy, didn’t feel pleasure, but earth-shattering terror instead.”
“The rose petals frightened me,” I replied, cursing myself when my voice didn’t come out even, but instead breathless and shaking. “I was remembering blood—”
“Yes,” said Rhys, “blood. You were getting married in the court of thorns and roses but you can’t even stand the sight of the colour red. Can’t look at a rose, can’t prick yourself on a torn. I’d wake up most nights to the feeling of you hurling your guts out after a harrowing dream of pure terror that would leave me fucking paralysed, and I couldn’t even pinpoint whether someone managed to comfort you from the horror and the pain.
“And then I took you, and you were angry, and I thought—” he blinked rapidly, scowled, “—I thought, thank the Cauldron she’s still feeling things. Thank the Cauldron she can still be angry with me, or furious, or just frustrated. That she can talk back and slap back if she deems it necessary. Because I know,” he said, “what it’s like to freeze when the rest of the world needs you to keep moving, and I wouldn’t have put it past you to have gone numb with it all. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you were so exhausted you couldn’t even tell me to fuck off.”
“Then why are you so angry now?” I asked, almost whispering. “Why is it—”
“Because I don’t want you to!” he hissed. “Because freezing and rotting only makes you feel even worse. I need you to feel, Feyre. Be deliriously happy, be incandescently furious, be achingly sad—Amarantha wanted to break you, so you can’t break. She wanted to break all of us, so we mustn’t. Not now that the bitch is finally dead.”
I closed my eyes and willed the tears to remain behind my lids. There was—a point, to what he was saying. I knew that. A part of me knew that like it knew the sky was blue and leaves dropped in autumn. Amarantha had wanted to break me and I couldn’t, shouldn’t let her, like I hadn’t allowed her to when she was still alive.
But I was just—
“I’m so tired of holding myself together,” I breathed, chest shuddering. My hands went up, covered my eyes. “I’m just—I don’t know what to do, what to think, who to please, and I—”
I thought that he was a good distance away from me. A few steps, enough for me to shape a gaping chasm between us that made me feel saner—like it was supposed to be, so I wouldn’t have to resist the urge to burrow myself into him while I was too exhausted to prevent that from happening.
But then he was close.
So close I could smell him, feel the warmth of him. His hands encircled my wrists and he pulled, gentle, until I listened; tilted my head back and swallowed through all the thick saliva gathering at the back of my throat, blinked, squinted at his face through the blur of moisture.
“You don’t need to please anyone but yourself,” he said, voice suddenly small and emotional and desperate. “You have eternity; all I ask is that you won’t spend eternity pleasing those who don’t deserve it. All I ask is that you don’t break.” His mouth set into a thin line, and he squeezed my wrists, shook them lightly as if to hammer his point home the kindest way he knew how. “Do not break, Feyre. You’re no toy, no trophy, and you cannot shatter the way objects are wont to do.”
I wished to sway forwards and rest myself against his chest. He was solid, steady, like we were moments away from winnowing—but it wasn’t time yet, so it couldn’t be.
“No toy,” I heard myself whisper. “No toy, no trophy, no object—” my throat bobbed, “—no subject.”
“No-one’s subject.” He shook my wrists again, gently. “You don’t bow to anyone. Least of all those who demand it of you.”
And I knew, actively, that this could be a manipulation. That this was a way to alienate me from Tamlin, who demanded things and commanded me like I was below him, so Rhys himself could swoop in and save me once more. A favour; there was no such concept as a faerie gifting you something. A favour to have me help the way he wanted me to.
But if it was a manipulation—if it was, why were his words for my strength? Why did he not want me to take a knee?
“I’m a selfish male, Feyre,” he said, as if he’d read my mind—but he couldn’t have, for my walls were still strong and glinting, impenetrable.
He released my hands and they automatically came to rest against his chest, almost against my will but not wholly. I wanted to touch him, feel him. Something inside of me eased.
“I’m a very selfish male,” he repeated. “I’ll be honest, I want to keep you with me forever—though I can’t, couldn’t, do that to you. But know,” he said fiercely, “please know that I’d never, ever, want you to bow for me. You are my equal in every way that matters.”
He was so close my senses were utterly overwhelmed. Nothing but sea salt, and citrus, and petrichor—the intensity of his star-flecked eyes was keeping me frozen, caught. I was caged in but nothing in me wished to rebel. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to leave.
“Rhys,” I whispered. I didn’t know why. My hands were against his chest but they wouldn’t push him away. “Rhys, I—”
“Tell me to stop,” he said. He leaned closer, chest heaving. “You can tell me to stop. I will. I promise.”
My traitorous hand slid up to his neck.
One moment, we were making nothing but eye-contact, wide and so still it was as if the air itself had stopped moving. The next, his mouth was on mine.
He tasted like tea. Not the faerie kind, with its unplaceable flavours and intoxicating smells, but simpler: human tea, the way I remembered it. Hot and earthy, bright and bold, the slightest tang of something like citrus but mostly smoked malt, caramel made on a fire. Comforting.
Home, my mind told me. Rhys tasted like home.
My fingers tangled in his hair and my biceps curled until he was pressed against me, one hand slipping to rest on the small of my back and the other skittering, hesitant and desperate, to find the place where it belonged. It belonged on me, I knew. Somewhere.
He groaned in the back of his throat as I went up to the tips of my toes, pressing hard. I couldn’t get enough of him, of his mouth, of the taste of it. His teeth clacked against mine as I sucked at his tongue until it curled around my own. The hand that had been wandering came up to cup the back of my head with heart-stuttering softness and desperation. It was like there was nothing to it, this kiss, as natural and normal like two magnets colliding and refusing to let go.
No sparks. No incomprehensible heat. Just comfort and warmth, Rhys’ hair between my fingers and his scent in my nose and his body against mine. I never wanted to let go again.
And as his pinkie finger brushed the nape of my neck with a soothing press, I felt it.
A snap.
Like a string had been strung and strummed, I felt my side of the preliminary mating bond lock into place with a resounding twang. My heart constricted, my stomach burnt, my breathing hitched; I lost my balance and we went stumbling back against the door. He licked into my mouth with an almost reckless sort of abandon and I wanted to swallow him whole, consume him, keep him in a spot in my chest that had been carved out just for him.
My leg lifted and curled around the back of his. Rhys lifted his mouth from mine with a rattling keen, took a steadying, gasping breath, and descended once more.
I wasn’t sure if I’d breathed in the brief time our lips had been apart, but my lungs were burning, so I inhaled sharply through my nose so as to not dislodge myself from him. He was so warm and cool at the same time, hair strong yet soft like a rabbit’s pelt. I hadn’t wanted to keep much of the prey I’d caught, but sometimes I had wanted to, when the days and nights were equally as freezing, when my fingers had gone stiff with cold.
Just a pelt. Just one.
I’d never kept any of them. None of us knew how to sew a coat or scarf. Nesta and Elain had only ever learnt how to embroider, and later, how to darn socks and stitch up worn fabric gone ragged with wear to reinforce it; I’d never been taught how to hold a pen, let alone a needle.
But his hair was soft and strong, like a rabbit’s fur, and I wanted to keep him. Perhaps I could.
He moaned as my fingers tightened their grip, pressed against me so firmly it was impossible for us to get even closer to one another. I wondered when he went to cut his hair, because even the back of it, where it was the shortest, was easy to take hold of. I wondered if he’d consider growing it out, if I asked. I wondered if he’d still be so damn irresistible with dorkily grown out hair—he probably would be.
Then he nipped my bottom lip with sharp teeth, and my mind went blissfully blank.
I couldn’t remember if kissing Tamlin had ever felt like this. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever been kissed like this in general. All I knew was Rhys, and his mouth, and the taste of him and the smell of him and the feel of him. It swelled up inside of me and pressed against my skin, bloated and almost painful. My heart thudded and jumped.
Rhys retreated with a harsh intake of breath, clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, swayed back to press his forehead against mine. My head spun; the sudden burst of oxygen and distance was so violent, so much, that I felt dizzy—every breath was seeped with his scent, his taste. I was shaking.
“Sorry,” he whispered, frantic, “sorry, Feyre, I’m—”
I tilted my head up and kissed him again, relishing how he groaned and slumped back onto me, pressing me against the door. We both panted with every spit-slick slide, every short time we came up for air.
Gods. Mother. Cauldron—
Blessed, blessed contact. The barest hints of his stubble scraped against my chin, beneath my thumbs and pointer finger when the kiss he gave me was closed-mouthed and I needed to open his jaw with a simple press. And then he slipped away, kissed his way down my jaw and towards my neck. Latched on, right where the tendons began to strain as I tilted my head to the side.
“Feyre,” he murmured, voice hoarse and trembling. “Feyre. Feyre, Feyre, Feyre—”
Like a prayer.
Like how Tamlin had sounded—
“Rhys,” I answered him, “Rhys.”
He groaned again, shivered as I stroked my hand down the broad, clothed planes of his back. My other tightened in his hair; my eyes fell closed, head thudding against the door as I dropped it.
I didn’t feel guilty. For once, for this brief moment, I simply didn’t. Not apathy—no, not that, not now, because I felt warm and safe, comfort zapping through me with every press of Rhys’ mouth against my neck, every scrape of his teeth. Because I knew that with one kiss, one snap inside my chest, there was no possible way I’d ever be able to let him go.
No, I didn’t feel guilty for granting the person who was made for me a kiss. I didn’t feel apathy for Tamlin either, even if I was certain with every fibre of my being that I’d never be able to give myself to him again. It was near indifference.
One kiss. Just the one, and I felt indifferent to the future of the male I’d died for, in favour of the touch of the male who’d crawled over broken bones to defend me as I lay dying.
But I’d died for Tamlin—and he loved me, even now that I’d hardened for him. Even if his love was suffocating.
He deserved closure.
“This isn’t a good idea yet,” I whispered.
Rhys froze. His head lifted from my neck, but not much further—merely rested against mine, cheek to cheek.
“No?”
“Not yet,” I repeated, clutching at him so hard it would hurt when I let go. “Not now.”
Rhys said nothing at first. And I thought—I thought I’d hurt him, again. Broke something between us instead of just myself. But then his head rested heavier, and so did his body, and his forehead dropped against my shoulder; and I relaxed, because that meant he’d understood.
“The five hundred years I’ve been waiting for you felt like nothing but a single breath the first time I saw you,” he whispered thickly. I felt his eyes close, lashes tickling my skin, and I breathed him in like I’d never be able to smell him again. “If you’d ask it of me, Feyre, I’d wait for you until the sun burns out.”
More frustration happens. Difficult times are ahead.
Read on AO3 + Tumblr Chapters Overview
General warnings: Tamlin, Rhys, 7.6k
~*~
The burns on the table were nothing new, of course. Those weren’t the deepest source of my horror. I’d done it before during moments of anger, as if the sheer heat of the emotion stoked the fire Beron had unwittingly given me; my silk slipper, the table in the Night Court, the bent fork that sat smoking on a tablecloth. I knew of it already.
But the mind-magic—and the air shield, too. That was new.
I thought about it as Alis tended to me, combed the tangles out of my hair, braided it neatly for the night, helped me climb into a nightshirt. The movements helped me remain calm as I reasoned with myself about what, exactly, had happened: though I’d initially hoped only Beron Vanserra had given me more than he meant to give me, it was clear that more High Lords were victim to whatever higher power had taken a scoop of their magical recesses. The air shield I’d created out of fright and a need to protect myself—that had to be from a High Lord who’d mastered air magic. And the deamati powers came, of course, from Rhys; coincidentally one of the two High Lords who would gladly give me more than I required, if only to help me cling to life.
And I’d managed to perform it, climb into someone’s mind, because I wanted Lucien to do what I wanted him to do.
Fire, wind, control. Anger, fear, and willpower.
What else was I capable of doing?
“Insatiable hunger is the curse of the water-wraiths,” Alis said, as she took out oils and creams for my face. It appeared she’d decided on the skincare after spotting me cringe at my reflection—the gauntness, paleness, bloodlessness of my face. The purple smudges below my eyes that seemed permanent now. “The jewels you gave her—they won’t last her the week.”
My jaw jutted out and I said nothing. Alis smiled, handed me the oil so I could cleanse my face.
“But she’ll never forget what you did for her, not for the rest of her life,” she added. “She will be in your debt until she returns it, no matter what you told her.” Alis smiled once more and her long, spindly fingers reached under my chin, tilting my face up to meet hers. “Too many faeries have experienced hunger these past fifty years. Word of your actions and kindness will spread; I know so.”
And was that, perhaps, the crux of it? My kindness? Feyre Cursebreaker, the saviour of Prythian—Feyre Cursebreaker, who’d been human once, who’d been tortured by the fae, offering an insatiable fearie the chance to repay her debt, free of charge?
As I laid in bed that night, wide-awake and thinking, some small, firm part of me said yes. I couldn’t pinpoint where in my body it hid, where it’d nestled in my bones… the self-righteousness that often teamed up with my outrage, my annoyance, my memories of being a girl stuck in a place of despondency.
Perhaps I deserved the droplets of the High Lords’ magic after all I’d done for Prythian. Perhaps I deserved it more than the leaders who looked down upon their subjects and let them starve.
Perhaps I was, indeed, no-one’s subject.
I’d been musing on my powers and the right I had to them for a handful of hours, tucked in bed, when the sliver of light that always emerged from under my door was interrupted by twin shadows. The floorboards creaked as the person halted, and I watched apathetically as the person — Tamlin, I knew, I could feel him — deliberated about going inside.
He knocked. And I did not do anything, did not move, or breathe too loud, or throw back the covers to slip out of bed to open the door for him.
It took many silent breaths, many blinks, before he turned and trudged off to his own, or our, room. I couldn’t help but feel relieved that the confrontation was put off for at least another day; I was far too high-strung to have a reasonable and calm conversation.
I didn’t sleep. Not really—I experienced moments in which my blinks felt just as brief as others, but the shifting shadows cast by the night sky would tell me differently. My rest was restless and exhausting, but at least I did not fall into night terrors or wake needing the puke up bile. And at last, when dawn had come and Alis entered my room, I didn’t even feel the groggy sluggishness of a sleepless night.
“Lord Tamlin wishes for you to go to his office after you’re dressed,” Alis whispered, though her voice rose in volume upon seeing me fully awake. “Shall I run the bath for you?”
“Yes,” I replied, “a quick one,” and then I said, annoyance lacing my tone, “before breakfast?”
“He seemed agitated,” Alis said evenly, which told me he was seconds away from snarling and pacing. “I believe he wishes to resolve your spat as soon as possible.”
Spat, she said. I bit back a scoff and rose, waiting for Alis to draw the bath before I washed myself swiftly. After she asked which dress I’d like, I replied I’d rather be wearing trousers and a tunic.
“I’m rather done with dresses for the time being,” I explained, when she looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. “And besides, at this point it’s a gamble on whether I’ll even become the Lady of Spring.”
If Alis was shocked by my declaration, she didn’t show it: she did little more than incline her head before fetching the clothes I requested. After washing I dressed swiftly, asked she did nothing more than braid my damp hair, and was out and walking towards the study less than fifteen minutes later.
The study had been rebuilt, debris swept up and windows replaced. There was a new table with a map, a new desk, and Tamlin’s desk chair had been replaced as well. Everything looked the exact same as it always had; it was as if nothing had occurred.
Tamlin sat on his desk, long legs just barely dangling. A flat, sleek, wooden box laid in his lap and he was fiddling with the clasp, a clear tell of nervousness.
“Hello,” I said, stalking into the room and stopping opposite him with my arms crossed. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he croaked, and I saw him observe me, eyes flitting over my tired face. He was putting no effort into masking his true feelings; I did not either. “Have you… have you slept?”
“A bit,” I said honestly. “Not much. But that’s normal.”
“Right,” he said. “Right, I—me as well.”
Something in me cracked. Yes, of course—Tamlin too suffered from the nightmares, the sleepless nights. He was so unbelievably worried and anxious all the time. It wasn’t a wonder that his fuse was so short.
“Why’d you call me in here, Tamlin?” I asked eventually, keeping my voice gentle and timid. He looked caught, eyes large and round, and I attempted a smile—but my mouth wouldn’t even twitch. “We haven’t even eaten yet, you know. Are you going on a diet?”
He huffed out a laugh, some of the tension slipping from him. “No, no—I just thought this would be more prudent.”
I remained quiet. He fiddled once more with the clasp of the box, then slid off his desk and stood straight.
“I’d like to apologise,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have—lost my temper again. I shouldn’t have said what I did to you and Lucien. You—”
“I was right,” I murmured.
Tamlin twitched. “Perhaps, yes. I was… I wanted things to go back to normal. How they used to be. Adamant to get it, I believe, and—”
He took a breath and extended his hands, holding the box up to me. A peace-offering, perhaps. Or a placating gift. So I would be too thankful to be angry with him.
“For you,” he said, and I took it from him, fiddled with the brass clasp like he had. “Please, open it.”
I wondered briefly what it could be. Jewels, perhaps, or a diadem—if it was that, I wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the month.
But I opened it. And I saw little glass bottles of paint, labelled and sorted by colour; charcoal, of all sizes; sheets of thick, rough paper; and brushes. High-quality brushes. I slid my hand beneath the box to balance it and used my other to stroke the bristles: soft yet firm.
It’s worse, I thought, tears pricking my eyes, than a diadem.
The red paint was so bright, so crimson, that my throat began to close. The blue was the exact same shade as the fearie female I’d murdered.
“You enjoy painting,” Tamlin said. “I thought—I thought that perhaps we would be nice for you to have a lighter set. Travel size. So you’re not dragging the bags around the grounds like you always do.”
I’d doodled, when I was distracted enough—simplistic mountains and birds and that horrible blob-like little drawing of Rhys that I wished to bully him with. Colourless. Just black ink on paper.
I took a breath. Tried to smile again. It wouldn’t come.
“You don’t like it,” he whispered.
My gaze snapped up. His face was blank—so blank, nothing in his eyes, face emotionless and expressionless and nothing.
“It’s wonderful,” I said, because it was. Because the thought behind it was. “It really is.”
“But you don’t like it,” he said. “It’s wonderful, but you don’t want it. I just—I thought, if you started painting again…”
He didn’t finish his train of thought.
“Do the patrols, the paperwork, the leading—does that help you?”
Tamlin looked away, jaw clenching, the first crack in the expressionless mask he’d donned. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”
“If I paint,” I said quickly, voice hardening, “let’s say that if I decided to pick it up again. Would I be able to paint where I wish? Or would I be accompanied by an escort?”
He remained silent. A no, and a yes.
Fire flared within me, combined with that sudden apathy I’d been feeling around him lately. And there, intertwined with the quick-paced dance of anger and indifference, sparked something dark and menacing.
“I can’t live like that, Tamlin,” I said. “The constant company of sentries, the suffocating keeping, I—I can’t breathe sometimes, when I’m here. I need to breathe, Tamlin, and I can’t just ignore the guards stationed around me day and night, not when their oppressive presence squeezes my damn throat shut!”
He rumbled—or growled, deep inside his chest. It only served to infuriate me more, and that dark and menacing nightshade flower bloomed.
I wanted to hurt him.
He didn’t get it. He just didn’t get it—either was incapable of it, or simply didn’t wish to even try. The pressure, the suffocation… I’d been granted a kind of freedom that was nothing more than a large cage. An enclosure that would’ve satisfied me for only a short time, so long I was happy. And I wasn’t.
“I am safe,” I continued. “I’m safe here, according to you. You said so yourself—no war will come. There is no need to guard me like a precious stone people wish to steal—”
“You got stolen,” he snarled then, and I recoiled at the force of it. “You did! Rhysand grabbed you, and saving you was entirely impossible because of the bargain you made!”
“I made it because I was going to die of infection,” I whispered.
“I know, I know,” he bellowed. “You had to—I know you did, but he’s allowed to take you now, isn’t he? In a few weeks,” he spat, “he’ll arrive again, and search for you, and find you—and, and that’s the danger, Feyre!”
His chest was heaving, and he was obviously fighting to reel in the animal—the very thing that seemed to lurk below the surface of most fae, but was so much closer for him because of his very nature, his shapeshifting magic. And I stood there, watched, as his hands clenched and relaxed repetitively, as he breathed through the urge of descending his fangs.
“Do you know,” I heard myself ask, “why Rhys took me away when he did?”
Tamlin gripped at his hair.
“He got me, grabbed me then at that moment, because the rose petals scattered along the aisle,” I said, “were the colour and pattern of blood spatter. And I panicked.”
I wasn’t sure why I admitted it, why I told him now. Perhaps I should’ve earlier, before he gave me a gift I had no use for, that I couldn’t use, not now and maybe not ever; before he went on and on about my supposed safety that he couldn’t offer the way he wished, though I was safe, though everything pointed at me being safe in his territory.
“I panicked, and he heard. I was about to say no,” I continued, and Tamlin began to shake his head, “and he heard, so he got me. Saved me, you, the embarrassment and the hurt. Because the rose petals sent me spiralling into a bone-deep fear.”
Tamlin looked gutted. Gutted, then angry again, then gutted once more—both, simultaneously. His hands squeezed into fists and the weight of his breathing worsened, increased; so much so that for a second, I thought he was hyperventilating.
“He took you away from me,” he whispered, trembling with emotion.
My next words slipped out before I could stop them. “He made me feel safe.”
And that, I think, was the last straw for him. It didn’t burst out of him in a wave of destructive power, though it could’ve, as I was already bracing myself for it. No, it only appeared to move inwards. He crumpled to his knees, roared, pained and confused and furious—and I walked away.
By the sound of the ensuing explosion of anger, every piece of furniture in the study would have to be replaced once more.
^^
The next weeks were spent walking on eggshells. The other inhabitants around Tamlin, around me—and us, around each other.
He wished to reach out. I could see it, noticed it in everything, in the way he stared at me from the other side of the dining table and how he halted in front of my bedroom door each night, as though he considered crawling into my bed and showing me he loved me through the only way he knew how.
I didn’t want sex, however. I felt no urge to touch him or let him close. My nightmares continued and each night I woke, sweating and shaking, hurling into the toilet. Some part of me wanted him to see it, wanted to know whether he’d rise and hold me through the shaking, the tears, the sickening roll of my empty stomach—or if he’d ignore like he had before, thinking that I required a kind of space he didn’t know how to give.
It was fine. Everything was fine. Soon, Tamlin disappeared during the day; patrolling, fighting off intruders and danger, visiting towns and communities to check whether everything was alright. I knew he rarely slept a full night and often, after I’d spat bile into the toilet bowl and cracked open my window to calm myself with cool night air, I’d catch flashes of a golden beast strolling along the perimeter.
He was terrified. And then my own worry rose, because I understood his fear—understood it ardently, wholly. He was a protector and I had been one too. I thought I still was. I knew he could only calm his anxiety and terror by doing what he thought he needed to do.
I got him. But that didn’t mean I’d forgiven him. That didn’t mean that I could stand it.
I yet again spent my days in the library, practising my reading and writing, strengthening my wall of adamant, trying to see if I could summon my magic outside of situations of intense emotion. I couldn’t, not really—though I thought I had been able to heat my fingers a bit more than they naturally were.
Then again, the melted wax may as well have been because of extended exposure to my natural body heat. I wasn’t sure.
I spoke little those days, and sometimes not at all—not even to Alis, and especially not to Lucien. He’d attempted once, during my days of silence: sat down opposite me in the library and watched me write.
“He’s just scared,” he said. “He’s scared for you. Please, Feyre, be patient with him.”
I didn’t reply. I was being patient—I hadn’t left the territory yet, after all. I was being patient, and I was being lenient. All I needed — all I wanted — was for Tamlin to approach me and stay calm whenever I pushed back, whenever I called his logic into question. That was all. A conversation he began and didn’t allow to spiral. I didn’t even need an apology.
“I know you’re angry,” Lucien continued, “but he—he means well. You know that, right?”
I did know that. But ‘meaning well’ did not exempt anyone from actual consequences. I’d meant well, when I went Under the Mountain to save Prythian; I’d still killed innocent faeries.
Lucien gave up after minutes of silence from my side and a variety of attempts at starting up a conversation from his. And I continued to write and read, letters becoming smoother with every word; continued to build and drop my mental shield, stronger and quicker by the hour.
Two weeks after the Tithe, Tamlin was seated at the dinner table before I was. It surprised me; he’d usually rushed in last minute, ate whilst staring at me in silence, and then left again. But he was early this time, lifting a goblet of wine to his mouth.
“Feyre,” he said, “please, sit.”
I sat, apprehensive but relieved. He’d reached out again. This was good—this was potential progress.
“I’m…” he began, and he swallowed. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow. I thought we could maybe…”
He paused again, jaw working, looking altogether quite nervous. The anticipation that filled me, the hope, was more than enough for me to soften further. I leaned forward.
“Yes…?” I urged.
Tamlin took a deep breath, and said, stiff and hopeful: “We could spend the day together. Maybe a picnic on the grounds?”
I blinked. My heart was racing—I felt jittery, fluttery. Excitement.
“Yes,” I rushed out. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
Tamlin smiled at me, relief crystal clear. “That’s… good,” he said, taking a large swallow of his wine. “I’m—I look forward to it. To having a picnic with you.”
My mouth twitched and I gazed at him fondly. There he was: my Tamlin, awkward and sweet and hesitant, careful and desperate not to scare me off. Someone so bad at human interaction it was hard to not find him endearing.
“I do too,” I said. “It sounds delightful, Tamlin.”
He smiled at me once more and I dipped my chin, feeling almost happy. This—this was progress. It was potential. He’d calmed, he reached out, he wanted to try for me: an entire day of just us two, loving each other like we were supposed to be doing in these weeks between the terms of the bargain.
And perhaps—perhaps, when I spoke my mind this time, he’d listen to me without growing irate. He’d consider my words, my request.
Perhaps all would be okay.
But perhaps I’d been too rash in feeling so hopeful, because I woke the next day to not one, not two, but three loud male voices, each familiar in varying degrees, with an added cacophony of frightened, hissing murmurs.
It had been three weeks. Our time was up.
I laid in bed for a few more moments, attempting to parse through the emotion that flooded me. Frustration, yes, and dread—Tamlin and I were on the verge of reconciling, and now I’d leave before we could, likely setting us back a few more steps again. Rhys’ timing was so unbelievably inconvenient and I wished he’d waited until the evening, or tomorrow morning, or had at least sent a warning so that I had ample time to prepare myself.
But he hadn’t, of course, because he was Rhys, and he was the most self-centred male I’d ever met. He enjoyed the havoc and chaos he was causing right now, I knew it for a fact.
And still, despite my annoyance and displeasure, I noted that a not too small part of me looked forward to another week in the Night Court. A week, I mused, and I almost felt gleeful at the thought—a week without throwing up.
I rose and decided against bathing, rummaging through the armoire for trousers, boots, and a tunic. I could come out in my nightshirt, if only to show Rhys that his timing was dreadful, but I knew that it would only give him more fodder to be annoying. So I dressed, slipped into underwear and outerwear, tied my boots tight. My hair I left messy and braided as I didn’t feel like rebraiding it. It looked like a bird’s nest, but at least it’d tell Rhys that he couldn’t have come at a shittier time.
The hall was flooded with visibly nervous sentries who didn’t know what to do; servants flitted about, melted into shadows and walls, jittery with fear. And as I walked to the top of the great staircase and looked down, I saw the High Lord of the Night Court standing smugly, arrogantly, in the middle of the chaos.
Tamlin was snarling, elongated teeth snapping uselessly in the air around Rhys. Lucien stood a little to the left of the two, hand on his weapons.
“I told you already, Rhysand,” Tamlin bellowed, loud enough that the windows shook, “leave!”
“And I told you that only my enemies call my Rhysand,” Rhys replied pleasantly, flashing Tamlin a grin. “But don’t worry, I’ll be out of your golden locks soon.”
Tamlin’s head reared back, nostrils flared with his loud, violent exhales. “Then go.”
“I said soon,” Rhys said, “not immediately. I’m not leaving without a souvenir.”
I was said souvenir, of course. Anyone would know that. And Tamlin did too, as he snarled again and took a handful of steps closer, growling all the while.
Bristling yet worried about a more physical altercation, I hurried down the massive marble stairs.
“No,” Tamlin said. “No—no, you’re not. You’ll leave empty handed. You’re not taking her from me again.”
Rhys clicked his tongue, one eyebrow raised. “It’s only for a week.”
“You will not…!” Tamlin started, roaring, but I saw what he possibly didn’t see in his rage: Rhys’ body tensing, his eyes narrowing, and his top lip only beginning to curl back.
I was quite certain that Rhysand was more than capable of obliterating Tamlin where he stood. I was not certain about whether he would or wouldn’t. So I slipped through the mass of sentries and servants, heart racing, and barrelled into Rhys’ side.
“Could you have come any earlier?”
Rhys’ head tilted down so he could take a good look at me. A vaguely pleased and surprised expression slid over his face; he smiled, dipped his chin.
“Excited to see me, are you?”
“Your wild imagination truly knows no bounds,” I said, stepping back so I was no longer touching him. Just my hands against his arm was enough for Tamlin to shake with fury and alarm. “I had plans for today, you know. It would have been better if you didn’t come until after dinner.”
Tamlin’s growling kicked up a notch and Lucien whispered an audible, obvious prayer to the Cauldron. I didn’t care if the banter was a stupid decision; I’d do anything to distract him from entertaining the option of turning the Spring Court to dust.
I stood awkwardly as Rhys’ eyes slid over my form, observing. This time, his lip did curl back in full: the grin he offered me looked more like a silent snarl.
“If I had, it appears I should’ve waited indefinitely,” he spoke quietly, though his tone belied his anger and disgust. “Do they even feed you?”
“They do, if you must know. My appetite is simply rather low,” I replied, before Tamlin could roar and charge. I knew what I looked like: gaunt, my tunic hanging off me like a potato sack, my collarbones jutting out like knives. “There’s plenty offered to me.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Rhys said, “but you look like utter shit.”
“Well fuck you too,” I retorted sharply, spotting some of the tension in Rhysand’s form fall away. “You look—”
I halted. He actually looked fantastic, the prick; full of colour and healthy muscle, sturdy and strong. It was appalling as much as it was appealing and I hated every bit of it.
“Yes?” he crooned, leaning closer. “How do I look, Feyre darling?”
My mouth thinned. “Let’s just go.”
Delighted and smug, Rhys extended his arm for me to take.
Before I could grasp it, however, Tamlin’s own arm shot out and he grabbed my wrist tightly. I flinched.
“No,” he said firmly. “No, Feyre, you don’t need—”
“The bargain’s terms are clear,” Rhys interrupted. “One week a month in my Court, no exceptions, and the three weeks are up.”
“Shut up!” Tamlin bellowed, spittle flying from his shifted maw. The words came out slurred and growling, as if the change in his anatomy prevented him from speaking properly. “I don’t want you here. I told you to go, and this is my Court, my manor! You’re not taking her away from me again!”
“You’ll see,” Rhys said, a tight smile gracing his face, “that I actually will be. It’s in the bargain.”
“Fuck the bargain,” Tamlin replied. “You’re just doing this to get one over me!”
Rhys barked out a laugh and looked at me. “And you call me egocentric, darling?”
“Feyre,” Tamlin cut in, and he stepped in front of me, cradling my face in his clawed hands. “Feyre, you don’t need to go with him. You don’t. I’ll—I’ll manage, we’ll manage, we can get through the consequences—”
I said nothing. His anger and desperation was clear; his eyes looked bright, furious, and oddly glassy.
“I don’t think the consequences would be good for this Court,” I said quietly.
But Tamlin ignored me, or didn’t warrant my reply important enough to properly respond to, or simply didn’t know how to respond. “You don’t need to go. You shouldn’t. You should stay here with me, and I’ll—I’ve relaxed the presence sentries, haven’t I? I’ve given you the space you wanted. I’ve been…”
Better, I finished in my head, though I hadn’t witnessed the fruits of his metaphorical labour, seeing I’d barely left the manor and he’d spent more time outside of it than in.
“I think it’s better to just let me go.” The sudden gutted look on his face left me scrambling to clarify. “You don’t want actual trouble with the Night Court, do you? With what’s coming? It’s just a week.”
Tamlin’s intake of breath was shaky, but the animalistic features retreated: soon, within seconds, he looked like an ordinary high fae male once more. The male I’d fallen in love with.
I hoped the expression on my face was comforting and placating as I slipped out of his grip. His arms fell to his side, and he turned with me as I approached Rhys again, linked our elbows together.
“Good choice,” Rhys said brightly, though I could tell his cheer was fake. “Let’s go—”
But Tamlin gripped Rhys’ shirt and stared him down. Rhys’ eyebrows jumped up, Lucien murmured another prayer and added a curse, and Tamlin did not retreat.
“You end her bargain right here, right now, and I’ll give you anything you want. Anything.”
I gaped at him, heart stuttering. “Are you out of your mind?”
Rhys did not look phased. He didn’t look calculating, or considering, or anything of the sort. He just glanced at the fingers gripping his tunic, raised his eyebrows, and flicked Tamlin’s hand off his person like it was a piece of lint.
The silence in the hall was pressing. Lucien was hunching, the sentries were shaking, and Tamlin’s face was shifting back to the monstrous features once more. With a humourless, sharp smile, Rhys slipped his hand behind my back and firmly tugged me against his form.
Said, “I already have everything I want. Toodaloo, Tam-Tam.”
And he winnowed us away in a snap of shadow without any further pleasantries, throwing us into the wild, dark unknown of the distance between realms. I somehow did not feel particularly frightened despite being conscious of its teetering, unsteady nature; Rhys remained a solid and dependable presence at my back. I could use him for stability, keenly aware of the fact that he’d rather die than let me fall.
Despite the reassurance, an annoying inkling of anxiety pressed the idea that this time he’d winnow me to a cell. That he’d abuse my expectations, use my memories of the first visit and my unguardedness to his advantage. The Spring Court’s insistence that Rhys had been putting ideas in my head when my guard was low had… well, been putting ideas in my head.
As if sensing my nerves, Rhys pressed the tip of his nose against my temple, tightened his grip, and dropped us into the bright, jasmine-scented palace of moonstone. His arms slipped from my body; I barely felt his grip lingering as breathed in the light air and looked around the large, open expanse of the space we’d consistently taken our meals.
A tension that I hadn’t been fully aware of, likely having formed the moment he’d dropped me off at home or taken me away again, dissipated in my chest.
There was a squeal from a little ways away. Then a blur of cornflower-yellow and purplish auburn raced towards me, footsteps so quick they sounded like a rapid drum. The first thing I registered was the scent of cinnamon and citrus—then hands on my shoulders, loose yet excited, and Morrigan twirled me, laughed, face bright and happy.
“Feyre!” she called out, “don’t ever leave me with that grump ever again!”
“I’m—sorry?” I tried, attempting to wrap my head around the situation. I didn’t remember ever having had such a delighted greeting; not from my sisters, my father, Isaac, or even Tamlin and Lucien. “I had to go home for a while.”
“Yes, but now you’re here again,” Mor said, drumming her fingers on my shoulders, and she added in a lower tone: “Rhys was so annoying the whole time, truly, glowered through everything the rest of the month—”
A throat cleared from behind us. “Rhys is also here and still doesn’t appreciate being spoken about as if he isn’t.”
“Nobody cares,” Mor replied, not even looking his way. “I’m catching up with my friend. Go slink off to brood and have sad, pathetic wanks in your bedroom again.”
I bit down on my lip, mouth twitching. Her enthusiasm was infectious; to my own shock, I found that I’d missed her.
“Don’t talk about my—” Rhys started, infuriated, but he cut himself off. Likely realised how childish it was. “Let’s just have breakfast.”
“Yes,” said Mor, and she went to stand beside me to properly tug me along. “Let’s!”
I followed easily, taking the familiar path to the breakfast nook near the large veranda. Mor’s hand slipped off enough for her to throw an arm over my shoulders; she squeezed, gently.
“You feel bony,” she noted. “Have you been eating?”
“As much as I could manage,” I said honestly. I didn’t say that I’d spent most of my nights throwing up.
“Feyre mentioned her appetite’s been low when I fetched her,” Rhys said, pulling out his chair and slumping down on it. He sent us both a tight smile. “Perhaps a change of scenery will help.”
It would, I knew, but I also knew it wouldn’t be enough. Not in a week. Not when the weight was falling off me so quickly I was turning into a sack of skin and bones. But I nodded, hesitantly, and something in Rhys’ face softened; he gestured at a chair and snatched the plate in front of it, piling it high with pastries and fruit.
I slipped out of Mor’s grip and sat. Mor for her part hesitated for a second — her glance at me was calculating, knowing, and I briefly felt laid bare — before she sat down as well and began to pour us all tea.
“Eat,” said Rhys, sliding the plate over. There was an underlying note to his voice that reminded me of worry and desperation. “Please.”
I dug in.
Fresh, sweet, firm melon; grapes that crunched under my bite and berries that popped between my molars. I tried not to eat too quickly, as my stomach was still tight with lingering nausea and a lack of food, but the sheer simplicity of the meal made it all too easy to stuff my mouth. And the pastries—Rhys hadn’t only given me the cherry ones I preferred, but ones stuffed with meat, cheese, and greens as well.
The two cousins waited until I sat back, taking small sips of the tea, before they spoke.
“So how was the Spring Court?” Mor asked casually. “I haven’t visited in over a century, I think.”
I sent her a look. “Are you curious about how it looks, or how they treated me?”
Mor instantly looked sheepish. “Well…”
“It’s Spring,” I said. “There’s flowers. Greenery.” I paused, set my cup down. “They held a Tithe.”
If either of them noticed that I’d said they, not we, they didn’t show it. Rhys merely swallowed his mouthful of fruit and arched a brow.
“And were people able to pay?”
I sighed through my nose, chewed on the inside of my lip. Yes, most had as far as I could recall — I hadn’t been there for the last couple of hours, after all — but the plight of the water wraith still weighed on me. Her faked bravado, her tears. Her promise.
“Most,” I said. “There was one—”
I paused.
“Yes?” Rhys pressed.
“A, erm, water wraith,” I said hesitantly. “She and her sisters occupy a lake near the manor. The lake was empty of fish, so she came empty handed, and I… gave her my jewellery. To pay the debt, and purchase food. Asked Tamlin to replenish the lake, but he wasn’t happy with me helping and said hand-outs aren’t useful in the long run.”
Mor and Rhys glanced at one another, seemingly having an unspoken conversation with just their eyes. Then Mor asked:
“Wasn’t happy how?”
The concern on her face was clear as day. And I bristled, without even thinking about it, because I could protect myself, thank you very much.
“That doesn’t matter. He apologised for his conduct,” unsuccessfully, “and perhaps the next Tithe will be different.”
“I doubt that,” Mor muttered, before she yelped and, with narrowed eyes, kicked out so hard the table rattled.
Rhys cursed under his breath and retaliated, mouth tight and nostrils flared, and Mor repeated the motion. It vaguely reminded me of my sisters; the sudden emptiness in my chest was too painful linger on, so I spoke again.
“Regardless, I’ve been told the water wraith and her sisters now owe me a debt,” I said, as the two fae kicked each other until the table. “Maybe that’s useful.”
“It is,” Rhys said. He ceased kicking after Mor got one last shot in, hissing. “It won’t be forgotten. Talking about things that are useful, have you practised?”
The change in topic had me shaking my head. I glared at him.
“No, Rhys,” I replied. “I twiddled my thumbs and picked flowers the whole time, because I have no interest in learning how to read and write—”
He struck before I could finish, tendrils bouncing off my mental shield. Only the smallest wrinkle of his nose told me he’d felt it; Mor sniggered.
“Prick,” I said, with feeling.
Rhysand grinned unrepentantly. “Just keeping you on your toes. They look gorgeous, by the way. And your magic?”
“Only presents itself when someone is being really annoying.”
He ignored the jab, hmm’ing thoughtfully, and rested his chin on his hand. The other fiddled with the tablecloth.
“Heightened emotion can trigger your instincts,” he mused. “If you train it—”
“Tamlin doesn’t want me to train,” I said quietly, resentfully.
“—you could control it even when you’re upset.” Rhys dropped both hands and braced himself on them, leaning forward, eyes twinkling. He also soundly ignored Tamlin’s opinion. “I did feel some sparks of panic and anger while you were gone. Did anything happen?”
He looked excited at first glance, that stupid, infuriating smirk of his firmly in place. But I could see — tell — that he was worried; considered telling the whole truth for just a breath, just one. Mulled it over, like I still needed to decide whether I liked the taste of a fruit or not.
Rhys was clever. Intelligent. He’d figure out what might have happened if I told him what I’d exactly managed to do.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to know.
“You were right,” I said eventually, and Rhys sat a bit straighter, satisfaction curled into the upturned line of his mouth. “At least two more High Lords gave me more than they intended to.”
“Good,” said Rhys. “And the upcoming war?”
I scowled at him. “You know, I hadn’t actually agreed to become a messenger boy.”
“But you did so anyway.” He waved a dismissive hand, face so faux-serene I briefly entertained smushing a pastry against his nose. “You’re far too curious. And I want to know what your dear Tamlin said in reply.”
“You can shove that wish up your arse,” I replied sweetly.
Rhys smirked, leaning in even closer. “Only if you help,” he purred.
“Rhysand.”
“Cross with me again, are you?” he asked. His eyes twinkled. “You know, I can help you feel better… maybe if you made me cry—”
“Gross!” Mor interrupted, flinging a pastry at Rhys’ head. It hit him in the cheek with a splat, dropping onto his plate; he bared his teeth at her and hissed like an irate cat. “I’m literallyeating here, for your information. If you’re that horny—”
“You’re the one who talked about my supposedly sad and pathetic wanking.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned back. “Mor, if you throw that at me, I swear to the Cauldron…”
The pastry soared through the air so quickly that I could barely see it, but before it was halfway it seemed to… explode, dissolving into a cherry-and-butter scented mist. I gaped, swallowed, and stared wide-eyed at the sticky dust that now covered the teapot. Whatever kind of magic that was, it looked terrifying.
Mor pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“And you are over five-hundred years old, and therefore far too advanced in age to begin something like a food fight,” said Rhys, picking a piece of invisible lint off his sleeve. “Especially if you’ll lose.”
“I wouldn’t lose if you didn’t cheat with misting,” she replied tartly. She grabbed another pastry and took a violent bite. “You’re the sore loser here.”
“I’m not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Are too,” Mor repeated, grinning. “If you may cast your mind back to the chess incident of the day leading up to Starfall ninety years ago, when you lost a match against Az and upended the board—”
“He was cheating.” Rhys gritted his teeth. “I know he was, because he looked far too smug—”
“What’s misting?” I asked, before they let something slip that they didn’t actually want to let slip. I’d never agreed to spying for Spring, after all. “Did you do that to the pastry?”
Rhys glanced at me, startled, like he’d briefly forgotten I was there, and physically pulled a very smug mask over his face. Mor rolled her eyes.
“I did,” he said, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. “Misting is the magical act of turning something, or someone, into mist. It’s a very rare ability,” he added, “so I, of course, am a master at it.”
“He’s actually not lying,” Mor said, when I fashioned my face in a distinctly unimpressed look. “The only other fae I know of who was able to do it was Rhys’ father.”
“I believe his mother could do it as well, but that’s neither here nor there,” said Rhys. “Considering they’ve both been dead for centuries.”
“But it turns things or people into mist,” I said. I gestured at the remains of the exploded food covering the tabletop. “Like that pastry.”
“Yes.” Rhys’ head tilted a little and a lock of his inky, immaculate hair fell across his smooth forehead. “The concept is simple, actually. You just… wait, let me—”
He grabbed an orange and peeled it with swift movements, tearing it into two and removing a segment. Then he leaned closer to me, segment in hand, and carefully pinched the already torn membrane covering it; pulled it back to reveal the sacks on the inside.
“Any citrus has these small and long pearls of juice, yeah? Almost like a berry,” he explained, waiting until I nodded to continue. “Everything, and I do mean everything, is made up out of similar pearls, but far smaller. Even these pearls are made up out of those smaller pearls.” He carefully dug one out and presented it to me on the tip of his finger. “So this table, the chairs, that teapot, even us—we’re all just made of miniscule sacks of juice stacked on top of one another, to put it crudely. Misting explodes every last one of those sacks.”
He threw the segment up in the air and just stared at it. When it reached its highest point, it burst into that mist, showering us in the scent of oranges.
“It takes a lot of focus,” he said, as the small droplets fell and shone in his hair. “Small things like that orange carpel aren’t even a ripple in my magical reserves, but something larger and more dry — like the table — takes a bit more energy. People would ironically be easier than something like a carriage, though it weighs quite a lot heavier on the mind if you allow it to. My father, for example, misted a handful of soldiers for my mother as a mating present; as he was him, I doubt he lost even a wink of sleep over it.”
“I also doubt you would, with what those soldiers were about to do to her,” Mor said, voice dry.
Rhys inclined his head again and smiled a very small smile. “Point.”
“Is it blood mist, when you mist people?” I asked, as I stared at the tiny droplets on my fork. It still smelled like oranges.
I tried not to think too hard about the havoc and disaster Rhys was capable of causing. The deaths, mindless and easy. But did I allow myself to wonder what he would do if he discovered I’d made a shield of air to protect myself from getting skewered by wood splinters.
It was a good thing that my wall of adamant was so firmly in place.
“Blood, bone dust, human waste,” said Rhys. “It smells salty and metallic, and a bit sour and rotten because of what’s waiting in the guts. It’s rather unnerving.”
I could imagine why, quite viscerally. My stomach rolled and I swallowed the sudden flood of thick saliva that began to coat my throat.
“If it’s so unnerving, why did your father—”
“He was, to put it mildly, a horrible person,” Mor said blandly.
When I looked at Rhys for confirmation, he just shrugged. “I suppose. He was who he was; never hid it, never lied about it. Always sharp and calculating, willing to kill if necessary. It was the way he was raised; the Night Court has never been looked upon favourably by the other Courts. It’s a miracle I turned out nicer.”
Mor snorted. I raised my eyebrows. It took a beat of silence, but Rhys’ mouth fell open and he put a hand to his heart in exaggerated offence.
“I’ll have you know,” he tittered, “that I’ve never misted as many people as he—”
“He also had quite a few centuries on you,” Mor countered. “Still does.”
“But what happened is that he misted those soldiers because the mating bond had just snapped for him, and they were about to mutilate his mate.” Rhys shrugged once more and flapped his hand, as if mass murder was normal and expected. “As you can imagine, this filled him with unimaginable rage. He snapped his fingers, destroyed them, and as the blood rain still fell upon them he grabbed my mother and whisked her away.”
He paused then, frowning contemplatively as though he was trying to remember the full story. I realised, rather horrified, that I found the thoughtful crease between his pretty eyebrows immensely appealing—even through my blood-pounding, repulsed fascination with the tale.
“If I recall correctly,” he continued slowly, “when they arrived at his home, she hadn’t yet felt the bond snap and was quite unnerved about some strange High Fae male just grabbing her, despite the fact that he’d saved her from a horrible fate. I believe she threw a letter opener at his head.”
I blinked. Looked at Mor. Looked back at Rhys. He caught my befuddled stare and gave me a saucy grin.
“My parents’ bond was a bit more violent than ours is.” He grabbed an orange segment and wiggled it limply, like a juicy and thick flag. “I’m rather glad you launched a shoe instead. I was so drunk that you would’ve impaled me.”
And with that banger, he popped the orange segment into his mouth, nodded once, and blew me a kiss.
And I? As a true testament that Rhys was growing on me like mould, and that I’d perhaps missed him just a little bit, I only flipped him the bird.
Feyre is in Spring, but isn't exactly jumping for joy. Also Tithes suck.
Read on AO3 + Tumblr chapters overview
General warnings: Tamlin, 6.3k
~*~
Alis met with me halfway through the garden.
She looked at me — just looked, didn’t speak — and curled her hand around my bicep, gently pulling me along into the familiarity of the manor’s entrance hall. I breathed in—felt, oddly, constricted. And as if sensing my hesitation, Alis pushed me between my shoulder blades and whispered, “Study.”
I went. My feet felt almost heavy as I trudged on, up the staircase, through the halls and past sentries and servants alike. They all stopped to watch me and I, incapable of looking them in the eye, walked on.
Like Alis said, I indeed found Tamlin in his study with Lucien and a handful of sentries. They were bowed over a map, talking in low tones, and I hesitated in the doorway.
Lucien looked up first, eyes widening, mouth opening—and then Tamlin did, so quickly it probably strained his neck. I was pressed against him a blink, crushed in his desperate embrace, and it felt—it felt—
“Tamlin,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. He wrenched me away, scanning my form with a feral edge to him. “Tamlin, I—”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” His grip on my shoulders tightened, and he said, almost gasping, “did he touch you?”
“I’m okay,” I said, noticing the exact moment he noted I was still dressed in Night Court fashion. His eyes lingered on my exposed midriff and his breath grew heavy. “He didn’t. Nobody did.”
They had, but not maliciously—and I assumed that was what he was asking.
Tamlin kept scanning me, my face, my neck; turned me to look at my back, as if the clothes would whisper the truth to him. My jaw set.
“Nobody touched me,” I repeated, tone harsh and stiff. “I’m not hurt, I wasn’t violated, nothing’s wrong—”
He turned me back around, eyes wild and chest heaving.
“You’re alright,” he said, and then he said it again, and again, and yet again like a prayer. “You’re alright.”
His face crumpled and my heart cracked, so I reached out to cup his cheek; he relaxed into my touch with a shuddering kind of sigh. I murmured his name, dragged my other hand over his neck, his shoulder, rested it on his chest.
Like I’d done with Rhys.
Lucien and the sentries made to exit swiftly, and I shot them a smile that only Lucien returned, a hesitant thing that nevertheless shone with utter relief.
“I’m genuinely alright,” I told Tamlin, when we were alone. “No harm befell me.”
“He can hurt you in other ways,” he said roughly. “He could’ve—there are more—I know him, not like you, and he—”
I shushed him, stroking his cheekbone, and reiterated as gently as I could that I really was fine. But then my gaze caught on gauges in the walls of the study, perfectly spaced apart by fives. Claws.
“You trashed the study,” I observed.
It came out chiding and disappointed. Tamlin winced, but then his mouth set and his nostrils flared and his jaw jutted out, and I knew then, instantly, that I hadn’t won the battle I didn’t even know I was participating in.
“I wrecked the whole house,” he admitted, like that would help. “He took you away. He stole you—”
“He,” I said firmly, stomach rolling at the thought of me being an object to be stolen, “left me alone.”
Tamlin growled, eyes flashing. “To make you drop your guard, probably. Feyre, you have no idea what kind of games he plays, what he’s capable of—he…”
“I know,” I replied, but I wasn’t sure what I was claiming to know. “Next time, I’ll be sure to be even more careful—”
But then Tamlin said, “There won’t be a next time”, and my stomach dropped.
I stared at him, breath catching before quickening, and my nails dug into the side of his face. He winced, turned away, but his face softened—misreading my shock.
“You found a way out?” I asked, voice low. Or perhaps Ianthe had instead. But—
“No,” he said. “I’m simply not letting you go again.”
I blinked, stared rather stupidly, opened and closed my mouth like a fish on land. Tamlin’s answering gaze was surprisingly level.
“Rhysand said there were consequences to a breaking magical bargain,” I managed.
“Then damn the consequences.” He sounded harsh, confident, angry—but I heard it for what it was. He was frightened; it was an empty threat. Tamlin’s identity revolved around being a protector and he wasn’t able to be one with the bargain, not entirely. I couldn’t… I couldn’t ask him to stop being who he was at his core.
“I like that sentiment,” I said, unsure why it came out tasting like a lie. Normally, I thought I’d kiss him now—but I couldn’t quite manage to go up on my toes and press my lips to his.
Rhys’ scent lingered in my nose. The ghost of his mouth still touched my temple. It was like I could still feel his arms like a vice around my back, in spite of Tamlin’s hands resting on my hips.
I readied myself. Slid my arms up, locked them around Tamlin’s neck. The kiss I gave him made my chest constrict.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I whispered against his lips, hoping, praying that my body would respond the way it ought to. The way it always had—the excitement, the comfort, the whirlwind of it all. “Let’s just—”
“I missed you so much,” he murmured, and as he leaned in his mouth moulded with mine. A kiss, and another, and yet another, tiny little breaths in between. “I went out of my mind.”
I inhaled shakily through my nose and squeezed my eyes shut, kissed him harder. It’s what I’d wanted to hear, wasn’t it? That he’d worried, that he’d paced around snarling, that he’d torn the study apart for me.
Even if we weren’t fated.
“I need to ask you some questions,” he said eventually, dragging his face away from mine with a slow blink. “Now. Now that it’s still…”
I pulled him in again, pressed his jaw open with my teeth. Tamlin swayed towards me with a low groan, tongue flickering against mine. He was warm and familiar and trusted, and—
“—fresh,” he slurred, and with a sharp inhale he ripped himself away from me, shaking his head as if to slough off the desire. “I need to ask you questions while it’s still fresh in your mind.”
“What?”
Now? Now? He’d just gotten me back, he’d destroyed half the damn manor in despair and worry, and the most pressing item on his agenda after my arrival was interrogating me on the fucking Night Court?
“You can’t be serious,” I protested, eyes wide, but Tamlin raised his hand to silence me and called in Lucien.
In the time it took for him to arrive, I smoothed back my hair and straightened my top, that’d gone askew due to Tamlin’s searching hands. Tamlin, for his part, did nothing more than take a wide-legged seat in his wingback desk chair, motioning for me to sit down opposite him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but this is for our own good. Our safety.”
I pressed my mouth into a thin line and looked away, staring hard at the violent clawmarks ripping through the wallpaper. Yes, our own good—his own good, for he surely counted me as himself more than my own person. He’d gone out of his mind with worry because I was his toy—
I halted my train of thought. No, I was being unfair. Rhys’ honeyed words had gotten to me because I’d let down my guard. He played a game with me, forced Mor to play along. If I was Tamlin’s toy, I was Rhysand’s just as much—mating bond be damned.
“Yes,” I said, tone clipped despite my attempt at being understanding. “I know, Tamlin.”
I still didn’t sit. A muscle in Tamlin’s jaw ticked and a suppressed snarl rumbled deep inside his chest, claws lengthening.
Lucien strode in shortly after, looking slightly puzzled at the scene in front of him — Tamlin frustrated, me frustrated — but he still shut the door and sent me another smile.
“I’m glad to see you in one piece, Feyre,” he said gently, dragging out a chair and sitting in it. He gestured at the other. “I could do without the Night Court attire, though.”
Tamlin growled in agreement. And I understood, I really did, why it would be an affront to them, but I—
“I quite happen to like trousers,” I sniped, outrage blooming inside my chest like a wildfire. “Have you ever spent hours in a hoop skirt dress? Either of you? It may look pretty, but I’ve worn trousers since I first went out to forage ten years ago. I’ve worn trousers here, to ride, to fight, to hunt—if I’d worn that wedding dress, or any of my dresses while setting out to catch the Suriel, do you genuinely think I would’ve been able to catch it? That I could’ve gotten away from the naga as quickly as I did?”
Both males gaped at me, looking so utterly stupid that I had to bite my tongue to not snap that they’d catch flies. I kicked the chair back, sent it skittering over the floor, and sat down. Rested my ankle on my knee for good measure too. Glared at them both.
“Rhysand snatched me in my wedding dress, if you may remember,” I continued. “Did not actually have time to pack, did I? Or did the two of you expect he’d drop me back off still wrapped up like a present, looking like a bowl of shimmery custard? Was there any rationality left in this Court after I was taken?”
The utter silence told me everything I needed to know. I huffed, clenched my jaw, had to squeeze my eyes shut because my vision was going red.
“He gave me clothes. Many clothes. He gave me a room with a large bed and a private bathroom. I always got my meals — fresh, good meals — on time, I didn’t throw anything up, unlike here,” I stressed, too angry to feel guilty about the twin flinches that followed, “and I had free range of the palace I stayed in. It was massive, open to the elements but not cold due to the warding, and on a mountain range. It was the only building for as far as I could see. Is there anything else either of you wish to know?”
Lucien sank back, as if it would make him invisible. Tamlin, on the other hand, had snapped out of his shock surprisingly quickly and was trembling—not from shame, but anger of his own.
“Everything you saw and noticed,” he managed, around a mouthful of fangs. I stared, disappointment welling up like little sparks in the inferno that was my outrage. “The layout of the Court, who you saw, what weapons and powers they bore, what Rhysand did, who he spoke to… every single detail you can recall.”
My jaw was so tight my temples throbbed. My eyes burned.
“I wasn’t aware that I was meant to be a spy.”
Lucien sunk back further.
“As much as I hate your bargain, you’ve been granted access into the Night Court,” Tamlin said. “Outsiders rarely get to go in. If they do, they’re either no longer in one piece, or, should they still function, their memories are scrambled. Rhysand is hiding something he doesn’t want us to know about.”
“Why?” I asked. Unwittingly, my memory flashed back to Rhys explaining the plans of the King of Hybern—to him telling me that Tamlin, or the Spring Court, had ties with that male. I felt cold. “Why do you want to know? What do you want to do?”
Tamlin visibly bit back a snarl. “Knowing my enemy’s plans, his lifestyle, is vital. What we’ll plan on doing with that information is… neither here nor there.” His eyes looked like shattered jade. “The layout of his Court, Feyre. Is it or is it not under a mountain?”
“This feels an awful lot like an interrogation.”
Lucien sunk so low his arse was nearly hanging off the chair’s seat.
“We need to know these things, Feyre,” Tamlin said, and he spread his hands on the desk. His fingers were curling, nails slowly lengthening into claws. “Or… can you not remember?”
“I remember everything,” I replied. “He didn’t shatter my mind.”
Tamlin was quiet. So was Lucien, like he had been for this entire conversation. And I, reluctantly, dragging it out of me, spoke—of the palace and its layout, of Rhys’ awkward yet flirty behaviour, of meeting Mor. I spoke of the attack on the Temple in Cesare — an outpost in the Night Court, Tamlin informed me when I said I didn’t know it, one of the few known towns — and Rhysand’s outrage over it. I talked about the lessons I received in reading and writing, about the magic Rhys suspected, knew, I possessed; the slipper I’d turned to ash, the prints I’d burned into a tabletop.
But I held back information I perhaps should’ve shared with them, like hearing the males Cassian and Azriel be mentioned, Mor’s encouragement about how I’d grow used to Rhys, the lessons in mental shielding. The mating bond I kept quiet about too, for I was certain that would not end well.
“But I have a question for you as well,” I said, before either of the two could ask further questions. “Or a few, actually. I’d like to know the truth.”
Tamlin swallowed, still so tense all over, and exchanged a glance with Lucien. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
“The truth,” I insisted. “Not maybe, not half, but the truth.”
“And I’ll tell you what I can,” Tamlin repeated.
I inhaled. Good enough.
“Did you suspect I had magic?”
“Yes,” Tamlin said. “I thought—I entertained the possibility. But…”
“It’s a power High Lords would kill for,” Lucien interjected, speaking at last. His metal eye whirred as he looked me over; I stared back, face impassive. “My father, for one, would not be pleased to know a drop of his power is missing—or that Tamlin’s bride now has it. He’d do anything to ensure you don’t possess it, including kill you. Many High Lords would agree.”
It somehow grated at me to be referred to as Tamlin’s bride, rather than myself. But I nevertheless said, “Rhys mentioned as much.”
“Did he?” Lucien looked surprised. “He told you that my father would kill you?”
“And protest,” I said. “Though he suggested I ought to train until my power became great, so I could shut Beron’s mouth before his… how did he put it? Miniscule, smooth, misogynistic squirrel brain could even fathom coming up with retort.”
Lucien’s mouth twitched, eyes twinkling, and he looked away. “I see.”
“No training,” Tamlin then said. “No. If word gets out about your powers, it would place a target on your back. Larger still, when people hear you’re using them. You don’t need to train either. I can protect you from whatever comes our way.”
My jaw clenched again. I understood his view, yes—he’d been powerless once, watched me be tortured to death, and now he needed to reaffirm that he could protect me as he believed he ought to.
A simpering maiden, Rhys’ voice said in my head, though it was far too clear for it to come from our mental connection, and my walls of adamant were still firmly raised.
But I’d never been one.
“That brings me to my second question,” I said stiffly. “The King of Hybern. Rhys suspects he’s planning on reconquering the continent. He’ll bring down Prythian first, as it’s in the way—and the Wall first of all.”
Tamlin exhaled through his nose, and Lucien went back to his sinking.
“I’m not blind, you know,” I said. “You think I haven’t noticed the increased presence of sentries? The increase in patrols? You must suspect something is up.”
“I do not,” he said, “as there will be no war against Hybern.”
“Rhys thinks there will be.”
“And Rhys knows everything, does he?” Lucien whispered. At my glare, he hunched in on himself in lieu of sinking, as that would have slid him off his chair.
“He’s worried,” I said. “Concerned. He believes war is inevitable, and that it will hit us hard. He thinks I can make a difference in the conflict.”
“Which is why he wishes for you to train,” Tamlin concluded, and I nodded. Then he added, before he’d taken the next breath, “absolutely not.”
I gritted my teeth. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“You have no training in battle or weaponry,” he retorted, fingers flexing. “Even if I started training you today, it would take years before you’d be able to hold your own on an immortal battlefield. Rhys,” and he took a sharp breath, “may believe you… capable of some things, but I’m not letting you anywhere near a battlefield—especially since it risks revealing your powers, which would mean you’d be fighting Hybern at the front and foes with friendly faces at the back.”
“Letting me?” I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “You won’t let me? Are you ordering me around now like your subject? Tell me, Tamlin, am I a child?”
“You might as well be!” he snarled. “I am your High Lord, and you should listen to me. You’re barely twenty, Feyre, and you don’t understand the gravity of the battlefield—”
“I want to learn,” I argued. “I don’t care if I’ll be in danger. And besides—I know for a fact you’re too young to have fought in the First War with Hybern, so it’s not like you know what a battlefield of such a scale looks like…”
“First? You’re talking as if it is inevitable, which it isn’t.” He looked furious, genuinely, his canines lengthening and his claws bursting free, so angry he’d jumped upright and was jabbing a claw at the space in front of me. “You’d believe him—”
Lucien seemed to utter a prayer to the Cauldron.
“Of course I do!” I shouted, and Tamlin’s fury only sparked my own. “The Wall, Tamlin—the Wall might be brought down, and my family lives right at the edge of it. Rhys may have killed your family, fine, but I’ll be damned if you get mine killed through your damn inaction!”
The study exploded.
Or I think it did. Tamlin roared in fury, brought his arms down, and I heard a resounding crack, saw the splintering jump up into the air. Something—something extended from him, like a blast, and in the smallest blink of a second it would’ve taken to reach me, reach Lucien, I threw out my hands and screamed.
I didn’t know why it would help. I didn’t know if it would help. All I knew that after the rumble and creak of disintegrating furniture ceased, there was stillness.
Blessed, beautiful stillness. No sound except my rapid breathing, my battering heart, the terrified rush of my blood in my ears. I had my eyes closed, and I was shaking so hard my teeth would’ve rattled had my jaw not been clenched so hard it should have broken.
“Feyre,” Lucien whispered, though it almost sounded like a sob. “Feyre, it’s okay—open your eyes.”
I did.
The study was in tatters, more so than it had been before; it was like all the wood had splintered, exploded, turned to dust. The desk was a pile of broken wood and the windows had shattered. The table with the map laid in pieces. Even the deskchair was nothing more than a lump of stuffing, horsehair and springs, metal and oak.
Tamlin stood in the middle of the blast radius. And the sheer devastation on his face—
“Feyre,” he said, shaking, “I’m—Feyre I’m sorry, I—”
He stepped forward as if to embrace me. Bounced back, like he’d walked into an invisible wall. Confusion rose on his face, in tandem with horror, and he walked forward again only to be held back by the line.
It was clean beyond it, near my feet. I looked at Lucien and saw him, too, utterly unscathed, though he’d gone grey; the floor near him was free of debris as well, save for… a distinct line, like dust accumulated around a vase but not beneath it.
I turned back to Tamlin, who’d now gone to knock on the invisible wall, calling my name. My fear faded but alarm still rung through my head, silent but insistent.
It was a panic not my own. I’d dropped my mental shield and expelled all my thoughts to Rhys, in—
In favour of a physical shield. One of air. A bubble of protection I’d pulled up instinctively, to defend me and Lucien from the rage-induced burst of power.
“Feyre,” said Tamlin, and he began to sob, “Feyre, please, please…”
I stared at him. Dropped my hands, swallowed, sighed. And like all it needed was a push of wind, the shield fell—and Tamlin stumbled through, fell to his knees, crawled the last metre. He grasped me, my biceps first and then my shoulders, my neck, my cheeks.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I’m so sorry, I—I don’t know what—I’m sorry, I got so angry and I can’t control it and I—”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. I just stared at him as he sobbed out apology after apology, excuse after excuse, cried actual tears. And he was still shaking, trembling all over, as if he’d terrified himself.
He gathered me to him, pulled me off the chair and into his lap, pressed his face into the crook of my neck and just cried. He was still apologising, I noted absently, again and again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Feyre, I’m so sorry, please, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to hurt you, not you, never you—
“I can’t marry you if it’s going to be like this,” I whispered.
Tamlin jerked, as if I’d stung him—and maybe I had. But then he clutched me tighter, pressed himself against me.
“Please,” he sobbed, “please, I didn’t—no, please no, I—”
“I made you so angry you destroyed the room,” I said blankly, observingly. “All because I was angry. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
“I’ll—I’ll be better,” he said, chest heaving. “I promise Feyre, I can’t—I’ll be better, for you. I’ll control myself, I can, I can do it, you just—don’t leave, please, I’m sorry—”
I turned my head just slightly and looked at Lucien, who was poised into a crouch, looking terrified and horrified and devastated all at once.
“I can’t marry you,” I repeated, “if it’s going to be like this.”
Lucien shook his head, mouth forming words I had no interest in deciphering. So I turned away from him once more and gently, firmly, grasped Tamlin’s chin—pushed his face up, so he could look me in the eye.
The whites were bloodshot and his lids had already started to swell. Despite the puffiness, the desperation was still clear on his face—as was the horror, the despair.
For a moment, I didn’t feel pity. I didn’t feel much of anything, looking at his face like this. The anger and terror had made place for a blankness that encompassed the entirety of me.
It was apathy, but not quite. So for a moment, for only a brief moment, I pondered on how I could hurt him.
But the feeling faded when I rationalised, weighed the consequences. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to him, tell him that Rhys and I—
No. It would be like kicking a dog already downed.
“Thank you,” I heard myself say instead, “for your warm welcome as to my return.”
Tamlin’s face crumpled once more, and he curled into me—and I held him through it as he cried. I vaguely registered Lucien leaving the room and talking in low tones to the worried sentries and servants just outside and I held my fiancé as he shook and sobbed in my arms.
But in my head, I heard a verse—sung in a deep, smokey, lilting voice, once teasing but not now.
Little girl, do hold your tongue. I know it’s hard when you’re still young—but the faerie knows, and the faerie hears, he’ll twist your words laid in his ears!
He’ll grab you, take your words for truth; shall take your life, and then your youth. The faerie may be so divine, but he’ll snatch you, tell you, ‘now you’re mine’!
The faerie knows, girl, so know this: you give your mouth? He’ll have your kiss.
…
The Tithe began the next week, a week that I’d spent in solace, peace, and quiet.
I didn’t recall how I’d extracted myself from Tamlin’s hold that day in the study, but I had eventually, because I’d slept in my room that night. The next day I didn’t see him: Lucien muttered something about the border and that it was of utmost importance the High Lord was there before he skedaddled, leaving me with nothing but some sentries and the majority of servants.
Most of the week I spent in the library, soundly ignoring the feat of air magic I’d performed. Every other day I attempted to go outside, but I’d been nearly barred from even entering the gardens alone; if I did manage to argue my way outside, two sentries tailed me, which unsettled me more than staying inside. So I’d requested a flat slab of timber, some pieces of paper, and a pen from one of the servants, parked myself in a window seat in the library as soon as I’d gotten the goods, and set to practice my alphabet. If I ceased to think of words to write, I’d grab a book — any book — and carefully read and wrote down the sentences.
To my shock, I began to doodle the moment my attention faded. The befuddlement and discomfort alone was enough for me to refocus on my sentences, despite the doodles being simplistic as all hell. Mountains, birds, a tree—a star or two, and a particularly crude blob-man with half finished wings that I was pretty sure was supposed to be Rhys.
That one, I captured in my mind’s eye to show him later. I didn’t trust Tamlin’s insistence on ‘damning the consequences’ of refusing to acquiesce to the bargain one bit, mainly because I knew Rhys would undoubtedly steal me away again if I was somehow hidden. He’d probably just swagger into the manor house with his crotch pushed forward and his hands in pockets, a grin on his face that suggested a social call rather than an ambiguous kidnapping, and haul me atop his shoulder like a sack of potatoes before winnowing away.
Though my days were relatively calm, my nights were no different from what they’d always been. I’d wake suddenly, wracked by night terrors, and have to stumble out of bed to retch my guts out in the toilet. And there was the one thing I could freely admit to missing about the Night Court: the view and the air was more than enough to quell the nausea, and I kept my dinner down. Here, not so much.
In the handful of days before the Tithe, Ianthe visited to help me pick out my dress, jewellery and hair for the Tithe. She never mentioned the massacre in Cesare, so I refrained from doing so as well—as I myself quite disliked being pushed into talking about whatever plagued me. Instead I went for casual conversation. I asked her what to expect from the Tithe, what I needed to do, how it commonly went, how I needed to speak. Predictably, Ianthe said that I needn’t do anything: I should sit back and observe as Tamlin did all that was required.
Despite my relief at not having to learn things last-minute, it did grate at me that I essentially just had to sit there and look pretty. The tattooed eye on my palm tingled with insistence—or perhaps I simply blamed my discomfort on the tattoo, as Rhys had been the one to tell me I was no subject, no object, no toy.
I didn’t say a thing though, didn’t let it slip that perhaps I wanted to scramble and learn what I needed to for the Tithe. To prove I could be the Lady of the Spring Court in full, in spite of my inexperience with fae traditions. To prove I was, indeed, no-one’s subject, not even Tamlin’s.
No, it didn’t slip out, and Ianthe left none the wiser every day with a kindness to her smiles that gave me a type of urgent discomfort I had no energy to parse through or analyse. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Ianthe, or appreciate her, but I couldn’t help but think she thought me rather incompetent at everything; a mix of Elain’s gentle, jittery kindness and Nesta’s abrasive disdain, guarded by serenity befitting of a High Priestess.
Tamlin returned the night before the Tithe to oversee the preparations. Though I wanted to know more about the Tithe, I was unwilling to face him and therefore stayed in my room. In those hours, I entertained pressing Lucien or Alis for more details—but decided against it in the end, suspecting they wouldn’t offer me more information that I already had. They were incredibly concerned for my well-being, after all. I couldn’t just overexert myself.
And as it turned out, the Tithe wasn’t exactly something I wished to know about.
I sat next to Tamlin that following day atop a dias inside the manor’s great hall of marble and gold. I sat next to him, sat there for hours, and endured the endless stream of gratitude and blessings and tears for what I’d done Under the Mountain. I endured the eyes and the looks, endured the fearies falling apart at Ianthe’s robed feet as she insisted and placated and comforted that everything was alright now, that good had won over evil, that the world was better and nothing like it would occur again.
And then the payments—Cauldron, the payments. Emissaries representing every town and all the people in the Spring Court came bearing gold or jewels, chickens or cattle, crops or clothes. It was endless, a stream of slowly accumulating wealth brought by simpering and shaking fae who bowed low and murmured their thanks. Their payment had to be equal to the amount owed, and Lucien was in charge of the counting: armed to the teeth, much like the ten other sentries stationed throughout the room.
A receiving room, Lucien had called it. It looked far more like a throne room to me, but we’d beeninside a throne room for months, consistently, endured horrors beyond human belief.
And I hadn’t been seated on the dais. I’d been kneeling. Much like every last one of the fearies who came bearing their payment.
Perhaps there was a reason Lucien refrained from calling it a throne room.
Then the worst—the worst one was the water-wraith who came five hours into the ordeal, who had nothing to offer. There were no fish left in the lake, she said. The Spring Court still expected payment, Tamlin replied.
He’d been wearing a crown of gold and emeralds. Passed down in his family. Traditional to wear.
The water-wraith’s hands were empty, for there were no fish in the lake. And she had to pay her and her sisters’ dues in three days’ time lest she had to offer double next Tithe. She protested; Tamlin repeated his words. She said they had no gold; Tamlin repeated his words once more, and chided her for interrupting him.
Three days to pay, or double next month. There were consequences.
I was sick to my stomach. I knew what it was like to grow and be hungry. I knew how debtors came to collect. I told him we had no need for a basket of fish, and that she had none, and that it was ridiculous—
“Tradition,” he said, “because that’s how it always has been. Exceptions will make others demand the same. My father, and his, and his—they’ve all done it this way, and so will I, and so will my son.”
His hand twitched, as though he wished to reach for mine.
“Replenish her lake,” I replied, gritting my teeth.
“Handouts won’t help,” he said, and I wished I could throttle him right here, on the dias, in full view of all his subjects.
I didn’t. I didn’t argue either. I told him I needed fresh air and stormed out of the—the throne room, three sentries chasing after me after a jut of Tamlin’s chin. Ianthe reached for me; I sent her a withering glare and she shrank back, letting me leave for the outside.
And I chased after the wraith, who appeared to have been crying. I ignored the collection of fae standing in a neat row on the lawn and I ran until I reached her. I asked her how much her payment was. I gave her my ruby-studded gold bracelet, my gold necklace, the diamond earrings. I ripped them off me, told her to use it to pay for the Tithe and use the remainder to buy food for her and her sisters.
“No bargain,” I said. “I’ve no need of anything. I want nothing in return.” I paused, dipped my chin. “I just know what it’s like to starve.”
She protested. I insisted. And eventually she bowed her head, her wet, ink-like black hair shifting, gleaming in the sunlight like oil.
“Thank you. I will not forget this kindness,” she hissed, voice slithering. “And neither will my sisters.”
…
Tamlin was not happy. Considering this was the first time he’d genuinely looked my way in over a week, I was in no mood to entertain his, even as he complained and moaned and bitched about me giving jewels away that he gave me, though we had a house full of them.
“It undermines the laws of this land, this Court,” he snarled, when I questioned why on Earth I couldn’t give my jewellery away when I’d never worn the same piece twice. “It undermines me. Things are done here the way they are for a reason. Handing that gluttonous faerie the money she needs makes me, the Court, all of us look weak!”
“How dare you talk to me like that,” I whispered, so furious I shook with it—though Tamlin didn’t seem to catch the implication behind my words, far too outraged himself. His hand slammed down on the table like he was using it as a gavel, claws growing from his fingertips, but I braced myself right back and bared my teeth. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to starve? My own sisters and I would be on the verge of utter starvation for months at a time, and now you judge me for giving a shit when one of your subjects goes through the same. You can call her a glutton all you want, but I remember what it’s like to return to my family without food!”
My gums itched. The room sharpened. I was angry enough that it was happening again—my control slipping, stoking the power that already leached from my very bones.
“So excuse me that I wished to help,” I said, lisping past teeth that felt too big for my mouth. “And yes, maybe, just maybe, she and her sisters don’t know how to deal with money and will spend it all in one go. Maybe. But I’d much rather take that chance, with the possibility that she’ll be able to feed herself and her family, rather than letting her starve on prejudice and a damn hunch.”
Tamlin’s chest was heaving, and he snapped at Lucien to shut his mouth the moment Lucien even attempted to defend me. And the deference — the way he lowered his eyes, his head, tilted it until his neck showed — only enraged me further, because I knew I was right, and I knew Lucien agreed with me but he relented because of a snarl from an overgrown, spoiled, small-minded—
So I stared at Lucien and urged him to not back down. To get back up and speak his mind, to just do it. Demanded it, beseeched him, as I’d had more than enough.
And suddenly I was looking at myself, at another angle of the room. Thoughts slammed into me, worries and memories and images, and I’d taken hold of a thought pattern that was old and clever and sad, soaked through with grief—
With a breath I returned to my own perspective, trembling where I stood. My stomach rolled with guilt or panic, I wasn’t sure. I was shaking so badly my teeth clattered. I needed to breathe. I couldn’t breathe.
I left the room in a flurry of fluttering skirts and a heartbeat too fast to be healthy, slamming against my chest and pulsing beneath my jaw. Tamlin called after me, something about not being done eating yet, but I barked back where he could shove his fucking roast duck if he were so inclined. The infuriated snarl that followed my declaration went muffled the moment the large doors fell shut behind me.
There was no possible way I could continue to sit there, have a nice meal, not with the argument so fresh—not with what I’d done so new and sudden, rattling through my skull like a cherry pit in a box. I hurried up the staircase, ribcage screaming against my corset, infernal dress pulled up to me knees so I didn’t trip over my own two feet. Every step was heavy and sluggish, painful, but I pushed on. I needed solitude. I needed a space to think.
There were exactly two things turning my bones to thickened syrup:
First, I knew for a fact that there were scorch marks on the table in the shape of my hands, because I’d felt them heat up and smelled the burn. And secondly, Lucien had no clue that I’d just done something despicable to him.
Because I’d invaded his privacy. I’d been inside his head. And I knew very well, from personal experience, where that power had come from.
Rhys, emboldened by Feyre having allowed physical contact, amps up the teasing. Feyre allows that too, but not without readying herself for going home.
Read on AO3 + Tumblr chapters overview
General warnings: Rhys, 7.3k
~*~
The next morning I didn’t wake as much as I just dragged open my eyes, head pounding, not having slept one wink.
I’d been thinking all night—about the upcoming war, my return to the Spring Court, and these last two days I’d spend with Rhys. It’d left me unable to fall into the slumber I needed even with my ever-present night terrors, the worry and dread gnawing at me; Nuala and Cerridwen seemed to correctly clock my sluggish demeanour as exhaustion and quietly set out my clothes, lined the bath with soaps and oils. With Rhysand back from wherever he’d gone, I was expected to have breakfast with him again.
The bathwater was warm. I sank down until everything but my nose was submerged and simply floated, eyes closed. My fingers twitched and I imagined heating them until the water did too, hot enough to burn me, as though the pain would drag me out of my funk—but nothing happened, so I sat up with a sigh, accepted the washcloth from one of the girls, and began to scrub at my once sweaty skin. My hair I massaged firmly until the muscles lining my scalp loosened and the petty little tension headache decreased to dismissible levels.
By the time I climbed out, Nuella and Cerridwen were gone and Rhysand had not yet summoned me. I dried off quickly, twisted my towel around my hair for the water to soak up, and tugged on the underwear they’d curiously left for me in the bathroom rather than on my bed. I then padded into my bedroom, none the wiser, and promptly felt my heart drop out of my arsehole at what greeted me.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded shrilly.
“I figured I’d fetch you so you don’t get lost,” Rhysand said, blinking big, innocent eyes at me. He was lounging on my bed like it was his own, obviously comfortable. “I wouldn’t want you to get lost, wandering my halls for the foreseeable future. What kind of horrible host would I be if I let that happen?”
“A better than you are now,” I shrieked, furiously searching for my clothes. “Leave, Rhysand!”
“But what if you get lost?”
“I won’t get lost if I refuse to leave this room for the rest of the week!” Dark blue fabric folded on the armoire caught my eye, and I hurried towards it, snatching it from the lacquered wood. I tore the towel off my head and slipped into the sundress, heart thundering. “How dare you—I was bathing!”
“I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” he replied, audibly amused. “You were covered—in underwear, mind, but still. I can assure you I’ve seen far more skin of many, many females—”
A burst of emotion I couldn’t place engulfed me so forcefully that it came out in a menacing, rumbling hiss; the room sharpened, turned simultaneously more colourful and colourless, and my gums itched like something mad. Rhys gaped for less than a second before his expression turned so pleased that I flushed from head to toe and stumbled towards the dressing table, desperate to see what, exactly, had made him so smug.
My veins still thrummed with the lingering remains of the foreign feeling, so much so it almost hurt, but it swiftly faded to make place for my own shock. The mirror reflected something unrecognisable yet undeniably me—eyes a shock of electric turquoise, pupils slit and fangs elongated to thick and sharp weapons of ivory. I looked darker, more shadowed, more fiery.
It startled me so much that the change melted away, and I was left staring at my familiar though reddened reflection, panting and reeling.
Fae, I thought frantically, I’m fae. This happens. It slipped out.
With a breath meant to steady me, I opened one of the drawers of the vanity and took out the obsidian comb I’d been using.
“It’s… it’s uncouth,” I insisted eventually, teeth gritting at the gleeful little giggle he let out. “Rhysand, you can’t just walk into someone’s bedroom—”
“I thought you were already dressed,” he protested. “Dressed, and sulking, most likely…”
“You,” I began, venomous, and I dragged the comb through my hair, unmindful of the snags. “You—”
“Me,” he agreed, swaggering closer until he stood behind me and was able to peer at my reflection over my shoulder. “I know I’m very handsome, but there’s truly no need to be so embarrassed. We are mates, after all.”
He grinned then, a gleam of sharp, daring white, cockiness spilling off him in waves. My answering glare didn’t even make his smug, stupid face falter.
“I figured we could use the walk up to talk before eating,” Rhys added. His hand reached out, closing around my trembling wrist; the other plucked the comb from my suddenly limp fingers with infuriating ease. “I want to hear all about your progress.”
“Go to hell,” I groused, but I didn’t bite his fingers off when he began to carefully comb through my wet hair.
Rhysand’s grin hardened for a few seconds. “I’ve already visited. Not my preferred travel destination, I tell you.”
I only glared. Rhys, for he was the most self-centred male I’d ever met, only let his grin morph into a small, smug smile and continued to run the teeth through my hair, careful not to pull at any tangles he came across. Eventually he put the comb down and bent at the waist, rummaging through the opened drawer and taking out that peculiar silver hairbrush.
“Mor told me you’re doing really well,” he said, as he began to brush. “Reading, writing… I heard you’ve been trying to shield too. Obviously she can’t tell whether it’s any good, but I’ll be putting it to the test today.”
My lack of reply didn’t seem to deter him.
“Doesn’t it feel good?” he questioned. “Becoming more capable, more independent. Judging by what Mor tells me, you’ll be able to plough through novels by Nynsar, perhaps earlier.”
Nynsar, one of the minor fae holidays Amarantha had deemed unnecessary and subsequently banned from celebrating. It was months from now; the first to be celebrated in fifty years.
My jaw tightened. “That’ll still be a while.”
“‘A while’ in human terms is nothing in our immortal existences,” Rhys said smoothly, still smiling. I looked at his face, the small amount of concentration that the tightness in his muscles revealed, and stayed quiet. “You’ll only need to keep at it. Practise until it becomes second nature.”
“That’s what Mor said too,” I muttered.
Rhys beamed. “Mor does have a tendency to be correct.”
He continued brushing, smoothing my hair back over my head until he seemed satisfied. Then he leaned down again and fetched a ribbon.
Something in me — and I wasn’t certain whether it was just how our relationship should be, or if it was the bond urging me along — wanted to… untether him. The confidence that seemed to be written on his bones was familiar, yes, but I wanted him to lose his balance for once.
“Mor…” I started, hesitating, before I continued in a rush of breath: “Mor also said you have the wingspan of a fledgling.”
Rhysand froze for about two breaths. Then he shook himself, gritted his teeth into a tense grin, and said, “Mor doesn’t know what she’s talking about on that front.”
“She doesn’t?” I asked, heart pounding and body tensing with the urge to giggle. “I don’t know, when I saw them they didn’t look all that impressive.”
He tied half my hair back with sharp movements. “I assure you that they are.”
“Hmm. Well, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“They are. My wingspan is absolutely above average, and—” he halted, jerked his face up, and stared directly into my eyes. “You’re teasing me.”
I tilted my head to the side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You are,” he said, pure, unfiltered glee spreading all over his face. “You’re teasing me.”
“To reiterate,” I replied, “whatever helps you sleep at night, Rhys.”
He grinned and bowed his head again, sweeping my hair over my shoulder. I could feel his fingers brush my back; he was fiddling with the lacing of the bodice.
“You absolutely were teasing me, and that will aid my rest tremendously, thank you very much.” He tightened the bodice, tied the laces in what I assumed to be a little bow. “Where are your shoes?”
“Somewhere in the room, I suppose.” I shifted and turned, placing both my hands on his chest and staring up at him. “I’m sure your humongous brain can figure it out.”
His eyes glittered like stars. “You wish for me to pick out your shoes?”
“Do I have more than one pair? Just grab my shoes, if you’re so interested in their whereabouts.”
Rhys grinned at me—not lewdly, not feline, just a normal grin of genuine amusement. He reached up to put a lock of hair behind my ear. I graciously allowed it.
“There are at least five,” he said. “Flats, heels, boots made from leather and boots made from fur. They’re in the armoire.”
I slipped past him without a word and made my way to the armoire, opened it. And yes, there—on the opposite side of the wedding dress, low and beneath sweeping fabrics held up by hangers, sat six pairs of shoes.
I snatched a pair of brown leather sandals and pushed the doors closed, walked to the bed to put them on. They were strappy and had a plethora of horrible little silver buckles that I did not know where to attach.
“Need any help?” he asked, as I struggled. Upon looking up I found him staring at me with that same grin, hip resting against the vanity and arms crossed. “It’s Summer Court fashion, but you’ll find I’m rather proficient in helping beautiful females slipping in or out of clothing—be it from my Court or not.”
“I’d rather gut myself,” I said sweetly.
Rhys’ grin widened further, eyebrows jumping up. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to fasten them.”
“It’s a shoe,” I snarked, struggling. “How would I—”
“Just let me do it,” he said magnanimously, all self-important and puffed up like a peacock. He walked forward and went down on one knee, gripping my left foot by the ankle and resting it on his thigh. Then he briefly looked up, smiling slyly. “I don’t just kneel for anyone, you know.”
“I know it’s difficult for you, but please just shut up and fasten them.” I gritted my teeth and crossed my arms, looking away. My cheeks had grown hot again. “Your massive ego shouldn’t be inflated further for risk of exploding.”
“I’ll have you know my ‘massive ego’ is incredibly stretchy and can take at least double of what it is now,” Rhys said. The tips of his fingers brushed over the top of my foot and I had to bite my lip to not jerk it away. He could not know I was ticklish. “There. Next foot, please.”
I hesitantly stretched my leg. Rhys yet again snatched my ankle to hold it still, but had to slip the sandal on this time like I was some sort of faerie Cinderella. Mercifully, he remained quiet as he made quick work of the straps and buckles.
“Done,” he said, “take a good look at the pattern so you’ll be able to replicate it later. I can’t always be there to put your shoes on for you, Feyre darling.”
I glared at him through my lashes. He grinned back, a cocky tilt to his mouth.
“Though I do wish,” he added smoothly, “fervently.”
Arrogant, annoying bastard. I scowled and swung my legs to the side of him to stand.
“Let’s just go get breakfast,” I muttered. “Before your damn foot fetish has you crawling.”
I stalked off to the hallway, ignoring the warmth blooming in my chest at his surprised bark of laughter. There was no honour or joy in making him laugh; I was something to amuse himself with, like a jester, like I had been in Amarantha’s Court. Me being Made didn’t mean I’d never been a pathetic human plaything.
The scramble of footsteps behind me told me Rhys had followed. He was still chuckling when he reached me with his unfairly large gait, hands buried in his pockets as he twirled to face me.
“You needn’t run,” he said, delighted. “I won’t bite. Unless you ask me to—”
“I’ll bite you,” I snapped, before I could think to realise what that would imply. The utter glee on his face was enough for me to thoroughly regret ever having opened my mouth. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what I took from it,” he tittered. “Oh, Feyre, has no one ever told you to be careful how you word things around the fae?”
I sped up and went past him, climbing the steps by two. Rhys followed swiftly and was next to me in less time than it took to blink.
“Little girl, do hold your tongue. I know it’s hard when you’re still young—but the faerie knows and the fearie hears, he’ll twist your words laid in his ears….”
I ignored him, scowling, climbing up and up and up to reach that ridiculous open space—
“…he’ll grab you, take your words for truth; shall take your life, and then your youth. The fearie may be so divine, but he’ll snatch you, tell you, ‘now you’re mine’! The fearie knows, girl, so know this: you give your mouth? He’ll have your kiss.”
I stomped towards the table, near the stretching veranda that offered that marvellous view of the mountain range. It was already dressed with two plates, a steaming teapot, baskets of bread and bowls of cut fruit; I skidded towards my chair, sat, and angrily poured myself a cup of tea.
Rhys was still singing as he joined me, voice smokey and lilting.
“The folk of fair, they dance and sing, they’ll offer you food and leisure; but be prepared, and be on guard: eat and be theirs for pleasure.”
“That’s not how the verse goes,” I told him stiffly. “It’s, ‘the folk of fair will dance and sing, and offer you food and joy; but be prepared and be on guard: accept, and be their toy’. Where the hell did you learn it’s ‘pleasure’?”
Rhys leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. “I changed it to fit our situation.”
“The original fits better,” I said, spooning some melon onto my plate. “According to you I’m Tamlin’s cuddly little stuffy, remember?”
“But you’re not mine,” he retorted, still twinkling. My scowl deepened. “Oh, don’t be like that, Feyre darling—I’d never just take you for my pleasure. Only if you ask nicely.”
I didn’t know what to even say to that, though my mouth nevertheless opened for a scathing reply. Quick as a whip, Rhys picked up a grape and pushed it onto my tongue.
“Maybe we’ll include rhyme into your lessons,” he mused, as I chewed in the most aggressive manner possible and shot daggers at him with my eyes. “Yes, that could be fun—faerie Feyre, eyes like ice, won’t you sing a song for me? I’ve sung so much my throat is raw, here on my bended knee…”
Lessons with Rhysand were different from lessons with Mor, in which we occupied a library instead of the alcove-study, and Rhysand spent much of his time staring at me and trying to get a rise out of me. He threw balled paper at my head, wrote ridiculous sentences for me to read out loud and copy — Rhysand is the most beautiful and handsome High Lord, Rhysand is Feyre Archeron’s favourite High Lord, Rhysand has an incredibly impressive wingspan, Morrigan is a lying liar who lies and is always incorrect in her frivolous assumptions — and used the command ‘shield’ as a way to get me to lower or raise my mental wall. Though it was admittedly kind of torturous, it was, much like the lessons with Mor, nothing like I’d imagined my stay at the Night Court to be prior to him stealing me away.
Instead of counting the hours to my departure in a bare-boned cell, I had been given a lavish suite and was often seated in comfortable chairs; instead of being physically tortured, he simply tried his best at annoying me by being himself; instead of being given gruel, the food I was offered was incredible and delicious and easy to keep down. My clothing was comfortable and clean. I was allowed to bathe and sleep whenever I wished, provided those wishes did not coincide with my lessons.
Back then I’d imagined Rhysand to sit on his throne or hide in the shadows as he ordered my torture. I’d imagined him watching it happen with a sick kind of glee that fit more on Amarantha’s face than his own. But that fear was entirely unfounded, as my stay so far had proven. The aftershocks of other people’s prejudices and his initial deception had swept me away and dumped me into a vat of sticky, thick anxiety; my fantasies had subsequently run wild after hearing that Amarantha had modelled her Court after his, assuming Rhys was, in essence, just like her.
Perhaps he was, in a way. Perhaps I simply was his favourite plaything at the moment, and he allowed me a semblance of freedom just to keep me placated. I couldn’t genuinely trust him just yet—maybe never.
“So,” he said, after reading through the assignment he gave me. I was met by a smile, which I supposed meant that I did well. “Shielding.”
I did not groan, though I wanted to.
“Mor said she described it to you as a wall shielding your mind,” he murmured. “She said she’d asked you to practise. I’d like to test you.”
My shields, that’d still been down at his last command, slowly rose up again. I glared at him and sat back, playing with my pen.
“Go ahead then,” I said. “Slip into my mind, like you’re so fond of doing.”
Rhysand smiled a very feline smile. He didn’t move; and still, I felt tendrils of shadow actively slithering across the bridge between our minds. All too soon talons tapped along the walls of adamant I’d raised, questioning and explorative; they scratched along them, still incapable of inflicting any damage.
The tendrils retreated. “Interesting. You’ve utilised your will.”
“Outrage is a good motivator,” I replied.
“So it is.” Rhys’ grin widened. “I want to show you something—why it’s so important to have mental shields. Lower the wall for a moment, darling.”
I did, though I did not stop glaring at him. The tendrils entered my mindscape almost immediately, curious, explorative; it almost tickled with how gentle they were.
Then they struck.
My entire body seized, breath caught in my throat and extremities tingling. I was caught, stuck, embraced in a menacing hold of power like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. It felt like one wrong movement would have me mauled.
“This is what a deamati like me can do to the unprotected mind,” Rhys said quietly. His gaze was intense, shining, and I wished to glare at him but was too frightened to. “Right now I’m just holding you, but one simple action from me can destroy you. Everything you are, everything that makes you you. It’s why you need to shield.”
I couldn’t speak but nevertheless managed to conjure the image of a massive middle finger to get my point across. Rhys sniggered unsettlingly and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.
“Now push me out,” he whispered.
That was easier said than done, I assumed, but I messily attempted to follow his order. The tendrils were everywhere, creeping along the bookshelves and through the aisles, slipping between them and cradling memories like he wishes to take them. I fought back, ripped them from his grip, frantic and panicked; started slapping them away like they were buzzing flies.
“Come on,” he urged me, “try a little harder. Your walls are impeccable, so I know your will is strong enough…”
It was less like I had endless hands to get ahold of the tendrils and eject them, and more like I erected a force field that steadily grew to encompass my mind and pushed Rhys out. I stared at his face, the excitement growing on it, and pushed, pushed—
The last of the tendrils were blasted back towards the bridge, and I raised my wall of adamant in the same breath before they could even attempt to return. With his hold having vanished, my body slumped forward like a puppet with its strings snipped through—I panted, rubbed at my damp forehead, and flexed my fingers to get used to the feeling of control again.
“Excellent!” Rhys crowed. “That was incredible, my darling, I simply knew you could do it—now, returning to the matter at hand, why don’t you read me a passage from this book…”
Though I barely had the energy to glare at him, I did so anyway. And I took the book from his hands just as easily.
The next day, my last full day in the Night Court, I walked — alone — to the hall where we ate together to find Mor sprawled out in a cream armchair and Rhysand pacing furiously. It felt intrusive, as they were obviously discussing something grave, so I purposefully kept my steps loud and audible as I approached.
“Azriel would want to know that,” Mor said, fiddling with the end of her standard braid. “He—”
“…can go to hell,” Rhys finished snappishly, continuing to pace. His steps were aggressive and long. “And he likely knows already, anyway.”
“Listen. The last time this happened, we were playing games. We lost then, quite horribly, and that shouldn’t happen again.” Mor’s tone was so serious that I paused for a moment. “We can’t lose again.”
“And you should be working,” Rhys replied. “I gave you control for a reason.”
Mor’s face tilted up and her eyes squeezed shut for a moment, before she took a bracing breath and turned to face me with a stiff smile. “Good morning, Feyre.”
Rhys tripped over thin air.
“Good morning,” I replied cautiously, watching Rhys regain his footing and send me an unreadable look. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” said Mor. “No, I think it’s a good idea that you know this, too.”
Her chin tilted down and her eyes glittered, like she knew something I didn’t. Rhys cursed under his breath and resumed pacing.
“Just say what it is you came here to say, Mor.”
Mor sighed, her facial expression turning quite grave. “There was another attack—at a temple in Cesere. Almost every priestess was slain, and the trove was looted.”
Rhys halted once more, this time smooth and poised like a wildcat. And then he uttered, in a tone that perfectly revealed his complete and utter fury: “Who.”
“We don’t know,” said Mor. “Same tracks as last time: small group, bodies that show signs of wounds from large blades, and no trace of where they came from or how they disappeared. There were no survivors; the bodies weren’t found until a day later, by a group of passing pilgrims.”
I swallowed audibly, and perhaps exhaled a little too hard, because Mor gave me a tight and sympathetic look. And Rhys, who apparently had been hanging onto the last vestiges of his control, broke—plumes of utter shadow rose from his back in a terrifying flare before they solidified into flesh.
They looked as I remembered: beautiful and massive wings, membranous and clawed like those of a bat, in a shade of darkness so intense it was as though they sucked in light. They made him look sturdier, like they belonged in full sunlight or under the pearlescent glow of the night—like he stood differently, somehow.
“What did Azriel have to say?” he breathed.
“Well, he’s fucking furious,” Mor answered, glancing at me again. “Cassian’s worse—he’s convinced it’s got to be those Illyrian war-bands again, intent on expanding their territory.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Rhys said, amused in a very dangerous way. “Some clans bowed happily to Amarantha the last forty-nine years. Perhaps they wish to see how far they can push me and get away with it.”
Mor hmm’ed. “Cas and Az are waiting in—erm, the usual spot for your orders.”
She gave me an apologetic grimace and I couldn’t do anything but shrug. I wasn’t Night Court, I was the bride of an enemy—it was miraculous Rhys allowed me to overhear as much as I had. Like playing with fire, though I had no idea where Cesare even was.
Rhys glanced at the open skies from behind the windows, jaw working. The wind was fierce and loud; the clouds were dark and menacing, thundering over mountaintops like an avalanche of ash.
Good weather for flying, I thought, staring at the wings protruding from Rhysand’s back. But then Mor said, “Winnowing in would be easier.”
Rhys scowled. “Tell those pricks I’ll be there in a few hours.”
Mor laughed a barking laugh, winked at me, and promptly vanished—like reality itself folded in on her and pushed her out of sight.
Though I’d seen a handful of High Fae do it, it still surprised me. I gaped at her empty chair for a few moments before shaking myself and carefully stepping closer.
“How does that vanishing work?” I asked.
Rhys glanced at me and stretched one wing out fully, tip quivering slightly. “Winnowing?”
“If that’s what it’s called.” No-one had ever explained, neither the theory nor actual act.
“Think of it as… stepping from one place to the other,” he said. “Like two points on a cloth. One is where you are; the other your destination. Our magic folds the cloth until the two points are touching one another directly, and then we simply step through.”
I blinked at him. “Can anyone do it?”
“No, it’s a rare gift.” He shrugged. “You need to be powerful to do it. The more powerful you are, the further you can travel; and the further you travel, the more keenly you feel the fabric of the world brushing past you. Going from one side of the room to another, though, feels like a single step.”
I rubbed my hands together, then glanced down at my fingers. Licked my lips. “Do you think I’d be able to learn it?”
I didn’t look up until I suddenly heard footsteps growing closer; when I did, Rhys was so close to me I could feel the heat of his body.
Silence, save for the muffled roar of wind in the background, swelled between us as he stared at me. His eyes flit over my face, lingering on my mouth, then my eyes. And then he smiled a very small smile.
“Feyre,” he said, “you know this—I think you can learn to do anything.”
I stared back at him, and for a moment I couldn’t hear anything but my heartbeat in my ears. His smile widened; my own mouth twitched. The jasmine-scented breeze blew his own scent to me, citrus and rain and sea, a freshness that would’ve startled me had it not become familiar to me by now. I hesitantly, carefully, reached out and straightened his already straight lapels.
“I’m sorry about the priestesses, and the temple,” I whispered.
His smile froze, eyes shuttering. “Plenty more people will die.”
I continued to straighten his lapels, jaw tight, then brushed invisible lint off his shoulders. It was calming, the motion—prevented me from growing irate, or fearful, or anything other than contemplative. Touching him continued to be inexplicably grounding. Even some of the tenseness in Rhysand’s form dissipated.
He let me overhear the conversation, I decided, because he wanted me to know. He needed me to, if only to reiterate our conversation from two days prior: Hybern and the threat it is.
Plenty more people will die.
“So… I know what Illyrians are,” I continued, “but what did Mor mean with ‘war-bands’? Are they groups of soldiers who’ve deserted?”
“All Illyrians are warriors, and in all technicality they ought to be loyal to me as their High Lord,” Rhys said, teeth baring into something between a grimace and a menacing grin. “Even more so because I’m half Illyrian myself. However, some of them don’t quite like me as I banned a few of their traditional Illyrian practices. That did not go over well; the males collected their females and children and began to—erm, show their discontent with me. I suppose that ‘deserters’ is an apt description, but ‘murderous rioters’ fits as well.”
“And they kneeled for Amarantha?” I frowned up at him, clenched my jaw in thought. “Are they the groups of fae you’re worried will join Hybern?”
Rhys inclined his head in what could barely count as a nod. “Yes, some bowed to her. And yes, these war-bands are some of the groups of fae I’m worried about. There are many others, but these males specifically—” his eyes flamed, “—me and mine have been thoroughly enjoying hunting them down, and ending them for their actions.”
Slowly, I finished mentally. My eyebrows raised and I ceased petting him down, merely resting my hands flat against his chest.
“Was that why you were so busy these last couple of days?” I asked lightly. “Or were you running away?”
His tight grimace did not fall. “I was busy with many things.”
“Sure,” I said. “High Lord-things. Of course.”
Rhys nodded, and I couldn’t help but note that he hadn’t given me a straight answer. Lingering embarrassment, perhaps—or just a plain need not to divulge everything to someone who wasn’t loyal to him.
I drummed my fingers on his chest, played with a button. “Will you be busy again today?”
“Yes,” Rhys said, a touch strangled. He swallowed; I watched the protrusion around his larynx bob up, then met his eyes again. “I… I need to help. Lead. Give orders.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “Have you left me any assignments to work through?”
“Plenty,” he whispered.
We stared at one another for a few more breaths, and then I nodded sharply and stepped back, my hands dropping to rest beside my thighs. And Rhys stood there, looking a little bit lost before he visibly gathered himself.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Before taking you back.”
I nodded again. Rhys nodded as well, then turned to step out onto the balcony. He rested his foot on the parapet, sending me one last unreadable look over his shoulder.
Then he jumped off and vanished. I somehow didn’t cry out in surprise; and even if I’d wanted to, it couldn’t even have left my throat before the fright would have ebbed away. He rose up with a twirl, winked at me, and swept off into the curling roll of storm clouds with just a handful of powerful beats from his wings.
“Show off,” I grumbled, and I stalked off to study all on my own, legs unsteady and jittery with the lingering shock.
Back in the library, I sorted through the endless little notes he’d left me and parsed through his looping, fancy handwriting—slightly different from Mor’s, but clear enough that I didn’t have too much trouble figuring out what he’d written. There were absurd, egocentric sentences because of course there were, but he’d also written that I ought to practise the solidity of my mental shields. Imagining one other person had the key, or was allowed to phase through, for example; reordering my thoughts and placing the wall in a different section, so that a less practised deamati could be tricked into finding what I wished for them to find, rather than what they wanted to find. The concept was intriguing and made some sense, but mainly if I was locked in a place with one or two daemati and it was wartime. Yet another hint that Rhys expected me to join the fighting.
He was such a fucking prick.
But I practised nevertheless, because the strain felt… good, somehow. It felt like running until my muscles were burning. Refreshing, almost. And besides, the note implied that I had to be able to rise and drop my wall while thinking of other things, which left me with plenty of time to mull over the information Rhys had allowed me to overhear. Especially because that implied he wouldn’t necessarily mind it if Tamlin was informed.
Tamlin, I supposed, and Ianthe.
Perhaps she’d known the victims. Perhaps she’d already be aware of the murders, by the time I came back to tell. But perhaps, she didn’t know that the temple in Cesare was only one of many attacked—and I thought she should know that.
I ate lunch alone in my room, then wandered: read simple texts, played with my toes, attempted to rummage through cabinets that ended up being locked. Inside my room none were, and I opened the armoire to stare at the poofy custard mess that was my wedding dress. With the doors opening, tiny little pearls and sequins once more fell tinkling onto the ground.
It still annoyed me. The sight of it still caused anger and embarrassment to surge high. I’d wanted it when it was picked out; I’d stopped wanting it by the time I was hoisted into it, by the time Rhys whisked me off, by the time he compared it to a cupcake and I suspected, knew, that he was right.
It was almost time to go back home, the dress told me. I almost shook with it. I wondered, once more, how obvious my hesitation had been—how many people had seen me almost say no, say that it was too soon, say that I couldn’t, not yet. I wondered how I could possibly explain it if it had to be explained. I wondered if the fae of spring would confront me with it, demand answers, in the same breath that they’d demand me to divulge any and all secrets of the Night Court I’d managed to uncover during my stay.
For some indiscernible reason, that made me angry. That I—that I was useful for show, to have, and useful for potential information of enemy territory. Nothing else. Or — and I scoffed, gritted my teeth so hard it would’ve cracked my human molars — for fighting, as Rhysand had so kindly informed me.
My right of existence, no matter my species, was contingent on my usefulness to others. It always had been. I’d prided myself on it, once; now, it felt more like a death knell.
I closed the armoire, bottom lip trembling. Ate dinner alone and took a bath. Dunked below the surface, swam and twirled, stayed in there until I’d shrivelled up into a woman-shaped prune and I could rub the dead skin off my limbs with nothing more than a brief rub of my hand. I washed my hair and oiled it, massaged my scalp; went back under and wondered, as I blinked up, squinting, at the surface, what it would be like to stay beneath the water.
Night had fallen by the time I was dressed in a soft pair of pyjamas and padded out of the bathroom to climb into bed. It was snowing, and I could smell it, but it felt freeing rather than miserable like I’d expected. And though my sleep was restless, I managed to rise and get dressed before the dawn had fully broken. And the storm had stopped.
I found Rhys in the same hall we ate in once more. Slouching, he was still dressed in the same clothes as yesterday; his hair was windswept, and he looked tired. I wondered if he’d even slept, if he’d only just arrived—worried for half a second, then questioned why on Earth I cared whether he was okay.
“Good morning,” I said hesitantly.
He glanced my way and offered me a brittle smile. Then he took a large gulp from a brown, familiar-smelling liquid in a crystal glass.
I inched closer and wondered whether I should sit down. “Should you be drinking around me?”
“Who said I was drinking?” he asked, but he downed the remainder in one go and reached for a refill. “Good morning.”
“To reiterate,” I said, “should you be drinking around me? You got rather… emotional, last time. Revealed a little much.”
Rhys slouched further. From nearer by, I could see that he’d undone the top few buttons of his tunic; it was rumpled, like he’d slept in them. I doubted he’d slept.
“Do you want any tea?” he asked. “Maybe a pastry, or some fruit? Or do you want me to deposit you back in Spring like the doll Tamlin believes you to be as soon as possible?”
I reared back, fire erupting within my chest cavity. “Excuse me?”
He grinned lazily and raised his glass. “Sorry. Filter’s a touch gone.”
My eyes narrowed, lip twitching as I resisted the urge to curl it. His explanation, or apology, or excuse did not help me become less irate. If anything, I grew even more outraged.
“If you’re going to be like this then yes, I’d love to skip breakfast so you can… deposit me back in the Spring Court like the object I apparently am.”
He took a few quick swallows and set the crystal down, wiping his mouth. “You said it, not me.”
His gaze then fell on my outfit, a variation of the first one I’d worn here; it was a dusky kind of purple, this time. I watched as his eyes widened; his mouth fell open, just a touch. I shifted, scowling.
“Do I need to say ‘please’? Are those the magic words you require?” He didn’t answer, just stared at my exposed midriff. “Rhysand!”
His whole body jerked, and like a spell had broken, he met my eyes with his own wide and almost guilty.
“You only call me Rhysand when you’re cross with me,” he whined. “Why are you always cross with me? The colour just looks wonderful on you.”
“I’m cross with you because you’re the most infuriating male I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting,” I retorted sharply.
But the wording was a mistake, because a smug, feline grin crossed his lips almost immediately. His head tilted, his face exuded arrogance, and then he purred, like a prick: “So it was a pleasure to meet me, was it, Feyre darling?”
I closed my eyes. Counted to ten in my head, twice.
“Rhys.”
“Just sit,” he drawled. “Have some tea, have some fruit—or a drink with me, if you need to mentally prepare before facing the undoubtedly disastrous consequences of your sudden absence. A bit of liquid courage, if you will.”
“I don’t need any liquid courage,” I said testily, but I did sit down, like a weakling. I wasn’t sure why I’d stopped insisting — however briefly I had done so — to take me back home, but there was some part of me that felt sick at the thought of leaving. Likely the mating bond, traitorous thing that it was. “Give me some tea.”
“Anything for the lady.” He snapped his fingers and in an instant, a steaming teapot, two delicate cups, and a basket of pastries appeared on the table. “Summoning,” he explained, at my confused look. “It was already done—I simply made it come here. You sure you don’t want something stronger? I can also add some to your tea…”
“It’s far too early, you prick,” I replied, refusing to be polite. Rhys just smiled at me and poured the tea, sliding the cup over. “Are you really willing to bring me back?”
“Like I said, anything for the lady.” He inclined his head and leaned back in his chair, lifting his leg to rest his ankle on his knee. The glass was picked back up, balanced precariously between his long fingers. “Just on the last day, of course.”
“Right,” I said, sceptical. Rhys just smiled serenely and took a sip of his drink. “Because I’m a guest.”
“Exactly,” he said. “See? You’re learning things here.”
I rolled my eyes and snatched a pastry, ignoring how the flaky outside grumbled in my grip. Rhys sipped at his drink, watching me.
“What?” I asked eventually, through a mouthful of butter and cherry.
He smiled again. “You look better. Got a bit of colour,” he leaned in, tapped my cheek, “and the marks under your eyes are almost gone. And, of course, your progress…”
“And the discovery I have magic,” I grumbled.
He tapped the tip of my nose, grinning widely when I retreated and wrinkled it.
“Yes,” he said, “good point.”
He leaned back once more, tilting his head back, and I eyed him as covertly as possible—which wasn’t much, considering a sliver of violet was still on me. Just from a plain observation, Rhys looked much the same as he did at the beginning of the week; just a bit less drunk, but still similarly tired. Looking closer, however, I could see the lines of stress around his mouth and between his neatly groomed eyebrows.
Maybe, I thought, or likely, he doesn’t want to bring me back.
I didn’t dwell on that though, because I didn’t exist for Rhysand’s happiness. I ate my pastry and drank my tea, wiping my hands on my trousers when I was finished. Then I stood.
“Shall we go?” I asked.
“So soon?” Rhys whined, but he threw back the remainder of his drink and climbed to his feet, stumbling only a little. He walked closer, hands in his pockets, and smiled tightly. “Very well then. You don’t want to wait for Mor?”
“I—” I started, realising I’d honestly forgotten about her promise. But I shook my head. “Do you have a piece of paper? And a pen?”
Rhys’ hand emerged from his pocket with just what I asked for. I eyed his form suspiciously but took the objects, then leaned over to the table to carefully write a goodbye message. Just an apology and a promise I’d see her the next time, if the bargain wasn’t broken by then.
I straightened up and Rhys grabbed my wrist, pulling me against him almost immediately. He leaned in even closer, nose against my temple, like the alcohol allowed him to. Said: “Ready, then?”
His breath reeked of the liquor he’d been drinking and I wrinkled my nose again, but my words came out amused. “You sure you’re up for winnowing?”
“I’ve winnowed far less sober than this and arrived in one piece, if you must know,” he replied promptly. “And you’d know.”
I pulled a face and he chuckled humourlessly, tugging me a little closer.
“Alright,” he said, “hold on tight.”
And the world faded into a whirl of darkness and wind, a trip through realms made only less terrifying by the steady, warm line of Rhys’ body against my own. I clutched at him almost against my will, pressing tighter, and his forehead dropped to rest against my hair.
The solid ground and sudden blast of light was just as disorienting as winnowing itself. I blinked and squinted was my pupils acclimatised to the assault of sunshine, my hand still gripping Rhysand’s bicep. The manor, a monstrous behemoth of sandstone, rose up in my peripheral; there were flagstones beneath my feet, sturdy and weathered. Birdsong and sound of wind brushing through the leaves of the ancient oak tree next to us told me he’d taken us to the edge of the manor’s gardens.
The air smelled sweet, cloying, like roses. My tongue felt almost too thick for my mouth.
I cautiously stepped away from the High Lord next to me, looked at him. He appeared out of place here, too sleek for the romance of the Spring Court—all sharp, black lines against the rosy and soft backdrop. He didn’t belong here. The crooked smile he sent me, stiff and brittle all at the same time, told me he knew it.
“Good luck,” he whispered, leaning in to brush his mouth over my temple. “You’re going to need it, Feyre darling.”
He released me, stepped back—and was gone, in an overly dramatic swirl of lingering, smoke-like shadow.
Feyre learns things, learns of things, and is unsubtly kicked into thinking.
Read on AO3 + Tumblr Chapters overview
General warnings: Rhys, 6.9k
~*~
Rhys was curiously absent for the next three days, by which I meant that it actually wasn’t curious at all—as I swiftly concluded that, considering the devastated look on his face at my fear, he felt embarrassed, ashamed, and very guilty for losing his temper the way he did.
I would’ve said ‘ good riddance’, had Mor not been present those three days, because she actually, for some unfathomable reason, seemed to like him. I assumed this was caused by the family loyalty that plagued most living creatures, for I couldn’t genuinely connect knowing Rhys and liking Rhys in a way that made sense to me. He was annoying and dangerous, all kinds of whiny—imagining myself knowing him for nearly all five centuries of his life was exhausting enough. How Mor continued to be cheery and perky was a mystery to me.
The three days with Morrigan weren’t only Morrigan, of course. She still had a variety of duties to attend to, veritable mountains of paperwork to work through that she could not finish whenever I practised by myself during our lessons, and seemed like quite a busy fae female. But, for at least five hours every day, she was there to help me.
My days were calm, almost comfortable. I’d wake up early from nightmares, though the architecture of the room meant I did not feel the way I did in my room back home, like the air itself was squeezing the life out of me. Neither did I expel my stomach contents after waking up panicking and sweat-soaked; the sheer radiance of the mountains and the sky, always visible, was enough to quell my nausea.
I’d then bathe, take breakfast in my room, and sit staring at my fingers that apparently had the power to scorch things and bend cutlery. Rhys mentioning that it was obvious I had magic — and how more obvious could it be, really, when I’d made my satin slipper turn into charcoal — bothered me beyond sensible anxiety, and I wished to have more proof. The accidental nature of my bursts of power implied that I was unable to control it and used my magic entirely on instinct. Even through my perpetual haze of exhaustion and general annoyance at being in the Night Court, I could at least acknowledge it was a problem.
Mor tended to drop by my room at noon, when she’d usher me back to the hall where we’d had breakfast before Rhys vanished with his metaphorical tail between his legs, like a yelping puppydog. After lunch, during which my own hunger never failed to surprise me, we’d venture back down to the study-alcove with the big table.
We’d chat on our way down, Mor and I. It was usually about everything and nothing, things like magic and folk tales and religious festivals and the weather. Mor would compliment my hair and I would compliment hers in return, and sometimes she’d promise to braid mine in an intricate pattern culturally significant to the Night Court. We spoke of tea and sandwiches, flowers and fae, and somehow I did not mind the shallowness of it all. It felt friendly and genuine, like I didn’t need to walk on eggshells when I was around her. Insecurity in my position, something that Ianthe often did prompt, never once appeared when Mor and I chatted.
I asked where Rhysand was on my second afternoon in the Court, after casually mentioning I hadn’t seen him in at all since he left and refraining from mentioning I hadn’t felt his presence either. Mor, who appeared to enjoy being honest me, ended up putting down her pen and smiled at me, eyes slightly narrowed in apology.
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” It was better, I knew, to just be upfront with Mor.
“Both,” she’d said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I’ve been given orders, and I agree with them.”
And that’d been that.
Her body language told me she did, likely, wish to tell me where Rhys was, or perhaps why he wasn’t here as well. But she didn’t tell, and I, not wanting to take advantage of Mor’s guarded honesty — no matter how I could almost hear Ianthe’s, Tamlin’s, and Lucien’s insistence on digging deeper — left the matter alone. It was fine, really. More than fine: I did not wish to insert myself into Night Court business, given I was here as a guest and no more. Not knowing what was going on ensured that.
Instead, I threw my entire being into the lessons with vigour. It was nice to not drown in my own head for once, instead filling it with letters and numbers and thick, strong walls I could lower and raise whenever I so wished. The labyrinth of my mind had become decorated with phrases I never once saw possible to imagine, my memories and thoughts filed away in order of importance.
A library, though I’d never been to one. A library inside my brain.
I made staggering progress. Mor was patient and enthusiastic, and her seemingly unwavering confidence in my ability to learn was incredibly encouraging: halfway through the first day of Rhys’ absence, she cited simple words and phrases I was to write down and I did so almost faultlessly. Day two went so swimmingly I felt urged to continue practising after she had to leave again, even picking up a children’s storybook to read in the bath; and on day three, she simply tasked me to write a variety of easy sentences all by myself.
“You really are doing incredibly well, Feyre,” she said after I’d finished, her hand barely twitching to correct. She slid her finger over the dry ink and paper, scribbled a line through a word and wrote something down. “You’re a fast learner.”
Though I didn’t really want to, I perked up at the praise. “You think so?”
“Yes,” Mor said with a smile, pen scratching over the empty space below my text in an appreciative curl. “You’ve had four lessons, and you’re already writing on your own. Look,” she said, handing me the paper, “barely any mistakes.”
I dragged my gaze over the text, noting the few corrections: some words where I should’ve used an f instead of a v, a d instead of a t, a couple of more difficult words where the sounds didn’t correlate with the actual spelling, and a note or two on where my handwriting was unclear.
“I’m glad,” I said quietly. “My sister tried to teach me once, but we both got frustrated and then I had to go out to hunt. I thought I’d be a lost cause.”
Mor hummed. “You have a sister?”
“Two,” I replied, and I fell silent.
A gentle breeze swept inside, ruffling the wisps of hair springing free from Mor’s braid. “They’re both human, aren’t they?”
I looked back down at my practice sheet.
“I don’t want to overstep,” Mor said. “I’m just—look, Feyre, I like you. I’d like to be your friend, and therefore I’d like to know things about you. You don’t have to tell me your deepest and darkest secrets, as I won’t tell you mine, not now… but I’d like to get to know you more.”
When I raised my head, Mor was still looking in my direction. Her face was kind, eyes patient yet curious; I withered.
“Nesta and Elain,” I said, sighing. “I’m the youngest. Nesta is twenty-two; Elain twenty-one. My father was a merchant, my mother is dead, and we lost all of our money when I was nine. Nesta and Elain were twelve and eleven.”
“That must’ve been hard,” Mor murmured.
“It was,” I said wryly. “Debtors broke in not soon after and destroyed Father’s knee, barring him from being able to do any work. So I—” I pressed my lips together, flaring my nostrils.
Mor waited.
“We were going to starve,” I said. “We had no money and Nesta and Elain refused to do anything to prevent it—or maybe they did want to, and it just felt as though they didn’t, to me. But when I was eleven, I taught myself how to shoot a bow and arrow and lay traps, so I hunted. We ate the meat and I sold the pelts. Elain likes to garden, so she and Nesta would often prepare any vegetables she grew or any fruit we could pick in the forest for winter. Sometimes they’d chop wood, if I didn’t have time. Or,” I acquiesced, “Nesta would, and then wouldn’t for another three weeks because she wanted the splinters and blisters to heal.”
“ So you were eleven,” Mor said calmly, “and you began to keep your family alive? For… eight years? And they didn’t do anything to help?”
“They cooked when I didn’t have time,” I said. “They did the laundry, if we could do the laundry. They kept the fire going. Elain sold the flowers she grew throughout the warmer months and Nesta kept any curious onlookers at bay. They foraged when fruits started to ripen—”
“You fed them,” Mor said, voice slowly rising in volume.
I swallowed, mouth dry. “We equally divided—”
“ You didn’t,” Mor interrupted me. Her eyes blazed. “There was no equal division. They should’ve helped you more—you were the youngest, Feyre. It is your father’s fault you had to provide in the first place, but they should’ve stepped up just as much as you did when he failed to. More, considering they’re older—”
“ I wish they did,” I said harshly, “but they didn’t, or they couldn’t. They’re my sisters,” I continued, “and no matter how much I resent them for not helping me keep us afloat as much as they should have, instead of sitting on their arses because they didn’t want their nails to—”
I cut myself off, biting down on the inside of my cheeks until my mouth flooded with the taste of copper. My fingers felt incredibly hot, and when I looked down, I’d burnt my prints into the worn tabletop.
With a frustrated grunt I ripped my hands away, squeezing them into fists and resting them in my lap. She had no right—none, to sit there and judge decisions made in an act of desperation. I hated Nesta and Elain sometimes, when the night was oppressively dark and my thoughts wandered to the human lands, but they were my sisters.
My sisters. Only we could judge each other for what we did then.
Mor sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. Her shoulders hunched a touch.
“I told you I didn’t want to overstep and then I immediately did,” she muttered, grimacing. “I’m sorry, Feyre. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“But you did,” I replied sharply, watching Mor wince but take it. Then I sighed too, jutting my jaw outwards. “I don’t even know why I’m defending them. It’s not like I’ll see them again.”
“You defend them because they’re your family and you love them, Feyre,” Mor said quietly. “I got—I took it personally. My family hasn’t always treated me well either and it hit a nerve. I should’ve held myself together.” She frowned, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Is it because you’re fae, that you won’t see them again?”
“Yes,” I said, and I didn’t talk about the deal I’d made with Tamlin. A life for a life. It wasn’t relevant any longer, anyway. “Elain is—she has an iron engagement ring.”
“Iron?”
“Humans believe it defends them from the—from us,” I explained. Then I scoffed, a grating kind of chuckle without any humour. “It’s funny, really. How much humans hate our kind, and how any defence they have is just an old wives’ tale.”
Mor’s gaze was soft. “Do your sisters hate the fae too?”
“We all hated the fae,” I said. “And now I am one, and my sisters are not.”
“So you cannot return.” An answer to a question she asked herself. “Because they will hate… what you are.”
I stared at Mor for a moment, at her soft expression—the furrow between her brows, the downturned corners of her mouth. She still felt guilty, I noted, for assuming my family and hers were essentially the same. I didn’t know what her family did to her, I didn’t want to ask, but I was certain that only a few things were comparable.
“They won’t miss me,” I stated. “They—everything I used to provide is now being provided by magic. Tamlin made it happen.”
Mor’s eyebrows rose. I could see what she was thinking already: the hypocrisy of hating the fae but languishing in the comforts brought by the fae. Perhaps the audacity of finding your sister replaceable with money.
The pang of pure hurt was enough for me to clam up. Because maybe—maybe they didn’t replace me. Maybe they were just pretending they’d replaced me, like they’d rather be in that shack with me, the three of us sleeping in the same bed and complaining at length about our circumstances. Thinking otherwise… is what some vengeful part of me wanted, but I didn’t want to give space to.
To continue to talk would only foster it.
As such, I promptly announced that I no longer wished to discuss it, and Mor blissfully acquiesced with no more than a curt nod and an understanding smile.
We spent another hour working after that. Mor made quick work of the remainder of her paperwork, and I repetitively practised shielding and copied the alphabet and the sentences she sometimes slid my way after I had read them out loud. The sentences were random, though they often revolved around Rhys: Rhysand is the most infuriating High Lord, Rhysand has the wingspan of a fledgling, Rhysand should get over himself and stop being such a prick. It was funny, in that way one would enjoy antagonising an annoying sibling. And, I assumed, that was what Rhys was to Mor.
My thoughts drifted during brief moments of reprieve, when Mor was too busy replying to requests to keep an eye on me and keep me working. Sometimes I played with shielding, cracking the wall of adamant just a smidgen to allow foul words to drift down the bridge; sometimes I kept it firmly shut, and thought of my sisters.
I wondered if they were happy. If they were already wed, wrapped up in marital bliss, or quietly engaged and enjoying the season. I wondered if they knew what I’d become; I wondered if, despite our once shared hatred and fear of the fae, they would come to accept me as I was now—even if the chance of acceptance was about as likely as the chance I’d ever return to the mortal realm. I couldn’t imagine ever living there again, disregarding the fact I was no longer human: no matter our reacquired wealth suggesting I possibly wouldn’t even have to marry, I felt like it would freeze me to death.
The human lands were no longer my home. And my home was wherever Tamlin was, now. It had to be.
If he’d still have me.
I winced imperceptibly, sneaking a glance at Mor to see if she noticed my change in demeanour. She was still bent over, the end of her braid brushing the table top and her hand shifting back and forth as she wrote. Still oblivious, or so she seemed.
I gazed down at my practice sheet. My handwriting truly was abysmal: no more than a chicken scratch, wobbly and uncertain, though I could spot the similarities with Mor’s handwriting in the curve of our g ’ s and a ’ s, in the curl of our x’ s and the narrow point of our l ’ s.
My hand ached. Tamlin wouldn’t force me to do this, if I gave up now; neither would Lucien. I had an inkling Ianthe would even encourage it, happy to write my correspondence for me—if only to serve her future Lady.
The thought of being so helpless for the foreseeable future filled me with a nauseating, oppressive kind of feeling that I could only describe as an odd mix of dread and embarrassment. Being literate would help me hold onto at least a sliver of autonomy, in a world where everything would be decided for me except my love.
Slowly and shakily, I started to write.
The Spring Kourt Court kordee cordeya cordially infytes invyt invites you to the selle—
The Spring Court cordially invites you to attent the marrej—
You are cordially invited to the se celabrash—
I wished I had a dictionary. I wished I wasn’t holding my pen so tightly, leaving it pressed hard against my bruised knuckle and sending a pulsing and dull ache through my entire hand. I wished I knew how to read and write already, I wished I’d never made the bargain, I wished that the Night Court felt less safe and that Mor wasn’t so nice and that Rhysand wasn’t fated to belong to me like a damn dog on a lead—
I wished for many things. Like how I wished that the answer to my wishes wasn’t a resounding no.
Mor and I called it a day soon after the fact, leaving for dinner—though she had to go back to her own home and was forced to leave me to my own devices. She told me she’d try to see me again, before I left at the end of the week: when I asked if that meant she wouldn’t be available any longer, she winced apologetically and nodded.
“Rhys wishes to take over, I’m afraid,” she said, drawing me into a hug that squeezed the breath out of me. “At least you can blow him out of the water with what you’ve learned. But I’ll be there before you take your leave,” she added intensely, “so I can say goodbye.”
This goodbye was already difficult for me, which absolutely had to do with the prospect of facing Rhys again. I didn’t want her to go. Even if that was selfish.
“Can’t you tell him to fuck off?” I whispered grumpily.
Her laugh was more like a cackle. “Even if I did, he wouldn’t listen. Now go on, dinner’s waiting for you in your room—food is food for the brain, as I always say.”
She walked me to my quarters, dawdling for another minute or so before disappearing a flurry of herby perfume and another tight hug. Though I wasn’t offended by her sudden departure, I did feel rather morose at the utter solitude that was sure to follow. Mor was an undeniably comforting distraction from my own warring thoughts.
I ate easily — dinner was rice and chicken in some sort of spiced broth, smelling like heaven — and proceeded to settle down in bed with the children’s book I hadn’t yet finished. I still had to sound the words out, but it was getting easier every paragraph. Reading, it seemed, was indeed just like a puzzle: and the more I figured out how it worked, the better I became at it. The storyline helped too, something funny and simple that almost had me smiling. I wondered how many fae children claimed this book as their favourite.
Then, about an hour into my reading, someone hesitantly knocked on the door.
My exhaustion from studying all day hadn’t left me incapable of sensing who the person could be—nor had his absence made me forget the cold and heavy atmosphere that always accompanied his presence. I closed the book with a snap, slid off the bed, and made my way to the door.
The face that greeted me upon opening spoke of pure guilt.
“I really don’t have the energy for you.”
Rhys shifted in place, shoulders hunched. “It won’t take long, I promise—I just… wanted to apologise.”
“Apologise,” I repeated, slowly. His absence had grated on me more than I realised: now that he was here, in person, it was undeniably overwhelming to even be near him.
“Yes,” he said, and then he paused, frowning. “May I come in?”
“No.”
“Okay,” he said. He blew out a breath and smiled unsuccessfully, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Okay—it’s not necessary for me to come in, anyway, so that’s fine…”
“Get on with it, Rhysand,” I interrupted. I was already losing my patience; despite how confusing and exhausting he was, his presence continued to bring me a strange mixture of calm and an itch I couldn’t quite scratch. It was upsetting. “I’m tired.”
He swallowed. “Right.”
Another pause.
“If you’re just going to stand there,” I said, jaw clenching, “I’m going to close the door.”
He leaned closer, trying to look around me at the room. “Are you sure I can’t come in?”
“I’m sure.” When he didn’t reply, merely tightened his jaw and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, I raised both of my eyebrows. “Well?”
Rhys took a deep breath. “I want to apologise for many things.”
My eyebrows remained raised.
“But I mainly want to apologise for losing my temper during your first morning in my Court,” he said, grimacing slightly. “It was uncalled for and unnecessary, and I just didn’t… think. It is rather difficult to think clearly around you, especially when you’re very explicit about how you feel towards me. And that’s on me—I should be able to remain level headed regardless of the situation.”
“Apology not accepted.” His sad eyes weren’t enough to sway me. “Anything else?”
Rhys’ mouth twisted into a wry smile.
“Of course,” he muttered, and it was unclear whether he was referring to my blunt answer or my question. “I want to apologise for not being transparent with you in general as well.”
Though his stance did not change, his eyes did become rather shifty when I narrowed my own. I found it easy to spot his inherent confidence below the act of misery; Rhysand was more than aware that he called the shots here.
“I thought you refused to agree to telling me everything from now on,” I said. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“That doesn’t mean I won’t ever divulge information, or that I shouldn’t have kept so many things from you in the first place.” He stepped closer and slowly extended his arm, holding out his hand with his palm facing up. “You’ll have to come with me so I can explain it properly. Is that okay?”
I peered at his hand like it was something disgusting, though I couldn’t help but recall how wonderful it’d been when he cradled my face between his palms. Perhaps touch was important for mates. I didn’t know—I’d have to ask, even if I really didn’t want to ask him.
Eventually, after a tense few seconds of utter silence, I ignored his hand soundly and pushed past him to step into the hall.
“Lead the way,” I said, and Rhys took a breath, brushed his palm on his trousers, and nodded.
He led me up a variety of steep, horrible, dreadfully lengthy staircases in the palace, a few steps ahead of me and never checking whether I was actually following. To be fair, he could probably hear me panting like an old horse after an extended sprint, so unused I was to climbing the endless steps: when we were halfway, though I’d hoped desperately at the time we were nearing the end, I’d become light-headed and was utterly convinced my lungs were spitting out blood with every deflation.
The final staircase spiralled on and on, leading us into a circular chamber at the top of a tower. Its centre was occupied by a large, round table made of glittering black stone; and though nearly all the walls were windowed, the longest stretch of grey stone was covered by a massive map of Prythian, dotted with small marks, pins, and comically tiny flags. I couldn’t fathom why it would be marked—until Rhys stalked towards the table and waved me closer, gesturing at the second map of our world spread upon it, Hybern included.
A closer look informed me that the map was incredibly detailed, the names of places — villages, cities, rivers, lakes, mountain ranges and its small passages — neatly marked. Figurines made of stone, like chess pieces, stood firm and lonely on specific places on the map. Yes, the detail was impressive—except the Night Court, which was utterly void of any kind of information. No names, just its border and rough outlines of its mountains.
“This is a map,” he said quietly.
I looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “I figured.”
Rhys’ mouth pulled into a little smile. His eyes were positively gleaming.
“Admirable deduction skills,” he purred. “Now, put it to work again—what do you see?”
My eyebrows furrowed and jumped, but in a sudden bout of kindness, I indulged him. I stared at the map, at the place names that took me a few moments to decipher, the mountains and the rivers and every little figurine. The most obvious detail was glaring: the wall splitting our world in two, like gnarly and thickened scar tissue.
“Again, a map that I’m assuming is accurate,” I said, pointing two fingers at the details. “The Night Court is here, then Day and Dawn… Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring. Hybern’s over there, and then on the opposite side, the human territory; it’s just Prythian like it is now, separated.”
I glanced up, only to be met by Rhysand’s intensely violet gaze. His chin tilted just slightly, neck bending, and he asked:
“Do you believe it should remain that way?”
A cold, insistent feeling spread from my throat down into the rest of my body—circling my guts, settling in my extremities.
Dread.
“My—my family—”
“ Your human family,” Rhys finished quietly, “lives very close to the Wall, don’t they? They would be heavily impacted if it ever came down… with any luck, they’ll be prepared and will have fled across the ocean before that occurs.”
“You’re saying—” I swallowed, wet my lips. “You’re saying that as though it’s inevitable.”
“Because it very well might be,” he replied. His face tightened; his eyes did not leave mine for even a second. “War is coming, Feyre. The King of Hybern has awoken. Amarantha—she was nothing more than a test.”
Panic, after it’d come on and since faded, I would describe as a brief moment in which one’s body suddenly jumps into fight or flight mode, acting on instinct and a primal kind of fear that allows one to get away or stay hidden or battle one’s way out of danger, pain be damned. The innate human — and faerie; perhaps animal — conviction of and need for survival. Something that I often would have dismissed as nothing more than a simple response bred in through millennia of the fittest and smartest living to procreate.
At this moment, it did nothing more than leave me scarcely able to breathe.
“You mean—Tamlin hasn’t said—”
Rhys just looked at me, and I recalled the endless patrols in the Spring Court, the meetings I hadn’t been allowed to attend, the underlying anxiety and the explicit tension that permeated the air constantly. It had been rendering the manor house to feel as small as a closet, as if breathable air was making place for stifling emotion.
He knew. He knew, and he hadn’t told me. I didn’t know why he hadn’t told me, even though I did, but I wanted to—I would have to ask, demand an explanation, because—
“The King of Hybern wishes to reclaim the continent,” Rhys said. “The human lands, the faerie territories—he’s been planning it for over a century. Amarantha’s reign was a forty-nine-year test, an experiment, just to see how easy it would be to force a land to fall to its knees. How easy, and how long, it can stay under the control of one of his commanders.”
“Prythian is first,” I whispered, nauseated at the mere thought.
“We’re in the way,” he replied simply. “We’d intercept his fleet before it’d even manage to cross the seas. That indeed means Prythian shall need to fall first.”
My breath was rattling and laborious. I blinked through a sudden burning blurriness, rested my hands on the table for leverage, tried not to gag.
“And the—the Wall, it…”
“It has holes,” Rhys said, “but they’re small. Sending his armies through them would be inconvenient and tedious work. He’ll seek to collapse it in its entirety and use the ensuing panic to take over, suppress resistance with ease, and create an additional stronghold to face the continent.”
“How long?” I breathed. “How long do we have?”
The Wall had been a constant for five centuries. The holes allowed fae to slip through, to monstrously attack humans, but the size of Hybern’s armies had to be larger than I could properly fathom. If it fell—if it collapsed, allowing worse fae to march onto mortal territory, it would be—
“I don’t know,” Rhys admitted calmly. His hand reached out, hovered, before landing heavy and warm on my shoulder. “I brought you here because I need to know.”
I decided against asking why on Earth I’d be a solution momentarily, deciding to focus on his hand on my shoulder. Though separated by cloth, the sheer warmth of his palm felt like a brand that forced me to breathe easier.
Touch, I thought, it’s got to be important— but I waved it away.
“There’s much I don’t know,” Rhys continued. “I don’t know where in Prythian he’ll attack first. I don’t know who his allies would be—people who’d rather kneel for him than fight him again,” he added, in response to my befuddled look. “I don’t doubt there would be fae who’d help him. Can’t fathom why, as the destruction was equally horrific on both sides, but—”
Rhys cut himself off, throat bobbing as he swallowed. He was getting worked up: shadows flickered, like he was losing the tight grip on his control.
“Did you…” I began, hesitating when his expression turned briefly devastated, “did you fight in the War?”
His chest expanded and deflated with several breaths, deep and rhythmic, and he nodded slowly.
“Yes,” he said, “I did. I was… quite young, by our standards—just barely reached adulthood. But I wished to help. Convinced my father to let me lead a battalion of our soldiers. He acquiesced; I was stationed in the South, where the fighting was the thickest.”
Rhys paused then, eyes distant and unfocused, and I resisted the urge to shush him—to let him clam up again, shove it back down, but I couldn’t manage to. I wished to know.
“The violence at that time… I think it’s unparalleled by anything in written history. The slaughter was—let’s just say I have no interest in seeing such a full-scale slaughter ever again.” He blinked, visibly shook himself. “Either way, I don’t think Hybern will strike that way. Not at first, at least—or in Prythian. He wouldn’t waste his forces here, give the continent time to rally theirs as we attempt to push them back. No,” he said, “when he strikes, it’ll be through stealth and trickery. He’ll collapse the wall that way. We need to be weakened, and Amarantha was the first step to achieve that.”
“How weak are we now?” I asked quietly.
“We have people who have realised that they are powerless,” Rhys started instantly, ticking off on his long fingers, “several untested High Lords, and a variety of broken Courts with High Priestesses angling for control like wolves around a carcass. It would take one cleverly placed push to topple most of the Courts—and then it’s no more than a game of picking off the weakest, slowly destroying defences before taking over entirely.”
Like a game of chess. I looked down at the map, taking in the figurines, the strategy that must have been implemented vaguely taking shape in my mind.
“You wish for me to fight,” I said. “That’s why you’re telling me this.”
Rhys remained quiet, so I looked up at him to read his expression. He was smiling, just slightly, simultaneously humourless and amused.
“I’ve told you this for two reasons,” he said. “First of all—you’re close to Tamlin. He has men, yes, but he also has close ties to Hybern—”
“ He wouldn’t.” My heart was pounding, all of a sudden. “Tamlin wouldn’t—”
“—And I want to know,” Rhys said, voice cold and firm, “whether he will fight with us, if he can use those connections to Prythian’s advantage. Considering Tamlin would love to see me rotting and I wish him the very same, you have the momentous honour of being our go-between.”
I worked my jaw, nostrils flaring. “He’d never inform me of such things.”
“ Perhaps he should.” Rhys’ mouth twisted in a sharp, fanged, feline grin; his grip on my shoulder tightened briefly. “Perhaps it’s time you insisted.”
He tapped the representation of the Wall. The human lands. My mouth went dry.
“ You and yours, Feyre darling,” he purred, infuriatingly handsome and smug and, as my traitorous rationality insisted, right. “ Would you forgive him if he kept information from you that would’ve saved your family? I sure wouldn’t—I’d rip him apart, limb from limb.”
The possibility wasn’t something I wished to think about, and Rhys’ manipulation was blatant. But it worked, somehow: I could feel the familiar rage rise up inside of me, an emotion only Rhys managed to prod to the surface.
“ What’s your other reason for involving me?” I asked harshly, nearly snapping my teeth and him when he tutted at my tone. “ Rhysand.”
He laughed then, almost delighted and very much barking; daringly slid his hand from my shoulder to my upper back. His thumb rubbed at my spine.
“You, my love, have a skill set I am in desperate need of.” He sidled closer, leaned in. When I glared at him I could nearly count the pattern in his irises, the number of eyelashes he had. “A little birdie told me you caught a Suriel.”
“It wasn’t very hard,” I snarked.
“ For you, maybe,” he said. “I tried and failed, twice. Regardless, I saw you trick and trap the Middengard Wyrm like a precious little rabbit, and I need you to help me.”
“Must I?”
“Only to retrieve what I need.” His sharp teeth were gleaming. “You’re the only hunter I trust. Even if you’re capable of betraying me,” he added swiftly, when I opened my mouth to say just that, “you simply wouldn’t. And, of course, there’s also the matter of your propensity for magic…”
I gritted my teeth. “So I burned some things… big deal—”
“ The acts of power you’re displaying are the very things that would urge a High Lord to choose his heir,” Rhys said sharply. “I’ve told you before—I heavily suspect all seven of us have given you more than we intended to, and it’s already showing. You’re downright leaking magic, and as you are my mate, you are evenly matched with me; the most powerful High Lord in recent history. The abilities you possess… with a handful of smackdowns, you’d be a High Lady before Beron would even be able to formulate a protest in that miniscule, smooth, misogynistic squirrel brain of his—”
“There are no High Ladies,” I protested, so quickly it was like a habit I didn’t have.
“Well, not currently, no,” Rhys replied. “And sure as shit not with that attitude. Just imagine, Feyre darling: you, wielding snippets of power of all seven High Lords. You’d control the shadows, raze armies, freeze legions… do you have any idea what that could look like in the upcoming war?”
My head was reeling. I reached up and futilely pushed at his chest, but Rhysand wouldn’t even budge.
“ There’s no way to know,” I said, “whether I would even have the power to put any force behind the magic I might have inherited from all of you. And just— stop asking rhetorical questions you’re already imagining the answers to!”
“ But I need you to imagine the possibilities,” Rhys insisted, stepping even closer. “Feyre—you need to learn. I can teach you to control the gifts, if not for Prythian’s sake then for your own, to be aware of yourself and your endless horizons—”
“Tamlin wouldn’t allow it,” I snapped, breath quickening, frantic. “He’d go mad with worry—”
“Tamlin isn’t your damn keeper, Feyre.”
“He’s my High Lord.” I shook my head, pushed at his chest again, but put an appalling lack of strength behind it. Rhysand loomed, growing visibly more irate. “I’m his subject, Rhys, I—”
“ You,” he said, eyes flashing and voice dark, shadows creeping up his neck, “are no-one’s subject.”
I stared up at him, directly into his eyes, and he stared back. His fangs were peeking through, resting against his bottom lip, creating little divots; his pupils were trembling, on the verge of slitting but not quite.
“ As I told you before I got you here,” Rhys whispered, “he sees you as a toy. To him, you are an object, a prize, a cuddly little stuffy he received after a job well done. And sure,” he added meanly , bottom lip jutting out into a pout, “you can spend the rest of your immortal li ves pretending to be just that—pretending to be lesser than him, something he can put away and take out whenever you may or may not strike his fancy, dressed up in massive frilly dresses for him to tear off you like Cauldron-damned wrapping paper… all of that’s fine, as long as it’s your choice…”
“Rhys,” I hissed, my gaze dropping, but his other hand lifted—fingers touching my chin, tilting it up, forcing me to meet his eyes again.
“But I know you, and I know you’d be damned to let him do that to you for longer than, say, a year or two?” He scoffed. “A short blip in our immortal lifetime, Feyre, I assure you. That male sat on his arse for fifty years twiddling his thumbs, overcome by anxiety, all woe is Tamlin; he is a monster no-one shall love. And then you arrived, entirely by accident, and he somehow ensnared you and then sat on his arse once more as you were touched, abused, shredded to fucking pieces—”
“ Your point,” I snarled. “Get to your point—”
Rhys laughed again, cold and sharp, and leaned in so close his nose touched mine. “My point? My point is that you can refuse to act like the perfect princess Tamlin wishes for you to be and learn. You can be a vital part of winning this war, as long as you master the magic we gave you. The war will be coming, Feyre—and not one fae save for yourself will give one tiny, singular shit about your family across the Wall, which means you’ll need to save them yourself.”
My eyes closed.
“ You want to save the Mortal Realm, as it is your first home,” Rhysand said. “I can understand that. But in order to save it, you need to become someone Prythian will listen to— bow to, if necessary. One day,” he said , “and it may or may not come, you will be the last line of defence between the King of Hybern and your human family. And you’d better be prepared.”
He shifted then, and in the next breath pressed his mouth between my brows. My own breath caught, I felt his chest still, and then we simply stood there for a few moments—just his lingering kiss against my forehead, and my hands against his chest and his hands on my back and under my jaw.
I wished with some part of me — some pulsating part of me, somewhere in my chest, nestled behind my ribcage, high up in my throat and right there, where his lips touched my skin — to slip forwards and rest against his chest, dig my nose in the hollow of his throat. Absurd, mad, maddening: there couldn’t be anything sane about that damned mating bond, when its urges were so…
My heart felt torn. My rationality, idem ditto. I wanted to rip myself free and stay right where I was, or perhaps even closer. I wanted to have the entire length of the room between the both of us, yet wished desperately to mould myself to his body.
Rhys drew back. I swayed, caught myself, and his face dipped as though he went to kiss me—but it veered to the left, and only his cheek touched mine.
“ It’s your choice,” he whispered roughly, like I would be capable of picking up where we left off after a moment like that. “ Think it over—these last couple of days here, and perhaps the month you’ll spend in Spring before coming back. But Feyre,” he said, and his head dipped further, and I wanted to dig my fingers into his hair and keep him but drag him away from me all the same, “only you can decide what you’ll do with your life. Not Tamlin, not Vanserra, not that simpering little High Priestess, and not me. Just you.”
I kept my eyes closed. I kept my hands on his chest. I breathed him in, I felt the heat of his body, and for a moment I let myself imagine what it would be like to just have him like this. How he easily offered himself, exposing his neck, his jugular; like it was an simple, mindless choice and I only needed to reach out.
It felt like I was betraying something precious to me. But his words—
Perhaps, I thought, and I wished to curse myself for thinking it, to be kept like something precious is worse.
Hello, my love! How are you doing? I was just rereading your ACOTAR fics today (my favorite!) and noticed you haven’t been active for a bit, so I wanted to pop in and say hi! I hope you’re doing alright ❤️ you’re the best
Hello nonnie!! I’m doing fine, thank you :) Hipe you’re well too!!
I’ve indeed not been active for a bit, but I promise I was busy writing (several WIPs across several fandoms) and I just uploaded another Prythian.Connect chapter! Your ask actually reminded me I did have something ready, lol.
Mor sees an opportunity during Feyre's second week in the Night Court, and as a result, we are able to take glance at the past.
Happens around the last emails of chapter 1.
==
[15-02-501, 22:38PM]
To: givememor@/nightcourt.gov
From: iminyourwalls@/support.nightcourt.gov
Subject: As you requested
—
Morrigan,
Attached is a copy of the chat of last month, held prior to the arrival of miss Feyre Archeron. Please remember that any attempt at blackmail of user ‘blue-dabadee’ will be held against you, as I have full access to your StarMessage backup as well ♥️
rice: Vanserra’s emails are getting progressively more panicked lol it’s fucking grand
blue-dabadee: Have you been threatening him?
rice: not explicitly. I’m not that stupid
blue-dabadee: 🤔🤔 Debatable
rice: may I remind you that I’m the one who pays for your housing and food
blue-dabadee: May I remind you that I am more than prepared to hunt and forage and, perhaps, live in a tree?
cassplay: upside down like a bat?
blue-dabadee: No, perched on a branch so I can throw myself, knives at the ready, onto an unsuspecting general at a moment’s notice, like any good Illyrian ought to
blue-dabadee: Obviously I’d be upside down Cas what are you on 🦇🦇
cassplay: fckin life, man
blue-dabadee: Maybe lay off it a little bit
cassplay: …are u saying i should die?
blue-dabadee: If that’s what you’re getting out of that 😊
cassplay: i hate u sm
blue-dabadee: sure ❤️
[01:13]
rice: ok I’m going to bed gn boys xx
cassplay: do u need me to tuck u in bby??
rice: Cassian.
blue-dabadee: Do we need to though?
rice: Azriel…
blue-dabadee: Yes, that’s my name, how very observant of you
rice: I will put you into one of my pocket dimensions and let you choke
blue-dabadee: Hot
blue-dabadee: Talk dirty to me more 💦💦💦
rice: 🙄🙄
cassplay: i can totes tuck u in tho rhysie
cassplay: maybe have a bit of a cuddle with u as well
rice: that was ONCE
blue-dabadee: You were crying
rice: I was touch starved. Emphasis on WAS
cassplay: u might still be tho??? cassian is always here if u need a cuddle ❤️❤️❤️
rice: I don’t need cuddles
blue-dabadee: 🤭 It never fails to surprise me how much bluster exists within such a wee Illyrian
cassplay: right?? he a pint-sized bat filled to the brim with bravado
rice: both of you, please
rice: PLEASE
rice: drop dead
rice: and good night
rice is Offline
cassplay: he totally needs a cuddle
blue-dabadee: 💯💯
[07:34]
cassplay: hey gm lads
cassplay: do snails have feelings
[07:52]
cassplay: guys cmon do snails have feelings?????
cassplay: because if they do ill cry
[08:00]
blue-dabadee: What did you do? 👀
blue-dabadee: And why would snails have feelings
blue-dabadee: They’re snails
cassplay: y do u automatically assume i did smth
blue-dabadee: Please read that again and think about it really well🙄🙄
cassplay: k
[08:04]
cassplay: ur a twat
blue-dabadee: Takes one to know one❤️
blue-dabadee: But to answer your question, no. I don’t think snails have feelings
cassplay: k thank the cauldron
cassplay: i stepped on a snail by accident :(((( i heard the crunch n then it was already too late
cassplay: if they had feelings i think there wuld be an uprising against the giant who crushed one of their kin to death
cassplay: id get murdered by snails :(((
blue-dabadee: Snails don’t have the brain to conspire against you, Cas😐
cassplay: U DONT KNOW THAT
blue-dabadee: I do.
cassplay: oh? did u ever do scientific research about snail brains? snail abilities? snabilities?
blue-dabadee: …No
cassplay: yea i thought so. go fuck urself
blue-dabadee: I can’t believe I ever decided to hang out with you
[08:15]
blue-dabadee: Wait fuck. I really don’t know whether snails have the brains to conspire against you.
blue-dabadee: I can’t communicate with them so how would I even know😔
cassplay: do u see now y im worried???
blue-dabadee: Yeah 😔😔
blue-dabadee: I’m sad now 😔😔
blue-dabadee: If I’d known snails would ever assassinate you I would’ve attempted to communicate with them ages ago
cassplay: AWWWW to save me?
blue-dabadee: Don’t be ridiculous
blue-dabadee: I would’ve drawn out a plan of action for them
cassplay: ….
cassplay: i shouldve left u to rot
blue-dabadee: Yeah, thought so👻
[08:37]
rice: oh, are we talking about snails?
rice: I used to make snail hotels, and then I’d get angry when they left after laying eggs
cassplay: snails lay eggs?????????
rice: it felt like child abandonment
rice: Cas… buddy.
rice: yes, snails lay eggs
cassplay: how was i supposed to know that
rice: like snakes
cassplay: was i supposed to grow up watching snails fuck
rice: snakes are just like really dry slugs
blue-dabadee: Imagine a pregnant snail
rice: and snailfucking is quite SFW actually so yes, I’d expect you to have grown up watching snails fuck
rice: Azriel, each day you bring me closer to death
blue-dabadee: Well, I’d hate to disappoint 👻
cassplay: sorry that im blissfully unaware of the logistics of snail sex and reproduction
cassplay: in hindsight it does make sense they dont give live birth
cassplay: considering theyre not mammals
rice: yeah they’re not platypuses
blue-dabadee: I’m sorry. Just imagine a snail breastfeeding
cassplay: do snails have nipples??
rice: no
rice: they do not
cassplay: wait no they wouldnt
cassplay: bc theyre
blue-dabadee: No, because they lay eggs
cassplay: yea
rice: snail tits…
cassplay: not mammals
blue-dabadee: Yeah
blue-dabadee: And also, NO😊
rice: guys
rice: GUYS
blue-dabadee: Don’t you dare
rice: imagine snail milk
cassplay: a snail breasting tittily to assassinate cassian ❤️
blue-dabadee: I will not imagine snail milk
rice: a national delicacy
cassplay: and also very sexy
blue-dabadee: This would be my last reason, had I not already been in the third circle of hell
cassplay: whats hell
blue-dabadee: Don’t worry about it 😘
cassplay: k 👍
rice: Dawn eats snails right?
rice: imagine Thesan drinking his daily morning glass of snail milk
blue-dabadee: NO.
rice: glug glug bitch
cassplay: u know what im wondering now? how u would even get enough snail milk to have a daily glass of it
cassplay: snails are so tiny
rice: Dawn has snail farms
rice: Thesan took me once
rice: it was interesting actually
cassplay: snail farms???? for what????
rice: to breed snails
cassplay: y would anyone breed snails
blue-dabadee: Because they eat snails in Dawn
cassplay: oohhhh yea
cassplay: yea yea ok
rice: what did you think snail farms were for?
cassplay: i had no idea, which is y i asked
rice: snail milk?
rice: pshj
rice: as if
cassplay: i was thinking maybe like
cassplay: the juice
blue-dabadee: The juice💦
rice: THE JUICE
cassplay: i forget what its called
rice: the snail juice, not to be confused with the snail milk
cassplay: guuuys
blue-dabadee: Hmm yes, I sure am thirsty for a glass of snail juice right now
cassplay: its snail juice
rice: slime?
cassplay: how am i supposed to know snail terms
rice: snail slime?
blue-dabadee: Mucus
rice: mucus!
cassplay: slime, mucus, thank u
cassplay: the biology lesson is appreciated
rice: np bud
[09:28]
rice: so did you really think snail mucus gets farmed in Dawn?
cassplay: man i just forgot snails are a food
blue-dabadee: You sure you’re feeling well?
cassplay: thanks for the concern but yea
cassplay: y
blue-dabadee: I just can’t believe you forgot about a food 🤔
cassplay: LISTEN
cassplay: i dont go to dawn much
rice: you don’t go to Summer much either but you haven’t forgotten mollusks
cassplay: ☹️ mollusks are good though
rice: they’re basically snails but from the sea
cassplay: ??? are they???
blue-dabadee: Rhys. There’s very much actual sea snails
rice: they’re related species
rice: octopi are also related to snails
blue-dabadee: Ah
blue-dabadee: Perhaps the snail’s cousin from Summer will attack you instead, Cas👻
blue-dabadee: I’d be able to find a way to communicate with an octopus
cassplay: ur so mean :((
rice: you’d lose to an octopus, yeah
cassplay: rhys im leaving u for thesan
rice: ok. don’t forget we’re having dinner next week
blue-dabadee: Is it too late to ask Nuala and Cerridwen for snails?
rice: probably not!
cassplay: i hate u two sm
[14:25]
blue-dabadee: Hey, do snails piss?
cassplay: wtf az
blue-dabadee: It’s not a pressing question. Just curiosity.
rice: I know that snails shit
blue-dabadee: Yeah
cassplay: yea i reckon theyd have to shit
rice: idk if they piss, though
cassplay: maybe they like
cassplay: secrete mucus instead of the usual waste
rice: or maybe they do it at the same time?
cassplay: we can bing it
rice: like birds?
cassplay: …
cassplay: birds do that?
blue-dabadee: Yeah
blue-dabadee: The white stuff is pee, I think
rice: it’s why it’s so liquid-y
cassplay: by the mother
cassplay: that’s never occurred to me
rice: Cas
rice: I love you
rice: but like
cassplay: yea i know ://
cassplay: i just dont know stuff sometimes
cassplay: love u too tho
rice: you know lots of things
blue-dabadee: Yes. Just not arguably useless information about snails and birds
blue-dabadee: I don’t think the knowledge that snails lay eggs will ever help you in combat👻
rice: you’re plenty smart!
blue-dabadee: Just not in terms of snial piss
cassplay: snial
rice: snial
blue-dabadee: I’m TRYING to be nice here.
cassplay: i know. ur doing great
rice: yeah 😊
blue-dabadee: Good.
blue-dabadee: I may not help the snails to assassinate you now, Cas❤️
cassplay: thats awfully sweet
rice: it’s
rice: it’s really not
cassplay: no one asked u
rice: nobody asks me anything :(
rice: people are always like “where’s lord Rhysand?” and never “how’s lord Rhysand?”
rice: always “how’s lord Rhysand so terribly attractive?” and never “maybe lord Rhysand would like to be pet on the head?”
rice: take take take.
rice: I’m so tired.
blue-dabadee: Ah, yes. Being revered nation-wide must be so hard for you.
rice: it is
rice: also my mate hates me 😔
cassplay: but we dont hate u
cassplay: much. usually.
rice: very courteous of you, Cas. thanks.
cassplay: i live to serve
blue-dabadee: Has it perhaps occurred to you that your mate hates you because you were being Rhysand and not Rhys?
rice: I’m pretty sure she’d hate me either way
blue-dabadee: Well damn, buddy. Can’t help you there then🙄
rice: ugh.
rice: her wedding’s this evening.
blue-dabadee: …Ah
cassplay: wanna get plastered?
rice: …yeah
rice: as long as I don’t end up in the middle of nowhere without my clothes
blue-dabadee: Honestly that’s not a guarantee, knowing you
cassplay: u bring the booze?
rice: to my own pity party?
cassplay: to ur pity party with ur best brothers in the whole wide world
rice: you’re my only brothers
blue-dabadee: You’re very special to us as well, Rhys❤️
rice: UGH
rice: fine.
rice: six?
cassplay: ill get u so drunk ull forget all about ur mate
blue-dabadee: Nah he won’t. The heartbreak will just hurt less
rice: great to know you’re still supportive, Az
blue-dabadee: That’s me, your majesty
rice: fuck you
rice: see you at six
rice: don’t be late
cassplay: id never
blue-dabadee: Not to drinking, no👻
cassplay: ill have u know im always fashionably on time!!
[ID: a tallship in a harbor, with a cloudy sky behind it and an old white mans face photoshopped in the sky. He has a white beard and is wearing a blue knit cap and looks solemn. There is alamy stock photo copyright overlays all over the photo and along the bottom.]
Choose a title or let your followers send you some in. Write a short drabble or a full story with that title. What is the first idea that comes to your mind?
+ if you take the same title and write completely different stories/different genres with it
2. Game:
Let your followers send you the titles and then create a short summary for what a potential story would be about.
3. Game:
Choose one title for every letter in the alphabet from these lists and fill them or let your followers pick characters for you to write a story for each title with. (Inspired by evilwriter37)
Here are all the titles|Here are more Writing Games
My writing will be slowing down as I mentioned on the note in my posting schedule but you're welcome to send me an ask for any of these. It just may take me a while to get whichever prompts I like out there.
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
2087
annaxmalina
