“Because what if you did let someone in? And what if they saw everything, and still walked away? Who could blame them—who would want to bother with that sort of mess?” He flinched. The most powerful High Lord in history flinched.”
Summary: After the kernels of light fail to bring Rhysand back to life, he somehow finds his way back to Feyre just to stay with her a little bit longer. It's not forever, but maybe it's enough.
A canon-divergent AU.
Notes:
For @violetasteracademic. 🩷
A special thank you to @rosanna-writer for beta-reading for me. ILY.
Multi-chapter, Fluff and Angst, Ghost AU
Word Count: 2381 Read on AO3
Part 1
Seconds turned to hours. Hours to days. Days to weeks. Weeks to seasons changed.
The Cauldron was restored, but Prythian was left altered.
Unbiased pain slithered from court to court, for many souls were lost to war. It did no favors, grasping faeries and humans alike.
The inhabitants of Velaris were no exception, but anyone with eyes that saw and a heart that felt knew the gravest hurt lay in one soul veiled in darkened grief in a marble townhouse along the pale cobblestone streets.
A small girl peeked through the slant opening of her bedroom door. She spied the silver curly locks of her mother’s that mirrored her own and ducked down. Her mother had told her to go to bed early. Her tutor was visiting in the morning, but she was a moon faerie, and it was a full moon outside that one ought to appreciate.
Placing an arched ear to the door, she listened to her mother’s soft murmuring in the corridor. “You didn't see her during the society’s meeting. It was obvious she was trying her best but was in pure heartbreak far worse than the first time she arrived in Velaris.”
Her father's grounding voice flitted next. “Hush, dear, don't fret. The High Lady is stronger than any of us.”
The small girl frowned, thinking the High Lady must miss her High Lord.
Then the sound of distancing footsteps followed.
With chances of being caught smaller, she tiptoed to the window across the room that looked out to a small lawn. The window creaked as it slid open, letting a chill autumn breeze swoop in. Tugging on the long sleeves of her nightdress, she climbed out her window. She found a patch of grass and lay down, staring up at the cloudless sky as the glow of moonlight shone on her pale face, her rounded black eyes beaming.
She raised her hands, playing with the shadows they made when a lone shooting star bolted through the night sky, so similar to the star-spirits on Starfall. Make a wish, her heart told her, quick.
With the innocent hope of a child, the small girl put her hands together. She thought of the High Lady and her High Lord again and made a wish beyond pure.
She didn't speak the words, but when her parents finally caught on to her sneakery and put her to bed, she smiled to sleep, hoping her wish came true.
Feyre Archeron shut the bedroom door and leaned back against it, the mask she wore like a second skin slipping from her face. A mask she had carefully worn since the day her family returned home to Velaris from the war with one less strong heartbeat in their midst. Crafted from the most excruciating pain she had ever endured, it feigned the strength that she did not feel, but what was she supposed to do with responsibility now piled on her shoulders? A responsibility she never thought she would ever have to carry on her own, but alongside her mate.
Without Rhysand, she was alone now. A High Lady without her High Lord.
Outside their bedroom walls, she held her own for the sake of her court, but right there in the bedroom they shared, she was a human girl turned fae who found her mate and lost him.
A handful of months was all the time they had together, and it wasn't enough. It never would be.
As fragile as she felt, her composure crumbled. Steady eyes shuddered closed, a lone tear trailing down to her cheek. She slid down to the carpeted floor. Her mouth wobbled as a silent sob shifted into an agonizing scream. Transported back in time, an image frozen in an endless loop played in her mind: Rhys sprawled on the rocky ground, bloody and battle-worn, and his chest not moving.
None but the Mother knew why Rhysand never found his way back to her.
But it was torture far worse than anything she endured Under the Mountain.
If someway, somehow she followed their bond home—to him, why couldn't he? A question that has haunted her since Rhys’s heart stopped beating. Even when the kernels of life, all the High Lords and herself gave, dimmed to nothing, she never let go. Never let go of the torn scraps of their mating bond even as she had to be pried off his body. Even as they put him to rest.
Maybe she should let go? Maybe that would be the reasonable thing to do, but she couldn't. If there was a chance, a small hope left, she couldn't give up on him. Not once did he give up on her. Why should she? She was holding onto the scraps of the bond within her, not letting any piece slip away, not ever, even if it broke her.
Stay with the High Lord. She had to believe in the Suriel’s last warning.
Not a lie, not a lie, not a lie, she repeatedly told herself.
The invisible claws within her were raw and bleeding, clutching on that bond, yet she stayed.
Stay, stay, stay. Her mantra. Stay with me.
Curling up into a ball, her heart pounded, finding no respite, no refuge. Her lungs tightened, finding no air, so she leaned her head back, gasping, trying to catch her breath. The coat and the dress she wore underneath it were no longer comfortable but suffocating.
Her power wanted to lash out; agonized darkness begged to set ruin. She refused. With what little control she had over her body, she leashed it. To let it sweep in this space Rhys and her shared in a hurricane of destruction would be unimaginable.
What kind of heartbreak would her eyes open to if she let it? The bed they made love in broken into pieces, the painstakingly beautiful clothes he chose for both of them ripped to shreds, the meticulously organized plans for their court no longer piled neatly on the desk but scattered in the air?
She wouldn't let it come to that.
She held her power back—leashed it with all her might, although her soul was in shreds. A drop of sanity in a drowning pool.
Some days she endured, resisting falling into a heaping mess, managing to sit down for a proper meal downstairs with her family, but not today.
She predicted the day to be simple, and it was in a way.
She didn't have to deal with Illyrian war-lords or the Court of Nightmares or even correspond with any of the High Lords. Nobody tested her or questioned her place and the decisions she made. She didn't even have to put anyone in line by show of power or playing by their fear. Nothing of the sort.
All that was on the agenda was to meet the representatives of the multiple societies created to assist the city at the public hall near the Palace of Thread and Jewels. She was glad to do it—to help. She listened to their propositions on rebuilding structures of the city and volunteered to aid those without shelter or without means.
She worked with their people, keeping herself busy. It was the type of work that she loved and wanted to keep doing. Time that’s worthwhile.
As the hours passed and formal discussions shifted to casual talk, a heavy weight pressed on her shoulders with every soothing hug and kind word directed toward her as if they could see the cracks in her soul and tried to mend it.
“Lady, we miss him so.”
“I've known him since he was a devilish little rascal of a child.”
“How handsome and kind High Lord Rhysand was.”
“It must be devastating for you.”
“How little time you had.”
“We are so sorry…”
“So sorry.”
“Sorry.”
“My High Lady, are you alright?”
Empathy turned to sympathy.
It was all too much.
All the pain she tucked close in her heart felt like shattering right there in the open, and she couldn't…
If she answered, she would break.
Eyes silverling and skin prickling, she managed enough composure to reach Mor with her daemati powers.
Mind to mind, Mor saw the truth of it. Understood without Feyre needing to utter a word. Mor winnowed in, made excuses, and whisked her away before she broke. Not that the people of Velaris would judge her for it if she did, when they themselves loved their High Lord and felt the loss of him. But, a shambling mess of her vulnerability was something she wasn't ready to expose to the public when she needed to be strong to lead them.
Feyre took a deep breath and leaned her head back forward, her eyes trying to settle focus on objects in the surroundings—the golden hour light trickling through the windows, the massive bed in the centerfold, the identical armoires standing tall side by side, and on and on until her breathing evened out.
At some point she managed to pull herself off the floor.
Nuala and Cerridwen eventually materialized, preparing a bath for her and a change for the evening. None of their features betrayed that they were well aware of her turmoil, but they moved in a fussy and gentle way that told her they did.
While Cerridwen drained the tub and Nuala helped her slip on a robe, Feyre told them, “Tell Mor and my sisters I won't be joining them for dinner tonight and not to worry.” Belatedly remembering Amren no longer scarfed down blood in the confines of her apartment, she added, “Amren, too.”
Too many times has a member of the Inner Circle barged in the room unannounced, concerned for her well-being when she skipped a meal or was absent in a meeting.
They understood the why and let her have her moments of solitude, but they would never let her sink so deep in her sorrow that she could not find her way back to the surface.
“Do you want us to bring you a plate?” Nuala asked.
Feyre shook her head. “I’ll have breakfast in the morning.”
When Feyre stepped back into the bedroom, a tray bearing a slice of chocolate cake and a glass of milk appeared on a nightstand with a note accompanying it. Elain insisted, my High Lady. Our apologies.
Of course, Elain would have.
A faint smile appeared on her lips, and she grabbed a fork, bringing a piece of cake into her mouth. It didn't heal her broken heart, but it was delicious, making her feel slightly better.
After the tray was cleared, she sent a mental thank you to her sister and the twins.
Nothing else was to be done except to crawl into bed, and she hated to—hated to without Rhys there with her.
Hated that only a faintness of his citrus and sea scent remained. Hated that one day her fae sense of smell wouldn't be able to detect it at all.
It only reminded her of the fact that she was home, but he wasn't and never would be again. The reality of it was utterly wrong; it left a bitter taste on her tongue. No rest or comfort to be found when her true home—her mate—was missing.
She could tackle the mountain of paperwork on the desk until exhaustion put her to sleep like most nights these days when painting wasn't an option, but her mind was a fog tonight, and making decisions in that state would be foolish. And so in reluctant defeat, she slipped under the covers.
She tossed and turned all night, her blanket and down quilt in disarray, when finally she turned to her side, facing the empty left side of the bed that was Rhys’s side.
Ray of moonlight glided through the glass windows, highlighting the white sheets and the lack of him on it.
She stretched her tattooed arm as if she could reach for him. Like many nights before, only succumbing to sleep when she pictured him right there next to her.
Pictured, wished, and hoped—
A startling chill snaking down her arm jolted Feyre awake. She tried to pull her arm under the warmth of her blanket, but there was a resisting force stopping her. She tried again, and the same force threw her blanket off her body entirely.
Groggy, she mumbled, “Cassian? If you're trying to get me to train with you pre-dawn, I'm going to set my water wolves on you.”
No response came, only the eerie chill on her skin once more.
The hair at the back of her neck stood and on a preemptive instinct, she placed a shield on herself, yet the chill still seeped through.
Though heavy-eyed, her eyes snapped open and rounded at the sight before her.
The darkness of night, not of her own making, swirled on Rhys's side of the bed, clusters of stars born and dying in its midst, stretching itself on the bed, but the core of it narrowing on her still extended arm.
She knew that power, recognized it as if it was her own heartbeat, and so with bated breath, she released a tendril of her soothing darkness to meet it, and she waited to see what it would do.
Slowly the darkness merged in on itself and took the shape of a form she hoped it would.
Rhysand was lying down beside her, holding her hand.
He looked at her with awe and confusion, the earlier chill shifting to a sweeping caress. “You're the most beautiful thing,” he whispered in a voice like satin. “Tell me your name.”
Tears streamed down her face. Feyre didn't think her heart could break any further until now, but she swallowed the hurt and studied him.
He was a wisp of shadow. His violet eyes and golden-brown skin dimmed to a dull hue, but even in death Rhysand was breathtaking. He was still him. He wore his immaculate black jacket and pants, his raven locks dropping to his eyes. All the while exuding power.
“I'm Feyre, Rhys.”
He smiled and lowered his gaze to her hand still in his, tracing the swirls and whorls of ink markings.
“Fay-ruh, my mate,” he said and vanished in the star-speckled dark of night.
Notes:
Thank you for reading! 🥰
If you're curious, the fic title is inspired by Forest Blakk's song with same name!
“Do you love him?” The question would play in her mind while holding her husband’s hand.
“Do you love him?” It would plague her thoughts while weakly smiling at him when he “gifted” her yet another piece of land she had no use for.
“Do you love him?” She would ask herself while making love to him, mumbling his name in the throes of passion.
“Do you love him?” When she would catch him picking up their baby, smiling down at him.
“Do you love him?” When crimes against females in the Hewn City escalated to inconceivable heights, and she begged him to let her try to help until he finally gave in.
“Do you love him?” When he yet again disrespected her sisters, and she had to try to talk some sense into him.
“Do you love him?” When she caught herself getting swayed by his words again.
Do you love him?
________________
“I went to Spring” She blurted out in the middle of their quiet dinner.
Rhys’ temper was usually controlled and calculated. Usually.
He dropped the silver fork onto the plate and the sound echoed through the empty halls of their home, violently breaking the sepulchral silence of their too big of a mansion. Even bigger and lonelier now that Elain had left.
His violet eyes studied her, other than the small tick on his perfect eyebrows, his face gave nothing away.
He picked up his glass of wine and looked at it before taking a sip. Feyre had decided to tell him, not because she felt guilty, even though she did, but because she wanted things to be better. She was tired of living a half life, she was tired of hearing the same old thing.
“All I do is for you and our son”
“I already told you why I made the decisions I made, do you think I’m a monster? Is that it?”
“What else do I have to give so that you finally see all I do is because I love you?”
She realized with no little amount of dread, that if she wanted him to finally speak frankly to her, then she would also have to do that. She would tell him, show him through her mind if she had to, but for the love of all that was right, she needed him to talk to her like she was a person, like he actually respected her.
She placed her fork and knife on the table, raised her napkin to her mouth, then took her glass of wine, one of the best wines in the Night Court, and drank. All the while Rhys’ eyes were fixed on her, no words coming from him still.
“Well?” He finally asked. “What could you possibly have to do in the Spring Court, may I ask?”
“I went to see Tamlin” She said as a matter of fact.
Rhys gave a short laugh, his eyes roving her face like a cat fixed on its prey. “Is this a pattern for you, Feyre darling? Did my time with you run out so you need to go back to the spare? Send me a raven when his time is up again so I can pick you up” He threw the napkin he had on his lap and stood up from the table, death and shadows emanating from him, engulfing him as he began to leave.
“I did not go there for that” She stood as well. He swirled and began striding towards her.
“Oh really?”
“Yes. I went there because I needed answers. Answers you were not giving me” She stood tall as he reached her, cold darkness engulfing her, daring her to succumb to him. She refused.
“How cute. Did you get your blessed answers from the Spring imbecile? Did he satisfy you, my love?” His eyes were vicious, almost feral. She had seen Rhys mad before, but never like this.
“He was honest with me” She said, not flinching at his dark energy.
“Oh?” He cocked his head, eyes digging into hers. “Is that a way of suggesting I haven’t been?” Already she felt the strain of trying to read him, the mental labour of having to analyze everything he said, to be on the lookout for hidden ways he could be trying to sway her.
“You know you haven’t Rhys” She fisted her hands, nails digging into the pads of her palm painfully. “Stop treating me like I’m stupid” She felt her jaw tremble slightly.
“When have I treated you like that, Feyre?” He snapped. “When I made you High Lady?” A sneer appeared on his face. “When I trusted you with the wellbeing of my court?”
“You’re doing it again!” She raged. “Stop shoving that on my face. I did not ask to be High Lady! I did not ask for any of this!”
“Oh but you did. You begged me to save you, you were so grateful when I did, you thrived in your power. Now you resent me for giving you what you asked for?”
“You- you made me want these things” She said more weakly. She had thought about this, why did it sound stupid coming out of her mouth now?
“I did no such thing” He lowered his voice. “You’re not stupid, Feyre. You know I did no such thing” He ran his hands through his short hair.
“Why did you go to him?” He looked at her now, devastation in his eyes. She felt the unstoppable urge to reassure him, to promise him it wasn’t what he thought it was. Something in her gut stopped her.
“I just needed to hear him out” She conceded.
“Why?” He asked again. “Is this life not enough for you?” He craddled her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. She saw her mate, the sadness and despair in his eyes, but somehow something was missing. “Am I not enough? Are we not enough?” He looked up for a second, towards the baby sleeping in his room.
“Why didn’t you give me the choice, Rhys?” She felt the tears forming around her eyes.
“I always gave you-“
“You didn’t tell me I would die” She choked.
He let go of her and turned to pinch the bridge of his nose. “This again, Feyre. We already discussed this to exhaustion”
“You never told me the truth” She was full on crying, arms around herself, shaking.
“What truth? What truth do you want? Huh?” He turned to her again. “Do you think I wanted you dead?”
“You wanted the child more than anything” She said. “I could have shifted but you didn’t give me the choice!”
“If you are not remembering correctly, I would have died with you! How would I want that?”
“It isn’t beyond you to put yourself at risk over your own objectives” She snapped. Something in his eyes shifted.
“Is that what you think of me?” He frowned, looking at her like she was a monster he had never noticed before. “Is that why you ran away to Spring in the middle of the night the first chance you had?”
His eyes were set on her, knowing.
That was it, in his eyes she had seen his sadness, his anger, his despair. Only one thing had been missing—surprise, shock. Looking at him then, the realization hit her like a slap in the face.
“You knew” She said softly, almost to herself. There was a flicker in his star flecked eyes. “You knew” she repeated, more strongly.
And just like that, Rhys’ whole expression changed in a second, a cold gaze falling on its place, one she had only seen directed at members of the Court of Nightmares, the one he had called his mask. She felt a chill run up her spine.
“I did” He admitted.
“H-how?” She stuttered.
“Azriel followed you that night, to his cottage” He glanced at his arm, picking at a speck of dust on his otherwise impeccable suit. “I had him watch you, since you weren’t trusting me inside your mind anymore”
She was so shocked she couldn’t even cry anymore. She only stared at him, agape.
He sighed. “You wanted me to speak frankly, didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t you do anything?” She found herself asking.
“There was nothing to be done, my darling” He frowned his brows slightly. “All you needed was a bit more work to distract you from your escapades, since our own child wouldn’t do it”
Another blow to her world. “The Hewn City crimes” She snapped her eyes back towards him in disgust.
“Now before you jump to conclusions, no, I didn’t somehow orchestrate the crimes just for my lovely wife to have something to fixate on instead of galavanting in an enemy court with her ex” He looked down his nose at her. He smiled at her, a demonic smile. “The crimes are a natural occurrence I just made you aware of them”
She searched his face, but could not find the male she thought she loved anywhere.
“Who are you?” She croaked.
“I’m your mate, I’m your equal”
“We are nothing alike” Her fists trembled.
“Oh, but we are, Feyre darling” He placed his finger on her chin and lifted her face. “Go, run to your ruined golden prince, tell him all the oh-so-awful things your evil mate has ever done to you, then come back to me and keep on enjoying the grand life I gave you”
“I will leave you” Her voice cracked.
“Be my guest” He said, a cold energy emanated from him, blasting the door of the mansion open. Her breath trembled.
He stared at her, waiting. Waiting for something they both knew would not come.
“You won’t” He said so softly, so confidently. “Stop deluding yourself thinking you had no part in the consequences of your life. You chose me” He said sharply, his cold breath hitting her face harshly. “You knew who I was, you always knew. You love me. I gave you everything” His fingers dug onto her chin, violet eyes still pinned on hers, as if trying to get inside her mind and control her thoughts. She wondered now if he had ever dared to do that.
With a sickening, oily feeling, she realized he was right. He had given her everything, while destroying everything she had been, reducing her to this adherence to his life, his world.
“Do you love me?” She asked him at last, silent tears streaming down her face.
His face was impassive for a moment, staring at her. He breathed a soft laugh through his nose.
“Did you ask him the same question?” He let go of her face.
“Answer me”
“He probably said he does, didn’t he?” He laughed humorlessly. “Of course that pathetic fuck would still be crawling for you, even after you dragged him through the mud”
“Answer the fucking question Rhys!” She felt the fire inside of her roar, the flames on the candles and chimneys lifting as she shouted at him.
“Of course I love you, is it not fucking obvious, Feyre?” He roared back. “You wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t!”
The room was quiet except for their raging breaths. Rhysand had finally showed her what he truly was, she had wanted him to, so why did she feel even more trapped and lonely than before?
“You’re right I won’t leave you” She swiped her wet cheeks, in an attempt to regain the last scraps of dignity she had left. “I won’t ever leave you” She slumped her shoulders.
“No, you won’t” He said, sounding defeated as well.
She left him standing there that night, feeling how her whole world crumbled beneath her feet. She spent the next weeks crying herself to sleep, until she didn’t have any more crying inside of her. She let him hold her still, even if part of her could not stand it, she needed the comfort.
So she stayed, and she faced her reality, and she accepted it. Accepted him and his cruel love. He was right, they were mates, they were equal, even if she didn’t feel it most of the time. It was all she had left, even if a small part of her still wanted her to fight, to riot. She focused on the good.
On the feel of his hand when she held it.
On the heat of his touch when he pleasured her.
On the work that he had allowed her to lose herself in.
On the sound of her baby’s laugh when he held him.
What if Fedra and Rhys lost the baby and Nyx did not exist? I want the angstttt
(Also I know this is a sensitive topic, you don’t have to even consider it if it makes you uncomfortable)
Hey there! Thanks for being my first fic request - even if it is a dark one.
To be honest, I've never written angst before so this is new for me and may be very.... not great... but I tried my best at dipping my toes in. I did keep it on the shorter side just because I am learning how to best write angst/despair so feel free to give notes.
That being said, here is my interpretation of if Feyre and Rhys lost their baby and little Nyx hadn't become part of their lives.
Please keep in mind that everyone processes grief differently and this topic is incredibly heavy. Take what you can while taking care of yourself. Be kind and gentle with your mind and body.
Content Warning: Miscarriage/loss of a child
For more fanfics and writings check out my fic blog @a-court-of-fics-and-errors
Feyre sat in the armchair of the sitting room, her chin resting on her knees, curled to her chest. She leaned her head against the back of the chair, her gaze fixed on two raindrops racing down the window. The world outside was still cold as March melted into April, the days blurring together in a relentless, gray march forward. She felt as if time had ceased to hold any meaning.
She watched the smaller raindrop hit a long slide, racing quickly downward. The slightly larger raindrop followed, colliding with the smaller one, absorbing it, and continuing its path until it pooled on the windowsill.
The sitting room was dark, shadows creeping in from every corner, with only the cold, gray light from outside seeping in. Feyre closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in and out, allowing the world to close in around her.
Rhys stood in the entryway to the room, his forearm propped against the doorway as he looked at his mate. She was without color, the soft pinks of her cheeks reduced to a muted gray, her eyes sunken and faded, and her hair lay loosely around her shoulders. Nuala and Cerridwen had bathed her a day or so ago after she’d been sitting in the chair, unmoving. They told him she hadn’t spoken during her bath, only stared ahead, lost in her own mind. He had no doubt she knew he was standing there, but she lacked the strength to turn and look at him.
Rhysand considered breaking the silence, walking in, sitting down, and holding her. But instead, he turned and walked back down the hallway. That's how it seemed they were now, ghosts of each other, passing in the halls and never quite touching.
Rhys turned into his office, papers strewn about everywhere, untidied and listless. He sighed to himself and began gathering papers from the floor, snatching and balling them up, throwing them into the basket. After the first few, the balling and throwing became more intense. He started ripping pages, then stacks of pages, until he was breathing heavily, throwing them across the room, tearing books off shelves in rage, and ripping their spines. He continued until almost every book had been pulled from the shelves, standing in the middle of the room, panting, holding back a sob as he pressed his mouth and chin into his palm.
Azriel cleared his throat, and Rhys whipped around, suddenly aware of his outburst.
Rhys looked around the room and then back to Azriel, who looked nowhere but at him. “Now not a good time?” Azriel finally asked.
Rhys coughed, running his hand through his hair. “No, no, it’s-” he started, “it’s fine.” A pause. “Now is fine.”
Azriel gazed around the room. “You’re sure?”
Rhys moved towards him. “Yes, yes, please, come in.”
Rhys tossed a ripped book off the sitting chair, motioning for Azriel to sit down, which he did. Rhys took his usual spot in the chair across from him, sitting down and leaning forward, his forearms on his knees. Azriel just stared at him. Rhys pulled his lips into his teeth, rubbing his hands together, fidgeting as he waited for his brother to break the silence.
“How are you doing?” Azriel finally asked.
Rhys sniffled slightly before leaning back, running his hands up and down the lengths of his thighs. “I’m fine.”
Azriel looked at him as Rhys continued to fidget. “Are you?”
Rhys sniffled again, his left leg bouncing rapidly as he pressed his hands into his thighs, looking up towards the window where the rain ran down in droves, considering his answer.
Without words, Rhys pulled his lips into his teeth again, looking towards the floor and shaking his head no. Azriel looked at him knowingly. “I know.”
Rhys continued to shake his leg, feeling his eyes burn as tears filled them. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand as he tilted his head to the sky, willing the tears back in and clearing his throat to avoid the sob. “Rhys-” Azriel started, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” Azriel leaned forward, bracing himself on his thighs.
Rhysand didn’t respond, still looking towards the sky, pressing his eyes shut as he shook his head back and forth and wiped his eyes.
Azriel continued, “None of us can,” a silent pause, “Losing a child, I-” he paused again, searching Rhys’s face for a response as he continued to bounce his leg and squeeze his eyes shut, “losing a child has to be the biggest heartbreak anyone can feel.”
Rhys, unable to speak, finally opened his eyes to Azriel, who looked at him with such sadness that it caught him off guard. Rhysand sniffled again, trying to find anything to say back. He finally got out, “I just don’t know what to do.”
Another pause, as the world shifted around them and time seemed to stop. “I don’t-” Rhys continued, “I can’t fix this.” He shook his head, casting his eyes to the floor. “I can’t fix this for anyone. I can’t fix it for her. I can’t-” He started to spiral, a sob stopping him as he let his head fall into his hands.
Azriel remained seated across from him, watching the High Lord sob and sob until his cries were merely silent. How could he respond to this? After months of waiting, expecting, and anticipating, of daydreaming and wishing, there had been no babe. Instead, there was a lifeless body, pulled from Feyre too early, and Nesta arriving just slightly too late, only being able to bring back one. No one blamed Nesta. If Feyre had died, Rhysand would have died too. But it seemed as though it was harder to live now than to die then, and Nesta felt responsibility for that, regardless of how much the rest of them had reassured her she had made the right decision.
“There’s nothing to fix,” Azriel finally said.
Rhysand shouted, “There’s everything to fix!” He stared up at his brother, his eyes bloodshot, hands out, almost pleading. “There’s- there’s so many moments I should have done something, said something. I just- it’s my fault it’s like this. I should have said something.”
Azriel never broke eye contact with Rhys as he wailed out the words of blame. “Rhys, you can’t do this to yourself.”
“What else can I do, Azriel? Tell me. What else can I do for her?” Rhysand pointed towards the sitting room where Feyre still sat, hearing the destruction in the office but not having the energy to move and check.
Azriel looked towards the room. “She is grieving. She needs time,” he reassured him.
“She can never forgive me. She will never forgive me,” Rhysand stammered out, dropping his head to his hands once more. “I failed her. I failed both of them.”
Azriel looked at his brother, a father whose child was stolen from him, and would never get to see the world. Rhysand, who had spent every waking moment for the last nine months thinking about this unborn babe, his hands constantly searching for his mate's pregnant stomach, smiling at kicks and praying to whoever was listening at night that both the babe and Feyre be safe. But it seemed the gods had left them.
Rhysand’s frantic eyes looked to his brother for any form of reassurance and Azriel stared back, unsure of what to say.
Suddenly Rhys stood, pushing his palms into his eyes as he sniffled through another sob, releasing a deep exhale. “Azriel,” He finally said, looking down towards him, “How do I move forward? How do I-” he paused, “How do I live like this when it feels like my body is burning alive, and like-” a sob, “like my heart was ripped out of my chest.” He looked towards the sitting room, “I can feel her dying in there, every day. I feel her, her whole body is screaming and tearing itself apart, her mind, it’s-” he brought his hands up, shaking them around his head, “it’s so loud and it’s so hateful, and she blames herself. She’s constantly screaming and she’s shattering and I can’t do anything about it.” He stared at his brother, who remained in the chair. “She hasn’t spoken, she hasn’t said anything since that day and yet inside she’s just screaming.” Rhys pulled back another sob.
“Have you talked to her?” Azriel finally asked.
Rhys looked at him, intensely, “What would I say?” he shook his hands and head in almost disbelief, “What would I say to her?”
Azriel waited, looking around the room before finding his brother's face again, “Anything.”
Rhys shook his head, stifling out another sob and walking to the window to stare out at the rain. From behind him Azriel said, “The world is very bleak for her. And she’s lost, Rhys. And you might not be able to tell her the way back, but you can at least find her in the woods.”
A few tears escaped Rhys’s eyes, sliding down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away. Azriel stood, walking towards Rhysand who didn’t turn until Azriel was next to him. Without saying a word, Azriel pulled Rhys into a tight embrace, rubbing his hand up and down his back as his brother sank into him,
letting heavy sobs escape his lips as he choked out wail after wail. Azriel held him, feeling his body rise and fall as he heaved out the incredible sadness kept in the deepest recesses of his body. Azriel held him until Rhys had found exhaustion and had lost all of the tears he could muster. Azriel held him.
Rhys pressed his forehead into Azriel’s shoulder as Azriel pressed a kiss into the side of his head. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”
What felt like hours passed in a few minutes before Rhys finally pulled out of the embrace. Azriel took his brother's face in his hands, looking him deeply in his eyes before simply saying, “You have to find her.” Rhys nodded, his eyes shutting as Azriel dropped his hands to his sides, turning and silently leaving.
When Rhys opened them, he was alone in the room, surrounded by the destruction. He wiped his face clean, stifling another few sobs before exiting the office and making his way down towards the sitting room where Feyre sat in the same position he had left her. Mustering up courage, he stepped through the entryway, walking up to her and dropping to his knees in front of her. He reached out to touch her, to take her hand, and when he did she did not grip back.
He ran a gentle thumb down the length of her now bony hand. “I don’t know what to say. And I don’t know what to do.” Rhys finally started after silently searching for the words. Feyre didn’t turn to him, her eyes slowly blinking shut and back open as she continued to watch the rain outside. “I have so many things I wish I could do- I have-” he paused, trying to pull back the tears again, “I have so many things I want to do for you. To help you.” He shook his head, squeezing her hand, “But I can’t. I can’t fix this my darling.” He looked at her, as tears filled her eyes, but she still did not face him. “If I could take away this pain for you I would. If I could do anything, if I could meet with the Mother herself I would fall to my knees and beg her to bring him back to us. I would trade my soul to her just to make this different than it is now.” A single tear fell down Feyre’s cheek as he continued, “I would burn the world for you, my darling, I would-” He paused. “I can feel how you’re breaking, and I know that it hurts. I know that this is unbearable, and I don’t know what to do- I just- I don’t know what to do.” He shook his head, pressing his lips to her hand while he squeezed his eyes shut, tears flowing down them. “I should have done so many things, I should have said something, I should have-” He stopped, “I can’t take it back. I can’t fix it. But my darling, if I could, I would do anything just to bring him back to us. Just to have him here, even for a second.” He let out a sob, which was followed by another and another until he completely let go, “I’m so sorry,” he let out between cries, “I want him back.” Rhys let himself fall back as he pulled his legs to his chest, sobbing into his own hands. Feyre’s hand fell to the chair as tears fell in heavy succession from her own eyes.
“I wish he was here too.” Feyre finally said, her voice cracked and broken. “I want my little baby boy.” And with that she had finally broken. Her body heaved in sobs as she brought her hands to her face. Rhys, eyes wide at her response, finally realized what had happened and rushed to her side, pulling her close as he knelt by her. Her sobs mixing with his as he held her. She continued to repeat, “I want my baby back.”
Rhys pressed his face to her hair as she curled into his chest. “I know, Feyre Darling,” he cried into her quietly, “I want him back too.”
A/N: Hope you enjoy this, everything positive is always appreciated!
Word Count: 1,493
AO3 Link
Masterlist
Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTERS DEATH
Tired.
Everyone was tired.
You could tell by Cassian and Azriel’s posture, the slack of light in Mor and Rhys’ eyes, by her own lack of magic and energy.
It had been a long two years with division in the inner circle between a Spymaster and a High Lord, a General and a High Lady, a Second and a Third, and finally between the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court.
There had also been division within Prynthian between Day and Night, Winter and Summer, Autumn and Spring, and between Dawn and the newly formed and discovered Dusk court.
The sky was dark with despair or weather, no one really knew, but it reflected the despair among the soldiers across the fields fighting a civil war they had no part of besides relaying the messages of their lords.
The rain started pouring from the dark and cloudy sky, the cold drops were the first thing she felt besides the weight on her shoulders and the despair of her kids dying in the war that never should have started.
The broken family that once called themselves an inner circle was standing in a circle, all analyzing each other, all analyzing themselves in front of the people they once called family, none had talked civilly to each other since before the war started, all divided on who they should support and whether or not to fight in battles that weren’t their own.
Everyone thought words were impossible until Cassian’s hoarse voice spoke first, with tears beginning to form in his eyes, “What do we do now?” Everyone’s bleak and broken eyes all looked to him, looking at him for leadership. “There is nothing left, for anybody, there are broken bodies lining the streets and roads of every town, city, and countryside-”
“Cassian, just stop.” Her own voice surprised her with how strong it sounded, how unbroken, now matter how hoarse with the screaming over her children’s bodies.
She saw his shoulders cave back in, the confidence he had slowly mustered going back down again. Then she saw Rhys start to say something, and his was the last voice she wanted to hear. “No, just no, Rhys.”
She started slowly walking through the circle, back to her tent, or what was left of it. She barely felt the wounds that she knew she had, based on the tingling feeling in her calf and head. She heard other steps behind her, other people moving around and shuffling, but she still couldn’t bring herself to care. Her loves, her entire heart, had been shredded today.
“Mom”
The voice made her stop in her tracks, she didn’t dare look behind her.
“Mommy”
The tears started making their way down her face.
“Mom, please”
The desperation in the voice, the voice of her eldest son, had never sounded so hopeless in his 50 years of life.
Feyre wanted to turn around, so desperately she wanted to turn around, but she knew this was all a trick, if she turned around, if she saw her son, she would die in this nightmare.
But then the louder voices started, “Feyre, Feyre!” She couldn’t recognize the voice, but knew it was familiar, it sounded like home, or whatever home should sound like.
Another voice started yelling, “Mom, MOM!” All the voices started overlapping in her head, like a buzzing fly never getting out of your face. “STOP!” The silence was for one second, maybe two, before the voices started screaming again, more frantically than the last time.
She felt a blast of cold cover her, her world no longer the brazen battlefield with a broken family as the only survivors, but darkness surrounded her, there was no light, but she was not alone, someone stood across from her, someone with piercing blue eyes, so blue they looked violet, a strong jaw, and lean, but with muscle. She knew this person, knew they shared something important with how he looked at her, but she couldn't remember what.
“Feyre”
The man finally talked, the desperation in his voice clear, “Come home, wake up”
“Okay, I’m tired”
“We know you’re tired, just take my hand and I’ll bring you home.”
Feyre moved to take his hand, but all of a sudden there was a clear wall dividing them, the stranger’s features morphing into someone else, someone who looked kind of like her, but also looked like the stranger who had disappeared.
“Mom”
“I know you.” Feyre was bewildered at what was happening, she knew the people were real, important people in her life, but the landscape, where they were, was not.
“Where are we?”
“I don’t know where we’re at, but I do know you have to get us out of here, you have to wake up.” The man, boy, stranger, the person was holding out his hand as the man before him did, but this time when she went to take his hand, the clear wall didn’t form, the path clear as their hands touched each other.
A spark of magic happened, her once cold body now burning up, burning the clothes off her body.
But now she could tell she was lying in a bed, the sheets and blankets strewn about across her body, and the voices had started again.
“Feyre!”
“Mom!”
“Feyre!”
“Mom!”
The voices went back and forth, rising in panic with every breath.
A hand was touching her shoulder, “Feyre, we need you to wake up, please wake up and look me in the eyes.”
She started to try to say something, but as soon as she did the pain was unbearable, the heat making her convulse, but her muscles were too frozen to do anything. Warm hands moved her on her side, supporting her head as she started to heave over the edge. Her eyes were still closed, still unsure of where she was at and who was touching her.
*******
The only thing Rhys felt was his mate’s despair through the bond as he helped her turn over on the bed, clear she couldn’t do it herself. She was moaning, clearly in pain, her skin was too hot, burning the clothes off of her, burning the bed beneath her, but she didn’t seem able to move, the one time she tried, her muscles started seizing, as if something had frozen them into place.
“Feyre! Please wake up, open your eyes.” The tears had started running down his face a while ago, probably as soon as his children had walked into his room. Deciding that her skin was too hot, her pale and fair skin too flushed, he carried to the bath where there was already cool water waiting for her.
The water sizzled as soon as he put Feyre fully in the water, a marker to how hot her skin truly was, and looking down at his own hands he saw blisters on blisters on where they had made contact with Feyre’s hot skin.
The cold water seemed to wake her up, the difference in temperature doing the trick to wake her from her nightmares.
It was clear she was trying to speak but everytime she opened her mouth, she heaved over the lip of the bath onto the tile below.
“Darling, just stay still, okay?”
His Feyre, his mate, could barely respond with a moan, her eyes still not opening, her fair skin still flushed with heat. He couldn’t even comfort her with how hot her skin was still burning.
“Has she woken up yet?” A voice he had watched and heard grow up now stood in the doorway of the bathroom, nervous and anxious to see his mom so helpless, overtaken by her own mind or some sickness.
“Not yet, but can you send someone to go get Madja, after that I want you back in here.” His voice was stronger than it had been, knowing his son needed some strength to lean on.
His son was back in less than five minutes, but in those five minutes, Feyre’s condition had gone from bad to worse, and Rhys felt the mating bond slipping from his soul. “No no no no no no no, Feyre, come back! Fight whatever this is!” With the slipping of his mating bond he also felt the bargain Feyre and him had made after the war with Hybern, to never leave each other, to not live while the other died, start to burn into his skin.
With what little strength he had left, all of it dying with Feyre, he brought his hand to his son’s and told him,”Nyx, you are your mother and I’s heart, you will be High Lord after this night and you will do a wonderful job at it, you will have the council of your uncles and aunts, and other High Lords. We love you.” The last of Rhys' strength died in his last three words, as he and his mate fell into the afterworld together.
Wanted to write angst. Thanks to @timesconvert for pushing me to write this
Words: 1.130
TW: death, mourning, suicidal thoughts
Feyre's life took a turn and she deals with the consequences
Feyre watched the water dripping from her hand, the sound of the splatter in the ceramic bowl slicing through the quiet of the room. She swallowed, her heartbeat speeding up as the cool water on her skin became warm and sticks, the clear liquid turning a dark red.
The roaring in her ear started again, as it always did, and the memories of the dead body in her arms came rushing back. Screaming, she was screaming. Help, help, help–
Her breathing became shallow as she turned the faucet on again, water washing away the phantom blood of her hands as she furiously scrubbed them, so hard that her skin became raw. Two, she thought as she turned the faucet off and waited a few seconds, drawing in a deep breath. One more time.
Again, she turned on the faucet and washed her hands. Three times. These days, Feyre did a lot of things in threes. Three bites, three sips, three knocks, three clicks of her pen. Three times washing her hands.
She stopped the water, dried her hands and left the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied something glinting–
A blade. That blade. She jumped forward but two strong hands held her down to make her watch. She struggled, struggled so hard to get free. The blade moved and blood, so much blood–
It was just the reflection of the mirror.
Numb, she was so thoroughly numb that she barely noticed how she put on her shoes and left, her heart hammering in her chest. She didn't notice the stares of the people and she did not register the attention of a familiar blonde, calling out her name. She walked without a purpose, without a destination. Step after step, her breathing growing heavy, a second set of steps an echo behind her.
She didn't think, just letting her legs carry her until she found herself at the familiar, black iron gates.
Hesitation stopped her, for only a moment, before she opened the gate and walked in. The familiar gravel path, past rows and rows of gravestones, past mourning families. Her steps became heavier the closer she came, then she reached it. The gravestone of her husband's father, his mother, his sister. Her husband's gravestone.
Shaking, her legs gave up right under her. The pebbles of the gravel path digging into her knees but she didn't care. She didn't care about that pain because another pain, so much worse, threatened to crack her open.
Heavy breathing turned into sobs, her whole body shaking with them. Vision blurring, she couldn't even see the gravestone through the tears. Feyre's finger rested on the cool stone of Rhys's grave.
The second set of steps stopped behind Feyre. A hand touched her shoulder but she shook it off.
They held her down while she watched him die, she watched him die, she watched him die–
The person knelt down beside her, "Feyre," Mor said gently, "It's me, Mor. It's just me."
Warm hands rested on Feyre's face, wiping her tears away. Feyre blinked furiously, making sense of Mor's face, who smiled sadly, her own tears running down her cheeks. Feyre basically threw herself in Mor's arms as a new wave of tears overcame her.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry, It's my fault. I shouldn't–It's my fault." shaking even harder now.
Mor stroked her hand down Feyre's hair, her back. "It's not–"
"It is." Feyre interrupted, her grief seeming unbearable. She was cracking, irrevocably and irreparable breaking, piece by piece. "It should have been me." It should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been me.
"No," Mor said sternly, moving away to take Feyre's face in her hands. Her voice was cracking as she spoke, "It's not your fault, Feyre. It will never be your fault, you couldn't have changed it."
"I could–"
"No." Mor said, taking a deep breath. "Feyre…you're blaming yourself but you know how Rhys is. He did it to protect you, to protect us all. He sacrificed himself for our future and he would have done it again. You couldn't have talked him out of it, no one could have."
"I can't–" You're here, you survived. Feyre shook her head, she didn't want to be here. Not without Rhys, she didn't want to be here if he wasn't. It didn't make sense. "There's nothing," she admitted, resting her hand over her heart. "My future was with Rhys, he was always there. There isn't a future without him, there's only darkness. All," her breath hitched, "All consuming darkness where once this bright future was. I can't do it. He should be here, he can't be– he can't be…dead. I can't–we can't–"
Mor gripped Feyre's hand, "We can, Feyre. It's going to be a long path and the grief will never be gone but…we will learn how to deal with it. I will be at your side, Cassian will be, so will be Az and even Amren. We will heal, together, and we will not leave each other's sides." Mor wiped away her tears with her free hand. "Rhys would want that."
Feyre knew she was right but it hurt. Once the darkness was something she didn't fear with Rhys at her side, now there was always a light burning because she couldn't bear it. Silence was always comfortable until Rhys was gone and it became heavy. The empty bedside was a painful reminder of the hole that lived inside her, that would never be gone. The house was suddenly so big without Rhys's presence, every step echoed inside her head. Rhys's chair was empty, his belongings untouched. Feyre kept away from the dining table because she still subconsciously set a plate for him. His scent began to fade, Feyre clawing at the memory of it, wanting to bury it down inside her and never forget her. Everything was the same and everything was different.
She doubted that she could ever learn to deal with the pain but nonetheless, she tightened her grip on Mor's hand.
They stayed there for long, unmoving, until the sun began to set.
Feyre would have been content with letting the darkness swallow her whole, to not see the next sunrise, but Mor took her hand and led her from the graveyard. She didn't let go of Feyre, as though she could slip away any moment. Feyre supposed that was very much a possibility.
“Grief, I've learned, is really just love. It's all the love you want to give, but cannot. All of that unspent love gathers in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in the hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”
The smutty chapter is finally here! Although I will temper your expectations here and note that it's a lot less smutty from Rhysand's perspective (and a lot more angsty). I hope you enjoy nonetheless my darlings! <3
Rhysand POV from Chapter 20 of A Court of Faded Dreams.
Read on AO3 ⟡ Masterlist
TW: Mentions of Rhysand’s SA
Rhys could hardly catch his breath in the wake of Feyre’s second trial.
He’d been mostly exonerated from Amarantha’s suspicions, but the blame had merely shifted shoulders. She couldn’t admit to having been outsmarted—twice—by a human, so if Rhysand wasn’t fucking Amarantha, then he was interrogating her Court under her watchful eye. It was hardly enough to scrub away the blood every night, from the interrogations and couplings alike. Rhys would often sit and watch the bloodied water coil down the drain, a mix of both his own and his victim’s, and feel that idle tug of Feyre’s consciousness while he wondered which she would resent him more to bear witness to.
And he could often feel her tug on that bond to offer her reassurance. I love you, and I’m so proud of you, she would say, sometimes right when he was in the middle of the worst of his misdeeds, sometimes when he was buried inside another female. The affirmations meant everything to him, but sometimes it was all he could do to keep from breaking down when they arrived, typically when he felt he deserved them the least. It was why she sent them, Rhys knew, yet she was oblivious to how close they were to his undoing.
Worse yet was his nightly guilty reprieve where Feyre danced in his lap. Torturous in its own right, but only for how much he enjoyed it and how desperate he was to conceal that fact. All his affection for his mate had to be contained. He had to restrain himself from any sort of touch or expression that could be confused with tenderness, even when all he wanted to do was lean forward and trace his mouth delicately along her spine.
Feyre did nothing to quell his longing. Instead, she’d resolved herself to cracking his self control, which he might have found a very fun game if the consequence for losing wasn’t Feyre’s life. Yet the Court viewed her as his own personal plaything, so he continued to flirt and goad, while internally he tried frantically to separate his own desire from his mask. The line he walked was as thin as the gossamer that covered his mate’s breasts, tempting him with a building suasion each night.
Still, to what he knew was Feyre’s frustration, he kept his leash tight and chaste.
One evening she fell into his lap with a heavy sight of defeat, an adorable show of drama that he couldn’t help teasing her for.
Given up on trying to seduce me, Feyre darling?
More satisfaction shone through in his voice than he’d intended. He found it bewildering enough that she didn’t find him repulsive for all he was, all he’s done. To think she was drawn to him to this degree was gratifying in ways he knew he shouldn’t allow it to be. It was why he found himself tracing circles along her bare hips, knowing they were unnecessary but unable to resist touching her in what little ways he could.
I’ll crack you eventually, she promised, leaning her head against his shoulder. At this rate, he didn’t doubt it. His control was a delicate balancing act, kept in equilibrium only by the weight of the eyes that watched them now, emerald and onyx alike. Tamlin and Amarantha could certainly both use lessons in the art of subtlety. But it’s certainly difficult to deploy my full arsenal with so many prying eyes.
He knew Feyre meant the court in general and she could not see the distaste and jealousy that was currently aimed towards them.
So long as it poses a danger to you, I don’t think it’s possible for me to lose myself to those more primal urges, he murmured to her mind, fixing his eyes on Tamlin. He allowed himself a sardonic smirk as he leaned forward to skim his nose along Feyre’s neck, taking selfish pleasure in the way she stiffened at his touch. If he could have his way, he’d lay her out and explore just how much she could react to his touch, savor every gasping breath he could pull from her. But that line of thinking was exceedingly dangerous, especially as he already felt his head spinning with the scent of her. His mouth watered to think how easily he could nip at her neck just then, finally taste her skin again. Of course, this court thinks me debaucherous. But Tamlin’s lover surely shouldn’t look so willing to be ravished by the High Lord of the Night Court.
So you’re saying it’s futile to tempt you into depravity with an audience?
Rhys couldn’t resist the small chuckle that escaped his lips, warmer than any listening ears may have expected from him. But there was only one person in earshot who mattered, and he could feel her shudder of desire as if it shuttered through his own bones.
I’ll admit you’re extremely tempting, especially when you’re sitting in my lap like an eager little present. It’s been an awfully delightful form of torture. Under different circumstances, an audience would not deter him. Yet, even with a muted bond, the instinct to protect his mate outweighed the urge to claim—though both still plagued him with an intensity that could cripple a lesser male. But, believe it or not, your safety takes priority over my own sexual gratification.
As though testing the conviction behind his claims, Feyre shifted her backside teasingly against him. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, letting the pain fight against the groan that was building in his throat.
The wound was already healing as she purred, what about my sexual gratification, mate?
That voice, that tone. It was enticing enough to lure men to their deaths. Not for the first time, he had a foreboding sense of being in over his head. It was as enthralling as it was terrifying. No one had ever kept him on his toes as thoroughly as Feyre Archeron.
He grinned. Partly for show, but partly because even as they danced on the razor’s edge, he simply couldn’t get enough of her. I’ve already told you, Feyre. I’m happy to show you how to use those nimble little fingers of yours. But if I wind you up too much here, every male in this room will be able to smell your arousal.
Noted, she said, rising from his lap. The relief of it was edged with longing so sharp he felt winded by it. Even the torment of restrained touching was preferable to the agony he felt when she was out of reach.
Still, he kept that wicked grin on his face, hoping she could see past his cold mask, to the male who wished nothing more than to fall to his knees and worship her. Degrading her publicly each night felt like a betrayal to both Feyre and himself.
He’d be the first to show Prythian his devotion to her. The moment Amarantha was dead, the world would know that Feyre was precious to him, and that he’d bring the full force of his wrath upon any who dared to harm her. That was a promise he made, silently, to himself as he gripped her hips and purred, “are you going to dance for me again, love?”
⟡⟡⟡
Rhys? Are you still awake?
He tried not to go stiff as his mate’s voice flitted through his mind. He thought she’d been asleep, had not been careful to set up the proper mental blockades. His fingers tightened where they gripped Amarantha’s thighs, eliciting a sickening moan from the female, her hands gripping his hair so hard he was half certain she’d come away with clumps of it.
Rhys tried not to panic. If there was something wrong, he had no means of escaping Amarantha and getting to Feyre. Had something happened? Her voice didn’t sound urgent, she sounded… hesitant.
Clinging helplessly to that fact, and the lack of distress through the bond, he tried his best to push thoughts of Feyre to the back of his mind. The quickest way to get to her was by satiating Amarantha, as twisted and loathsome such a thing may be. And fortunately, she mistook his desperation for passion, and discarded him as soon as he brought her to completion. She never cared about reciprocating, and he certainly wouldn’t resent that.
First he winnowed to his room, so that he might rinse his mouth out as he asked, Feyre? Is everything okay?
The bond was quiet, barely noticable, but a moment later he realized why.
Yeah, everything is fine. Sleep coated her voice.
Was there something you needed?
He glanced at himself wearily in the mirror. Generally, he tried to avoid doing so. Rhys was the ghost of the male he’d been before coming Under the Mountain. His once bronze, ethereal skin had taken on a pallid, lifeless coloring. He’d lost weight, muscle. The only part of him that was still a warrior was his mind, and even that fortitude seemed to wane with each passing day.
I was going to ask you something but I thought better of it.
She was the lone thing driving him forward—did she know that? With a sigh, he buttoned up his tunic enough to cover the bloodied marks along his chest. They needed more time to heal, and he knew it would break Feyre’s heart to see them.
What were you going to ask me?
She laughed, the sound still weighted as she shook off the remaining tendrils of sleep. I told you I thought better of it.
Rhys frowned, wondering what she could possibly feel shy about. There’s nothing you can’t ask me, Feyre.
Why are Cassian and Azriel’s siphons different colors?
Curiosity getting the better of him, he winnowed to her cell, keeping to the darkness. The last thing he wanted was for Feyre to notice where he’d come from, what he’d been doing. So even as he longed to go to her, to press his face to her throat and let her scent be his shield and comfort, he stayed in the dark corner of the room.
“They picked those colors.” Feyre hadn’t noticed him yet, and watching her jump in surprise managed to ease some of his anguish already. Simply the sight of her was soothing, even as she lay bundled in the damp of her cell. “I think Cass was partial to red because he thought the magic looked like flames. I don’t know why Az chose blue, but I do think it suits him.”
Feyre put a hand to her chest, still visibly shaken from his sudden appearance. “You didn’t need to come here to tell me that.”
“I came here to see what was really bothering you.” And, if he was being truthful, he came to seek his own comfort, as well.
“Nothing’s bothering me, Rhys. Really”
Liar. Whatever it was she’d wanted to ask him, she was trying very hard not to think about it. Uncertain whether to press her or let it go, he stared at her for a long moment. And then the realization dawned on him.
“Come here.”
Rhys couldn’t help the smile blooming on his face as she rose from the blanket and walked over to him. There was only one thing he could think of that she would be wary to ask for. “You were going to take me up on my offer.”
Feyre flushed in embarrassment, which was all the confirmation he needed. She worried it would be a burden, when really it was a reprieve that he was near aching for. His mouth watered at this barest modicum of control, this small moment he had to chase what he desired for a change. Rhys relished in it, clucking his tongue at her modesty.
“There’s no need to be coy, Feyre darling. Here.”
He extended his hand to her, winnowing them to his bedroom the moment she took it.
Feyre was too clever for her own good. She’d been wondering where he’d been from the moment he’d stepped into her cell and immediately she glanced towards the bed to verify her suspicions. Her heart dropped, his did too. Their dread blended together until it was a heavy, leaden thing. Rhys did not want it weighing on either of their shoulders, not when he’d brought her here to escape their confinements. However temporary it would be.
“You look tired,” she said, too gently. “It’s late. Why don’t we go to bed?”
The last thing I want is to be another female for him to—
He gritted his teeth against her thoughts, reaching to grip her chin firmly. “Listen to me, Feyre. You will never be a burden to me.” The conviction of that statement burned his throat, and he wondered if his voice sounded as desperate to Feyre as it did to his own ears. The only emphasis he could think to add was with his lips, pressing them gently against her own, so that if she couldn’t hear the truth in his voice she might feel it in his touch. “And this?” He breathed, letting himself succumb to their proximity. “This I am going to thoroughly enjoy. Now get on the bed.”
Feyre hesitated, though he could hear her heart speed up, could feel the thrum of her excitement through the bond. That was nearly as intoxicating as the smell of her, already filling the room with arousal.
“Now,” he commanded. The roughness of his voice was not as much for show as he wished it would be.
With a nervous giggle, Feyre made her way to his bed and he followed at a distance, forcing himself to stop near the bedpost. He couldn’t lose sight of the reason they were doing it this way—if he touched her, if he let this go too far, the consequences could be ruinous. As a means of self restraint, he slid his hands into his pockets, leaning against the post as though this were something casual. As though his heart didn’t threaten to beat right out of his chest at the sight of his mate in his bed.
“Good.” His eyes raked over her form, overly exposed in the thin strips of gossamer. Against the silk sheets, with the paint and overt wisps of clothing, she looked like something of a goddess. “Now, lay back on those nice pillows and close your eyes.”
Feyre obeyed, which in itself was something maddenly erotic. They’re hardly begun and already he was at attention more furiously than he’d ever been in his five centuries of life.
He cast his mental talons toward her, brushing sensually against the borders of her mind, touching her there like his hand might have done her thigh.
Now touch yourself for me. It was an effort to keep his voice smooth, even through the bond.
Watching Feyre trace the gossamer, fingers skimming from collarbone to the valley of her breasts, teasing her delicate skin whilst marring whorls of paint, was divine enough an experience to bring any heathen to their knees. He longed to do the same. Not necessarily for prayer, but it would be worship all the same. And Feyre deserved to be venerated. Nightly.
Her finger trailed lower, along her waist and over the curve of her hip. Over parts of her body he hadn’t had a chance yet to explore. To taste. If he had his way, he would have long replaced her hands with his lips, especially as they reached the apex of her thighs, moving her dress out of the way so that she was bared to him completely.
The beast inside rattled its cage, snarling in pleasure, begging, pleading to be released. To claim, to taste, to touch. That was his mate on the bed. His mate filling his nostrils with the scent of her wanting, longing to be touched, worshiped. Take, it begged. She is yours. You are hers. Hers, hers, he—
Rhys grit his teeth, locking those dangerous instincts away. The bond was there, as it had always been. Subdued and quiet, but there. He could feel it glowing, humming between them. This was dangerous and idiotic, he knew. Yet he couldn’t find the willpower to look away as Feyre began rubbing small circles against her clit, making the softest, sweetest gasps. He could listen to that sound on repeat for eternity.
That’s it, Feyre. Show your mate how you like to be touched.
His voice was strained, whether from desire or the effort to control himself, he could not tell. As long as he kept the beast contained, everything would be okay. If he kept his mating instincts locked away, then the bond couldn’t snap.
So he used those talons around her mind to conjure an image of the very thing he longed for—that it was his fingers that touched her as he laid above her, watching pleasure contort her face, listening to every moan and plea he drew from her lips. He wanted it so badly—
Feyre’s eyes flew open in surprise, and she blinked as she sat up to look at where he stood at the end of the bed, his desire stark on his face. He felt his lips quirk as he watched her wrap her head around what had happened.
Close your eyes, he purred.
After a long moment, she did. Immediately he picked up where they left off, letting the things he was doing in their vision mimic the movements of Feyre’s fingers as she touched herself. Slowly, at first, as though she were still working up the confidence to touch herself in earnest.
And well, that just wouldn’t do.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, looking from her long, elegant legs spread before him, to her glistening sex, along her stomach and breasts, arched in pleasure. Most beautiful of all was her perfect face, mouth parted open in pleasure, eyes fluttered shut. She was the most exquisite thing he’d ever laid his eyes on, more precious than starlight, and she was so lovely it physically hurt.
Mine, mine, mi—no. He distracted himself by admiring how soft her skin looked in the dim lighting, imagining how he might trace his lips over it, hungry and reverent. Like a starved man offered ambrosia, trying to savor the taste even as his cravings consumed him. That’s how he felt by the sight of her before him, consumed. His desire like a flame lit beneath his feet, slowly licking up his body until there was nothing left of him.
The sound of her panting was doing nothing to douse that fire. The way he could feel his own yearning reflected back as she tried to find his phantom touch, wishing his kisses were real just as desperately as he did. He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him, to know that she craved his touch just the same, that she burned in equal measure.
“Touch your breast for me, Feyre.”
His voice was almost unrecognizable at this point. Gone was the smooth tongue, assured High Lord. This was a male who was ravenous, frenzied with wanting. The intensity of which only escalated as he watched his mate buck against the fingers she swept against her clit. An animalistic noise tore out of him, somewhere between lust and approval. Even as he thought that those should be his fingers she ground against, his hand trailing up to fondle her breast. His mate shouldn’t have to take care of herself, he should be able to give her anything she asked for, anything she desired—
The sound of her gasps cut through the haze of instincts that were bubbling to the surface, though they did nothing to assist in taking the reins back. Feyre’s moans sent the beast rearing. Its restraints were made of thread by this point, and he was having trouble remembering why he should care in the first place. Rhys felt half delirious by the sight before him, Feyre fingering herself with one hand as she palmed her breast with the other, rolling her fingers over her stiff nipples. How he longed to take one into his mouth, flick his tongue and teeth against her sensitive bud.
“Gods, you make the most delicious sounds, Feyre,” he crooned, losing himself to his own vision. “Do you like it when I touch you like that?”
More, more, more, she pleaded through the bond. Rhys thought the sound of her begging was the prettiest thing he’d ever heard. With just a little added encouragement, Feyre slid her fingers further down, through the slickness of her folds. Rhys would gladly give himself away for just a taste of the nectar between her legs. She was so wet he could smell it, hear it.
“So wet for me,” he gasped, feeling completely lost for breath. “Are you going to let me fuck you with my fingers?”
She nodded emphatically. In that moment he knew he’d never be able to deny her a single thing. He watched, captivated, as she plunged two fingers into herself, moaning loudly enough that someone might have come to investigate if he hadn’t put a shield up. He wanted to see just how loud he could make her, if she could shake mountains with the pleasure she took from him.
“Please.”
It was all Rhys could do to answer, “please what, Feyre darling?” He swallowed, grateful her eyes were closed, that image she saw of him was suave and wicked, while the real version of himself was close to falling to his knees. “What do you want?”
“You.”
A single word, yet it was his completely undoing. He swore, watching as she howled in pleasure, fucking herself against her own fingers, thumb and forefinger pressed deliciously tight against her nipple. For a moment, he felt stunned speechless that she was even real. She seemed like she should exist in art alone, surely nothing could be so effortlessly lovely.
In their minds, he was kissing her senseless, letting her rising pleasure fill the ache he felt at the lack of her. He was so hard it hurt, but the only thing that mattered was her. Her pleasure, her moans, her beautiful, nimble fingers moving feverishly between her legs.
“You’re so perfect,” he gasped, still trying to convince himself this was real. Beneath her building rapture, however, he felt a twinge of frustration through the bond as she desperately sought the places his touch should be and was met instead with cool, night air. He let the softest tendrils of night touch her, caress her, knowing still that it was not a replacement for his lips. “Focus here, Feyre,” he prompted, mentally indicating to the fingers that were buried inside her, fingers she pretended were his own.
Once again, she obeyed him readily. Rhys watched as her senses narrowed in on the pleasure she wrought for herself, feeling it build and crescendo in his own body.
“Rhys,” she whimpered.
If he’d been paying even the slightest bit of attention to his own gratification, the sound of Feyre moaning his name alone would have been enough to finish him.
“That’s it, Feyre.” In all his years of fucking, he’d always enjoyed bringing his partners to orgasm—as a daemati he found their pleasure could often be his own. Yet nothing compared to the sight of Feyre coming undone before him. Nothing. “Come for me. Come for your mate.”
He was certain he wanted it almost more than she did. She screamed his name as she shattered, and he groaned her name in turn as ecstasy tore down the bond, burning as hot and brilliant as a shooting star. Rhys was certain it was better than any climax he’d experienced first hand. Nothing had ever felt so satisfying as witnessing his mate orgasm.
Rhys watched her intently as she came down from her high, slowly becoming aware once more of her surroundings. Those glorious eyes opened to meet his, and he felt wrecked by the way they were glazed over, laden with desire and satisfaction. She still had her fingers inside herself, her legs still spread and bared to him like a forbidden offering.
A mischievous grin spread along her sinful lips as she followed his line of sight, and he watched as she slowly brought her slick-coated fingers to her mouth to taste herself. Before he even knew what he was doing, he’d moved to the side of the bed and seized her wrist with a feral growl that was not of his own volition.
Taste, that beast demanded. Taste what’s yours.
So he did.
And it was sweeter than the water that poured from the Cauldron itself. More intoxicating than any drop of wine that had ever graced his tongue. Headier than any lulling drum, more enchanting than any gifted musician. She was the beginning and end of all things. She was the blood that pumped through his veins, she was the beat of his very heart. There was not a part of him that existed without her influence.
Mate.
The thread that held the beast snapped.
Rhysand released her hand, stumbling back in blind panic. MateMateMateMate.
Suddenly everything about her consumed him. Taste her. Smell her. Claim her. Yours, your mate. He could hear her heartbeat as readily as if he’d had his head pressed to her chest. Her arousal, which before had been the loveliest scent he’d ever encountered, was suddenly overwhelming, cloying, wrapping around his throat like a collar. His mouth watered from the scent of it, his throat burned, his chest pounded so furiously he thought he might collapse.
A litany of curses fled his tongue, each more frantic than the other. Claim. Protect. His instincts grappled for dominance, half of him screaming, screaming that his mate was right there, aroused and ready for him. The other half gearing for battle. Feyre was in danger. The bond snapped, Amarantha would kill her. So he had to kill her first. Right now. Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. Protect. Beneath it all was a helpless male, trying to cage those instincts so that he might think rationally. Come up with a plan.
Feyre watched him in quiet horror across the room. Though he couldn’t dare look at her, he could feel it through the bond, stronger now than it had ever been.
“You need to go,” he said, half choking on the words. The absolute last thing he wanted was to leave her. Everything inside of him was crying, begging, screeching for him to get closer.
There was the distant sound of shuffling, presumably as she moved off the bed. “Rhys—”
She paused, watching him as he paced across the room. Through the bond, he sensed her concern, her sorrow, perhaps more powerful than his own. He buried his face in his hands, it was the only thing he could bring himself to do besides comforting her.
It was already obvious, but he said it anyway, spoke their every fear into existence. “The bond just snapped, Feyre.”
He hated this, most of all, for taking something that should have been special and sacred and twisting it. Most fae dreamed of the moment their bond would snap. Rhys wanted to be mated to Feyre more than he wanted to breathe. The moment their mating bond snapped should have been a joyous occasion, and instead he was sinking to his knees is abject shame.
Tentatively, Feyre walked over to him. With every step, the pull to her grew stronger. She was still wet, and the scent of it was so thick he felt suffocated by it. The taste of her still lingered on his tongue, and he salivated at the thought of seizing her hips and feasting on her right there and then, as if there was no matter more concerning than when he might be able to have his mouth on her again. Taste her, smell her, touch her.
“Fuck, I can’t even think with you here, Feyre.” He didn’t mean to say it that way, didn’t want her to think he was upset with her. But the beast inside was screaming so loudly, he was finding it difficult to summon any thought that didn’t directly adhere to his most primal instincts. Communicating this to her was—difficult. “All I can smell is your arousal flooding through every one of my damn senses.”
“It will be okay, Rhys.” Her voice was so soothing that for a moment, even the beast quieted. But then she reached for him and he flinched away, terrified what her touch might trigger. That he might not be able to control it.
“How?” he demanded. “She will kill you when she smells our bond, Feyre.”
Kill her first. Protect your mate. Kill her right now.
Objectively, he knew that was stupid. Amarantha’s hold on his powers prevented him from causing her any harm, except for those rare moments in bed when she wished it—in her bed. In her bed. The reminder that he’d have to return to his duties was so sickening he thought he might start retching right there.
“She can’t kill me with the bargain,” Feyre reasoned, his lifeline in a sea of distress.
Yet his mind wouldn’t quiet. It searched desperately for any threat he had to vanquish, unsettled until he knew that Feyre was safe. Protect. Protect.
“She’ll change the third trial,” he rasped. “Something horrible and gruesome you couldn’t possibly survive. Whatever game she’s playing with Tamlin would be wholly different to the one she’d play with me, with my mate.”
He was spiraling. He could feel it, was clawing at any scraps of rationality, yet could do nothing about it.
“Hey, hey,” Feyre snapped, grabbing his wrists. He wanted to howl at her touch, no matter its meaning. She was his mate, and he would go to the ends of the earth to protect her. He would winnow to Amarantha’s room right then and end his life in an attempt to save her. Would bargain for whatever she wanted, would give anything to see Feyre unharmed. “Then we don’t let her see us together until the third trial. No more parties, say you’ve grown tired of playing with me—” he hissed at the implication that he could ever grow tired of his mate—“and if we’re lucky, we can coast through the third trial before she notices. We’ll stay as far away from each other as possible.”
“If we’re lucky,” he repeated, the uncertainty offering no comfort to his rising panic. “And if we’re not—”
“I’ll say the answer to the riddle,” Feyre interrupted, stunning him silent. The riddle, the resurrection, yet another thought that plagued his mind. Imagining Feyre being killed filled him with enough rage to decimate the entire Mountain, were his powers not firmly under Amarantha’s thumb. “We’ll abandon my stupid plan to let her kill me and I’ll say the answer to the riddle before she can do anything else. We’ll be okay, Rhys.”
A solution. Even if he still had his doubts, it relieved him to have a plan. And the conviction on Feyre’s face, her certainty that everything would work out, her hope and love that flooded down the bond, it consoled him. He let himself lean into the support she offered, so that the raging parts of his mind calmed, just enough. Enough to feel safe in pulling her into his lap, crushing her closely to his chest. The beast under his skin hummed in satisfaction, and his primal needs were finally soothed by her touch.
“My mate,” he rasped, burying his face into her hair. She smelled like coming home. Not just to Velaris, but to himself. The soul for his soul. Home. “My mate, my mate, my mate— mine.”
“I’m yours, Rhys,” she said in answer. It was all he’d ever need to hear. She pressed her face into his chest, providing comfort just as much as she was seeking it. “I’m yours, and you’re mine.”
He snarled, not by intention. Her words called to an ancient, primal part of himself and he couldn’t resist the way his body responded. The bond was too fresh, too new. Feyre only giggled in response, and Rhys found comfort in knowing she understood. He would try his hardest to control it, and she would be patient with him while he figured it out.
“It’s late,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Spend the night here. I’ll take you back to your cell in the morning.” He swallowed thickly, the words almost too painful to say. “And then… I’ll leave you alone, until your third trial.”
The thought of being away from her so soon was agonizing. He thought he’d rather be missing a limb than his mate, for she was just as much an extension of himself as his hand, his heart, his lung. She was just as integral to his survival, just as precious—moreso.
Rhysand bundled her in his arms as he rose to his feet and carried her to the bed. He couldn’t find it in himself to let go of Feyre for one second as they climbed in together and he tucked her solidly against his chest. She was warm and soft where her back tucked against his chest, practically naked save for the strips of gossamer that covered hardly anything at all as it pooled against the mattress. Their legs tangled together, his arms secured firmly across her chest and stomach. His mate was safe in his arms, exactly where she should be. Always. With a contented sigh, he tucked his face against her neck and hair and inhaled deeply, earning a shiver from Feyre.
“A thought for a thought, Rhys?” she murmured softly.
He was quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out a way to put his anguish into words. I’m thinking about how I’m so fucking terrified of losing you, he whispered brokenly. I’m worried that you’re so unfathomably perfect that the Cauldron couldn’t have possibly given you to me without some twisted plan to take you away. Then it will laugh in my face for ever deluding myself into thinking I could be happy with you, be worthy of having you.
Rhys—
I’m thinking that if this is the only time I’ll ever be able to hold you—to fall asleep and wake up with you—then it will have been worth it. If I have to suffer for all of eternity just to be able to hold you this one time, it’s a price I’d pay over and over again.
He took a shuddering breath as he finished saying it, drawing comfort in the nearness of his mate, in being surrounded by her touch and smell. It was the closest thing to salvation he could find Under the Mountain.
I’m thinking that for the first time in several months I don’t know what the future holds , Feyre admitted after a long while. But that I believe with every fiber of my being that we will make it out of this. And that once we do, I will show you how wrong you are. That we can be happy together. Forever will never feel like enough time to hold you, to show you how deep and endless my love for you is. But if we don’t have forever—if all we have are these small, precious, stolen moments, then that would be enough for me. I would be grateful for these extra moments I’ve bought with you.
Rhys felt grateful for their positioning, that Feyre’s back was to him so she couldn’t see the way his eyes glistened with tears. She was the most precious thing in the world to him, and if this truly was all the time they had together, he would spend the rest of his life grateful for it. For the gift of being mated to her, even for just a few hours.
I will follow you, Rhys promised with a kiss against her neck. To whatever end waits for us. Whatever future.
He could smell the salt of Feyre’s own tears, and he pulled her closer as she softly nodded her head. And I’ll follow you, Rhys. Through any world, towards any future.
As time ticks down on Tamlin's curse, Rhysand finds himself losing hope and direction. All he really wants is to see the stars - which seems impossible, considering he's trapped beneath the earth. Angst, hurt/comfort.
3.4k words.
Warnings for mild self harm and depression. Rated T.
Masterlist
The starlight felt particularly far away tonight.
Rhys had become used to the lack of natural light, living deep beneath the ground. He typically settled for fond memories he had of nights with his family, but now even those felt hard to reach. As if the forces he once believed looked down on him were gone.
Alone in his bedroom, he stared in the mirror and realized he couldn’t see himself anymore.
In the creases of his forehead, the cruel tilt of his lips, it was impossible to tell where he began and the mask ended, or if there even was a mask anymore. He had spent almost half a century molding his persona to perfection. All part of the lie he told everyone – a stony gaze that spoke of indifference, clothes tailored to hide the fact that he didn’t keep meals down half of the time.
He squinted slightly, narrowing his eyes at the foggy reflection staring back. His mother used to tell him that the night sky's brilliance shone in his eyes – a pretty sentiment if there ever was one. But any stars in his eyes had been blotted out by the puffy bags underneath.
It was a stark realization – that he was so lost. He had known his goal, had known the path he would have to take to get there. He had locked away Velaris, cut off his friends, sacrificed half of the Court of Nightmares, and given his body over to Amarantha.
And entirely lost any sense of direction along the way.
He couldn’t even lie to himself anymore and fall for the suave reflection. He had lied to every soul in Prythian, but Rhysand could never deceive himself.
Once Amarantha’s trap was sprung, he had fallen into the role she had wanted him cast in. Perhaps too easily.
Gods, when had he started agonizing over being a good person? Any morals he had were long cast away when he crawled into a monster’s bed.
I didn’t have a choice. I did the best I could with the options I had.
Perhaps the one lie he would always tell himself.
But who could blame him for little indulgences, if they helped him get through the day? He was lonely, run-down, and hopeless, and he missed the fucking stars.
There were only a few years left for them to pass the time and pretend Tamlin stood a chance of breaking the curse. And then what? There was no one coming to save them. He could only keep his court protected until his own will was wasted away, or until Amarantha finally got bored and killed him.
His body itched and burned with that familiar desire to fly away, get out of his own skin. Amarantha’s touch had - as always - left an invisible, oily sheen, and even vigorously scrubbing during his bath hadn’t gotten it off. Frustration bubbled up, and he whirled to the wall, slamming his fist into the rough stone. His lips clamped shut until they were numb, so he didn’t make a sound.
Is this what losing your mind feels like?
Taking a shuddering breath, he pulled his fist away from the wall, little bits of stone crumbling and clattering on the ground. His fist throbbed, but it took away some of the noise in his head.
One deep breath.
Then another.
He closed his eyes and drew up a few drops of his power, cloaking the room around him. The night sky appeared across his bedroom – but still only a shade of the real thing, the stars pale and dull in comparison.
Even worse, he could feel the draining effect the small task had on him – he was getting close to scraping the bottom of his well of power.
Another thing that brought him to the brink – all that missing magic, a chasm inside of him that he couldn’t quite describe.
He was going out of his mind under the ground, he knew. The exhaustion and madness were working against him, twining together and threatening to pull him down under. His missing power called to him, like invisible threads connecting him to the place it resided within Amarantha.
He thought of a list of distractions, each as impossible as the last.
He itched to get out of the mountain or at least the room. But if he was to leave, he would have to concoct a reason and then follow through.
Something strong to drink would have taken the edge off. Unfortunately, he had sworn off anything more than a few drinks at a time during Amarantha’s parties, lest it made him sloppy. Desperation might have worn him down, but a stronger-willed version of himself had removed it from his rooms.
So Rhysand did the only thing he really could do, helpless and pathetic as it was. He collapsed into bed and let his stars fall away, watching the unchanging ceiling.
At the very least, he was grateful to have his bed to himself. Amarantha hadn't bound him or dug her nails into his shoulder when he tried to leave. It was a rare occasion for him not to fall asleep with her breathing in his ear.
Keep going, keep going, keep going. For his family, for his court. He could do that. He could. He didn’t let himself think about the overwhelming emptiness inside his soul. He didn’t let himself think about the crushing dread and loneliness that roiled around in his stomach.
He squeezed his eyes shut and felt hot tears leak out. At long last, the exhaustion reached out and pulled him down under.
-
Rhys woke in a forest.
He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the dark outline of trees twisting up, their mighty branches stretching all the way to the sky – the night sky, in all its glory.
Seeing it once more, thousands of stars, and the half-moon just barely obscured by mist, was indescribable.
The sheer enormity of it, the reminder that for all that he had suffered, there were still stars, threatened to bring him to his knees.
The forest was beautiful at night, the mist heavy and low to the ground. A few inches of snow had fallen, preluding the harsh winter sure to come.
It was quiet, too, and the air was so fresh it seemed to burn his lungs.
Even the buzzing of his mind and burning of his skin had lessened.
Clearly, this was a dream.
He soaked in the sky a few moments longer, letting the chill that felt all too real seep in through his thin silken shirt.
Cutting through the silence, Rhys heard the crunch of careful footsteps through the fresh snow. An unfamiliar figure soon appeared out of the trees through darkness and fog.
Against his better judgment, he took a few steps forward, making out the form to be a slight female, wrapped in a dark cloak to shield against the chill. She made her way through the woods with the sure footfalls of someone who knew every branch and stream.
The wise thing would be to winnow away or walk in the other direction to stay out of trouble. But it was only a dream. He might as well stick around and see how it played out.
He could tell the moment she saw him – she froze, hands reaching immediately for the hunting knife at her side.
“Who are you?”
“I’m just passing through,” Rhys replied, taking a few steps forward.
It was the wrong thing to say. She drew the knife with all the confidence and none of the skill of someone who knew how to use it.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
She didn’t budge. “Faerie,” she hissed, spitting vitriol. “Leave me alone.”
Interesting – a human?
She still held the knife in one hand, though her stance was woefully untrained. Her spunk was admirable, really, but he could disarm her easily.
Operating on almost fifty years of instinct, Rhys cast his powers towards her mind, to calm and soothe away fear. But where he should have been met with the woman’s paper-thin mortal consciousness – nothing. Only more of the thick fog.
It was so peculiar – he was clearly dreaming, and yet could not deny the intense tug in his gut, like a fishhook pulling him towards some unseen shore.
Towards her.
Despite the contempt in her voice, the woman took a single step ahead, as if compelled by the same force he was, and her hood fell back from her face.
The dense fog made her features a bit fuzzy, but it was clear she was human. She didn't look to be any older than twenty, but the exhaustion in her face aged her somehow. She was painfully thin with braided golden-brown hair and eyes the color of the Sidra during a storm. Wariness danced in them, and the dark circles underneath were pronounced enough to rival his own. Yet, something about her was enchanting, he found himself thinking.
“How did you get through the wall? It's a breach in the treaty to cross it.”
“I don't think the treaty covers dreaming," he remarked dryly. "And even so, I'm really not in the business of crossing the wall just to terrorize mortals."
“Why would I be dreaming of you?” she asked suspiciously. "I don’t want anything to do with your kind.” She still held the knife, ready to strike him at any moment.
He searched for the witty sort of thing he would have once said, some remark about being the male of her dreams or something of a sort. But the words all died in his throat.
“Do humans still believe in the eddies of the Cauldron? If so, perhaps it drew you here.” He couldn’t help but let a bit of tired sarcasm creep into his voice at the end.
He had long given up on divine intervention from the Mother or the Cauldron or any other force. In all likelihood, this was just a very strange dream, but not an unwelcome reprieve. The human might hate him, but at least it was simply general hatred for his kind, not contempt over the misdeeds he specifically had committed.
Unless this was some strange trick enacted over him by Amarantha. But she wasn’t daemati, and had never found her way into his head before. He wanted to believe that this was a domain she had no control over.
“After everything the faeries did to us, you'll have a hard time finding a human who believes in anything but what they can see," she finally said. "But still, I'm not the one on the wrong side of the wall."
“Well, you may be on your side of the wall, but what are you doing wandering the woods at night?" he asked, curiosity getting the best of him.
“I was…checking the traps. I couldn’t sleep.”
“That seems dangerous. Just because you won’t find any other faeries around here doesn’t mean there aren’t wildcats ready to take a bite out of a little thing like you.”
“Don't patronize me. I’m perfectly aware of what I’m doing. But what about you? You keep asking questions of me,” she challenged with a gleam in her eye. Like she knew she was standing too close to the fire but wouldn’t back away.
“If I answer, will you put down the knife? We both know that if I was going to hurt you, I would have done it by now. Besides, what do you have to fear from me in a dream?”
In all honesty, he was impressed she hadn’t run from him when he first appeared. Even now, she didn’t look too unnerved. She slid the dimly glinting blade back into its sheath, hand resting on the wooden handle.
“For someone who keeps bringing up that he is part of my dream and therefore nothing more than a figment of my imagination, you certainly enjoy hearing yourself talk."
“Perhaps you unconsciously wished for someone to talk to,” he suggested, a hint of glib wit returning to his voice. It was strange, but he was finding it easier to talk to a seemingly insignificant human than he had anyone else in a very long time.
Though he had been mostly joking, his words must have struck a chord in her, because she tensed again. Rhys was reminded of his own thoughts before falling asleep, the brokenness he didn’t know how to mend. The loneliness he carried.
“I can think of people I’d rather talk to,” she said uneasily.
“Hmm, I wish I could say the same. You’re one of the best conversationalists I’ve spoken to in a while.”
"Then your choices must be lacking."
“Yes, unfortunately. But that’s no judgment on you.”.
She didn’t seem to know what to do with that, choosing to steer the conversation back on its course instead. “Well, I told you what I was doing out here. What about you?”
Because I’m lonely, and I think you might be too.
“I wanted to see the stars,” he replied simply. It was true enough.
“Don’t they have them in Prythian?”
“Not where I’m from.”
“I can’t imagine a world without stars. It sounds…rather sad,” she said, frowning a bit at the admission.
There it was again – that tug in his gut.
“You think us faeries are worthy of seeing the stars, after everything we’ve done to humans?”
“Don’t go digging for sympathy.”
“Well, if we’re on the subject of things that seem sad, I would say wandering the woods in the middle of the night fits the bill. Doesn’t anyone wonder where you are?”
She shrugged. “If I went missing, they would come looking for me once the food ran out.”
The sadness in her voice was thinly veiled, and Rhys felt a strange pang of sorrow in his chest, for this woman he knew nothing about. A dozen questions bubbled up, but he realized he had unconsciously been moving towards her again, drawn in like a fish on a hook. To her credit, the human held her ground. She had been maintaining eye contact the whole time, too.
“I’m sorry,” he said honestly. “You deserve more than that.”
She breathed in sharply. Hadn’t anyone ever told her to dream before?
“You don’t know anything about me.”
Yet, she took a small step closer, and he felt that tug of longing in his gut again.
They were only a few feet apart now, though her features were slightly obscured by that strange mist. They locked gazes, and Cauldron damn him, the breath was stolen from Rhys’s chest.
As if realizing what she was doing, the woman looked away, her gaze immediately snagging on his chest.
“You’re hurt,” she said, pointing. He glanced down to see his silky shirt was partially undone, revealing his collarbones and neck. Five throbbing and ugly gouges were visible from where Amarantha had dug her nails in much too deep until he had been afraid she would reach in and rip out his heart.
The human reached out a hand as if she would touch him, and for a terrifying second, Rhys didn’t know if he would lean into it or shirk away. But she stopped a few inches short. Her hand hung awkwardly in the air between them for a moment, and he noticed little flecks of red and blue paint on her exposed fingers and wrist.
A huntress and an artist?
“Nothing a little healing magic can’t fix, but your concern for my wellbeing is much appreciated. You’re not going to tell me my kind deserves all the pain it can get?”
She dropped her hand. “Your kind is exactly as violent as the stories say, I would bet. I just…don’t like seeing things in pain.”
"Seems odd for a huntress."
The fishhook in his gut yanked again, and they both stepped forward. Close enough that he could feel the heat from her body.
A wave of longing suddenly overcame him as he looked down at her, wide blue eyes and pursed lips.
Lovely.
“What are you doing to me?” she breathed, staring intently into his eyes. “What faerie magic is this? We – I – we hate your kind.”
“Nothing,” he replied honestly. “I’m not doing anything.”
But if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn something larger than himself was at work, drawing them together. The fallen High Lord and the human huntress.
Rhysand ached all over, and for once, he wanted. Wanted something for himself that wasn’t tarnished, something to capture and call his own, if only for a moment.
The only sound was their breathing. There was no trace of fear from her, only wonder and curiosity.
If this is only a dream, let me remember something pleasant when I wake up, he thought.
The mist was thinner now. Rhys moved closer, face tilted towards hers, hands hovering by her waist in a silent question he wasn’t quite sure how to ask.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to.
She leaned in the rest of the way, cautiousness mixed with wonder in her eyes, and her callused hands laced around the back of his neck, drawing him in the rest of the way.
He might have gasped when their lips met. She parted her lips, soft and warm against his as he drew her in. She returned the fire, and he could hear her heart thudding in her chest when they were this close. There was desperation in her touch as she grabbed onto him like she needed this too, searching for an anchor amidst the storm. Despite the chill in the air, she was warm, her hands like a brand on his skin. Would he wake with burns, he wondered distantly?
They clung to each other like this one kiss could remind them that they weren’t alone in the world. The tightness in his gut had subsided, as if he had reached his destination at last.
She slid one of her hands up to his hair, mussing his dark locks, and Rhys couldn’t remember the last time he had felt a touch that was – not gentle, exactly, there was rough desperation twined in their every move - but wanted. Something he chose.
Finally, he pulled away, breathless. “What’s your name?”
Give me a name, give me something to call you when I remember this.
She looked up at him, eyes hazy. This close, he could see the sharp outline of her collarbones and cheeks, each vein that ran just beneath the surface of her skin.
She shook her head after a moment, eyes clear and steely again.
Right. The first lesson humans ever learned about faeries, false as it may be.
“Give me yours first,” she said, holding her chin up boldly. No, she wasn’t afraid of him.
And – just as she might have, he courted the idea for a moment. What was the harm of tossing his name out to one mortal who would be gone in the blink of an eye?
But if fate ever drew them together again, she had to know as little as possible. He had said almost nothing and yet been too vulnerable tonight.
Mirroring her, he shook his head. “What would you do with my name?”
“Exactly.”
She stepped away, watching him carefully.
“Thank you.”
He wasn’t sure if the voice was his or hers, because then the darkness of sleep was claiming him once more, and she faded from his vision.
Rhys woke feeling more well-rested than he had in years.
He knew deep in his bones it hadn’t only been a strange dream. It had meant something, and brought back a feeling of purpose to him.
Somewhere on the other side of the wall, that human woman lived. Hungry and perhaps unhappy, but blissfully unaware of what was occurring in Prythian. Safe enough to afford time to paint. A huntress who didn’t have the heart of a killer.
What was it that drew them together? Were their souls searching for something, one in the same? And what kind of powerful connection could have made him ache so thoroughly?
A little voice whispered in the back of his mind. He knew the stories. He knew how they went.
Which was precisely why he slammed that mental door shut, quieting the whisper. Nothing good could possibly come of that line of thought.
Perhaps it had been a gift from the Cauldron. Proof that not all was lost, a chance to strip the mask away and let someone see him closer to his true self.
Stormy blue eyes, brown hair. Her body against his, hand tangled in his hair. Chipped nails and hands splattered with paint.
Somewhere, that woman found the joy to paint.
It was an oddly comforting thought, though he couldn’t explain why.
Rhys rose to face another day, the memory of burning warmth in a snowy forest holding him close.
