noctis (chapter 4) [feysand]
When two guards had come to Feyre’s cell that afternoon, she was overcome with joy thinking that Lucien, and perhaps Tamlin, too, had come to see her one day early. She had become extremely lonely, doing nothing but sleeping on the cold stone floor, eating pathetic scraps they called her meals, and staring at every inch of her cell and the dungeon outside one at a time.
She was sure that she would have been able to burn the walls and her cell bars down with her eyes with the amount of staring she had done.
Rhys had stopped visiting, ever since that evening the previous week when she had called him a… She knew she shouldn’t have felt bad for it, because of how he had destroyed Tamlin, but a part of her, a treacherous part of her that nagged her all day, felt horrible for what she had said. She felt that part of herself crumble every day when she remembered his face, the hurt on his face, when she had mouthed that word, how he’d pulled away so quickly, as if her skin was poison. That part of her… It wanted nothing more to crawl to him on her hands and knees and cry and apologise.
Feyre hated that part of herself.
Without Rhys visiting, it also meant that their tutoring sessions had stopped. Feyre was neither capable nor motivated enough to teach herself how to write using the books, ink and paper he had given her when they were still friends. On top of that, looking at any of those books reminded her too much of Rhys, and it pained that treacherous part of her. So she hid them under the blanket he had given her, and never looked at them again.
But now Lucien was back, and she would try her hardest to make the most of the few moments she would be allowed to spend with him, and then later, when he was gone and she was once again lonely, she would remember their few minutes together, hopefully more cheerful than the previous week, and would draw the memory out until the next week, at which point Feyre would have strung the memory dry.
The same as last week, her arms were grabbed much too tightly by two guards she hadn’t seen before and she was practically dragged to their destination; her little steps were nothing in comparison to their large, uncompromising strides.
However, they weren’t taking the same route that Feyre had memorised to her best ability. Instead, Feyre was taken just one floor above the dungeons, the first floor aboveground—the one she and Lucien had entered together, the one she had never been able to leave through.
Maybe Tamlin brought the money, we’re going home, we’re going home.
Feyre knew she was getting her hopes up, but she couldn’t help it, because she was now being dragged through that same hallway she had entered two weeks ago, and was being pushed through the same doors she had watched Lucien enter through with Attor.
This time, however, Lucien wasn’t present. And neither was Tamlin.
Instead, Lady Amarantha was there, lounging in her stone throne, wearing a long, blue dress that had a rather generous dip at her breasts, along with a rather generous slit on her left thigh—the one, Feyre noticed, that was nearer to Rhys, whose delicate hand, the one that had healed her wounds when she had gotten harassed, the one that had pushed her hair away from her face countless times, the one that had held her face, making her heart stop at the touch, was stroking down Amarantha’s white thigh.
Feyre turned her face away immediately, feeling her eyes burn. But there was no reason to be feeling—upset? Hurt?... Jealous? Because Rhys was Amarantha’s whore. And Feyre loved Tamlin. She felt Rhys’ gaze on her, she wanted so bad to look at him, from a closer distance, to see that beautiful face that reminded her of moonlight, of those gorgeous purple eyes, but she didn’t dare do it, unsure about how her body would react.
Not in her favour, most probably. Certainly.
In avoiding looking at Rhys, Feyre’s gaze had fallen, instead, on her audience. The walls were lined with rows and rows of men and women, wearing all sorts of colours, with all sorts of hairstyles and colours, in all sorts of styles of clothing, all here to watch... watch Feyre. Watch Tamlin? She scanned the crowd, all of whom seemed to be judging her, chattering among themselves while looking at her, laughing, smiling. She couldn't find Tamlin, and felt horrible for getting her hopes up.
So instead, she turned her head, and was met with the terrifying face of Attor. He looked like a nightmare, like a corpse, bony hands thankfully behind his back; they frightened Feyre quite a bit the last time she had seen him. However, Attor’s wicked, vindictive grin as he stared her down, compensated for that fear instead.
“Ah, Feyre, finally!”
Oh, the amount of times Feyre had thought of the ways she could slice Amarantha’s throat so she would never have to hear that voice again.
“Oh, come on, Feyre, it’s courtesy for a guest to be polite to her host.”
Feyre could feel her temper flare inside her, but she still turned her head to look at Amarantha, already anticipating that horrible snakebite smile on her face. Once again, her lips were coated in the dark red colour of blood.
Maybe it is blood, Feyre mused to herself.
She was glad Rhys’ hand was off Amarantha, though she still tried her hardest not to look at him, even if her body seemed so strangely drawn to him. Instead of dwelling in thoughts about Rhys in Amarantha’s presence, Feyre put on her best possible emotionless face, and looked directly at Prythian’s so called queen. Amarantha’s grin was evil as she stared Feyre down, her left leg crossing over her right, revealing her entire thigh. “Seems as if your Tamlin has forgotten you, dear,” She drawled, voice over-coated with honey.
Feyre simply kept looking at her, her face a stone mask. She refused to show any emotion to her.
Amarantha pouted. “You won’t respond? Are you not worrying about rotting in my dungeon forever while your lazy lover spends his days in brothels?”
Do not react. Do not react. Do not react.
Tamlin loves me. Tamlin loves me. Tamlin loves me.
Feyre continued looking at Amarantha, who finally seemed to crack. A hint of annoyance broke her haughty expression and she straightened up on her throne, looking like a real queen, but an evil one.
“Fine then,” She spoke, even her tone expressing her annoyance. She was a very weak player in this game, it seemed. “I’m bored, and I’m getting impatient, so I’m going to see how long it takes before I can break your little whore voice out.”
Feyre thought she had seen Rhys start from the corner of her eye. But nothing happened. She continued to stare at Amarantha, not letting her curiosity and dread show.
“Every week until Tamlin comes back to me,” Amarantha drawled, “You will be brought here, so my guests and I”—she sounded pained to have had to say other people’s names before her own—“Can be entertained by yourself and Attor.”
I am not going to be her whore. I am not going to be her whore.
As if reading her mind, Amarantha laughed and said, “Not intimately, Feyre, unless you are willing to—then you can find your own privacy with Attor—but you see, Attor here has a specialty in making people scream just using his hands.” Her gaze swam to Attor, and Feyre followed with her own eyes, her heart stopping when Attor drew his hands from behind his back, stretching them out, revealing claw-like fingernails that Feyre hadn’t noticed properly earlier; fingernails that had, two weeks ago, dug into her flesh and drawn out blood so easily.
The crowd gasped, and hushed.
I’m going to be tortured, Feyre realised.
“Am—” Rhys. Feyre, before she could stop herself, turned her head as soon as he spoke and looked at the beautiful man now sitting up in alarm, from his seat next to Amarantha. For a second, Feyre thought she had seen his face reflect concern, rage, but as soon as she blinked, his face went back to that arrogant smirk that she had only seen on his face once before, when they had first seen each other.
You’re only imagining things, Feyre told herself. This was the real Rhys. But now that she had looked at him, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. He wasn’t looking at her though, rather at Amarantha, who was now ordering a guard to take off Feyre’s tunic.
“But, your Ladyship, Lord Tamlin’s warning—”
“Do I look like I care?!” Amarantha’s voice rose.
But Feyre, in her daze when watching Rhys, angry at him, at herself, because of the way he made her feel, jealous—though she didn’t admit to herself—of his relationship with Amarantha, freed her arms from either guards on her sides and started working at her—Rhys’—tunic, unbuttoning it slowly, not realising that she was doing it believing it would hurt Rhys, not because she wanted it over with.
Feyre still looked at Rhys, and he looked at her now. She thought for a second again, that the previous week’s Rhys was back, his face sympathetic, concerned, but then it disappeared as soon as Rhys looked at his nails, his expression—bored.
Fighting the pang in her heart, Feyre instead looked at Amarantha, who wore an amused look. Feyre dropped her tunic off of herself, not caring that she was exposing herself to two people she very much hated, and countless other spectators. And Rhys. How insignificant it seemed, to worry about your breasts revealed to people, when you had been through the things Feyre had.
“Well then,” was all Amarantha said as Attor crept up behind Feyre, a cold, skeletal hand grabbing her shoulder, squeezing, creating little cuts in her flesh where the tips of his nails dug in, and pushing her down to her knees. Those little cuts were like pinpricks; Feyre knew the real thing would hurt worse.
The crowed murmered.
Feyre didn’t show it to Amarantha, but her resistance broke as soon as she felt Attor’s single nail drag subtly up her spine. She had planned on looking at Rhys once again, but she found herself to be too weak, suddenly too vulnerable to look at Rhys, which would hurt her more than him.
Her eyes squeezed shut in pain as soon as Attor’s claws suddenly dug into the flesh at her back, as sharp as knives, immediately making the cuts burn with fire, with pain. Feyre was glad she couldn’t speak at that moment: her scream of pain would have ruined any sort of strong stance she had in that room. She felt the tears behind her shut eyelids as she felt another set of claws slash against her back, from her shoulderblade to her lower back.
Feyre doubled over, already in pain, feeling her tears streaming down her eyes, mirroring the blood now sliding out of her wounds and down her back, soaking her pants, flowing down to the floor of the same horrid colour. She could hear Attor’s disgusting chuckles behind her, while Amarantha squealed with delight.
“Speak, little whore! Speak!” Amarantha chirped.
I am not a whore.
Attor’s nails dug into her flesh again, deeper this time, making her mouth open in a silent scream, in protest to the rest of her body. Amarantha’s laugh grew louder, as did Attor’s, and Feyre’s head started spinning. She must have been losing a lot of blood, already.
What will Tamlin do if I die here?
What will Rhys do?
He must have thought she was a stupid little girl, Feyre thought, as Attor repeatedly scratched and pierced her back, as the edges of Feyre’s vision blackened, as she collapsed forward, her hands quickly bracing themselves on the red floor in front of her, her blood soaking it almost making her palm slip; Rhys must have thought she was a stupid little girl for giving her life and freedom away for a man, for letting Amarantha do this to her for a man. She didn’t care. But she did care.
Still, Feyre protested against Amarantha, resisted her torture, as much as possible. She didn’t urge her voice to work the way she did when she tried to speak to Tamlin or Rhys. She didn’t sob or cry silently, nothing beyond letting tears of clear pain fall from her stinging eyes.
Even several minutes later, when Amarantha, still cheerful, spoke, “Enough for today,” Feyre held her ground. Her black pants were soaked with her blood, and there were trails running down the sides of her waist. Her back stung from the wounds and her head threatened to shut down any second. But still, Feyre managed to look up, through her tears and sweat, straight at Amarantha, her face set in the same stone expression as several moments ago.
She would not let this woman win.
Amarantha simply grinned. “Take her away,” She ordered, waving a hand at the guards, still holding eye contact with Feyre, “And give her a salve to stop the bleeding; we can’t have her bleeding out—we need her for entertainment next week, and of course, for Tamlin.” Feyre would have spat at her, had she had the energy, for the way she said Tamlin’s name.
“Yes, your Ladyship.”
Feyre couldn’t bring herself to look at Rhys, though she felt his gaze on her, as she was dragged out of the room.
By the time the salve had been delivered to Feyre, she was surprised that she hadn’t bled herself dry yet. As she sat on her knees, picking up the tiny container of salve, someone stepped into her cell.
Feyre didn’t have to look to know who it was. His presence was known to her, like previously, before he was even there. Feyre stayed quiet—well she had no option other than to stay quiet—but it was mostly because she didn’t know what to say, rather than because she didn’t want to speak to him.
She didn’t protest as she felt him sit behind her, his closeness making her dizzier than the blood loss made her. She didn’t protest, either, when he reached around her, his breath warm on her shoulder, and took the container of salve out of her hand.
Rhys didn’t seem to be wanting to talk, either, because the next few minutes went by with Rhys quietly applying the salve to her back, Feyre wincing every few minutes when it stung too much. His hand worked so carefully, Feyre wondered how it was the same hand that was used to kill people, to kill Tamlin’s family.
When she shivered, she knew it was because of the feel of his touch, of his breath, of his closeness, instead of the cool air on her naked torso. When she realised how fast her heart was beating, she knew it was because of him and not because of what she had gone through.
“Feyre.”
Her eyelids fluttered closed as soon as he spoke; she would have leaned back against him had she not been in pain… or topless...
Or with Tamlin.
Feyre hated herself so much.
“Feyre, please.” His hand had found her arm and clasped it so gently, Feyre almost crumbled. She fought back tears and gingerly turned to face him, not realising exactly how close they really were. She could feel his breath on her cheeks, just through his subtle open-mouthed breathing. Their faces were so close that, if Feyre leaned forward, just less than an inch, they would have bumped noses.
Or lips.
Rhys’ pale face had blackened with tiredness, the whites of his eyes reddened, staring directly into Feyre’s own. She thought that maybe he hadn’t been getting enough sleep; she hadn’t been able to notice from such a distance back in Amarantha’s throne room.
Rhys’ hand rose up to touch her cheek, and Feyre prepared herself for the electric sensation, until he hesitated and dropped it again, just short of touching her skin. She tried not to be disappointed, after all that had happened between them—after what he had done to Tamlin.
Rhys’ other hand rose instead, holding black material, which Feyre realised were another set of his clothes. Her heart started aching at the gesture—and once again she was left to wonder how this Rhys was the same as the Rhys in Lucien’s story.
His eyes were still on Feyre completely, as she warily raised her own hand to take the clothes from him. She wondered, for a moment, if Rhys had any clothes that weren’t black. Not that she minded; he looked beautiful in them.
“Feyre,” Rhys spoke her name for the third time, and it killed her inside, almost longing to be back at that point where Feyre rarely ever came without darling following it. It killed her more, hearing how strained his voice was as he spoke to her. “Will you come with me?” He asked, his voice a mere whisper as he stared at her, violet eyes soft. “Please, I have people at my home, they can heal your cuts.”
Feyre hesitated, unsure to trust him. He seemed to notice this, so both of his hands grasped her own, one of them over the set of clothes he had given her. “Please trust me. I just want to help you.”
His voice, desperate, pained, sounded so sincere that it had Feyre nodding before she had even processed the idea of leaving with him.
And so Rhys left Feyre alone momentarily to dress herself, and then the two of them left for the Night Court.
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