the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
aelin and lysandra when people are a little upset that they gaslit multiple entire armies along with their friends and made plans behind everyone’s back while knowing that they were about to willingly sacrifice both of their lives in one way or another:
She's never truly forgiven herself for the death of Lucian's lover, even though there was nothing she could've done. Every year she prays to the Mother for the girl's soul. Begs the Mother for Lucien to find it in himself to forgive her.
In the quiet of her chambers, she sometimes speaks to the empty space where her children should’ve been. Seven little boys who would have grown into so much more than Beron made them to be. The emptiness of what could’ve been claws at her every day.
The Lady of Autumn keeps little tokens of her past happiness hidden away where Beron can't destroy them: an old ribbon that had belonged to her sister, the first toy she'd ever given Eris, etc.
She writes letters to Lucien every night. Being that he is the only son she lost that is actually still alive. She's never sent a single one, mostly out of fear that Lucien wants nothing to do with her anymore. But, each one is left on his dusty bed in his room that has been left untouched.
Her favorite place is on top of the Forest House where the autumn sun is the brightest. Up there, she imagines Helion is beside her.
Helping Feyre under the mountain nearly killed her, but she deemed it a necessary sacrifice for her favorite son.
I know we all have different ideas about the names of the Vanserra brothers but I have an angsty headcanon about it...
When the LoA first found out she was pregnant with Beron's child, she vowed to herself that she would never love it. She knows it's cruel, and perhaps she is no better than him, but she grows to resent that ever expanding bump.
She knows it is unfair to hate something so much; especially when that something is part of her. But she knows, better than anyone, that nothing good can grow from such barren soil. This child, this thing, that has planted its roots inside her will grow to inherit it's fathers most insidious qualities.
So, after months, when she feels the sharp stab of movement in her womb she names him Eris. Meaning strife...or pain. Afterall, it is what binds her to this child.
The day Eris is born is the bloodiest day in Autumn's history. He comes into the world screaming; a mirror of all she has had to endure.
When the healer places that tiny, fragile bundle into her arms his piercing screams settle into pitiful little cries. For a long time she just stares at him, asleep in her arms and cradled to her breast like it settles something in him. It settles something in her too, she realises.
All the resentment and all the hatred she felt is replaced with something aching and tender. Something like love.
That night she vows to always love him. To nurture all the good in him, all the parts of him that are her. Because the most beautiful flowers can still bloom in fields of ash.
Years later when she finds out she is with child again she names him Jasper, it means joy. Then Dorian comes along, a gift she thinks; and Leander, her brave boy. It's not until many years later that Silas is born, long prayed for and much loved. He was followed by Rowan who looked so much like her brother when he was a boy, with messy red curls she used to play with as he slept.
Of course there was little Lucien too, her light. A child of hers born of love, at long last.
She loves all of her children equally but sometimes when Eris smiles at her, all she sees is the babe that healed what Beron had broken, and she knows he is all hers.
enough with the "who haunts the narrative?" olympics. let's talk about who doesn't haunt the narrrative. jon arryn's death kickstarts the entire plot and STILL no one gaf
If Nesta knew that Cassian was taking up space in the house’s private library, she would have stayed downstairs with Gwyn. But the house had insisted on meddling in matters where it didn’t belong, refusing to give what she asked for until she resigned to getting it herself. At least she could stretch her legs this way, she’d told herself, and could get out of the dark library for a bit.
She understood as soon as she saw him. In fact, she could have sworn she felt said house’s amusement as she rounded the corner to be met with large, membranous wings that hung off of the Illyrian’s back, etched with scars down the membranes.
Summary: Feyre takes some time to talk with one of her more reserved students, unveiling an adorable, yet heartbreaking Christmas wish.
OR
Rhys' little sister gets him a girlfriend.
AN: Hi, is anyone still reading this? I know it's been a year. I'm sorry, it just got lost in all of my WIPs. Merry Christmas, y'all.
Chapter II
Feyre
"Set up by a six-year-old. This is the most adorable story I've heard, Feyre."
"Morrigan," she growled into the phone.
"Okay, okay. First things first, is he attractive?"
Feyre huffed. "Attractive would be an understatement. He's also a pain in the ass who likes surprises. What does 'dress nice-ish' mean to you when talking about a first date? It's dinner, but..."
"But?"
"Dinner with my college dates meant going out to a burger joint. They were broke college guys. Now I'm going to dinner with a guy who just inherited a multimillion dollar company. I don't know what
that says about him because the only conversations we've exchanged have been about art lessons and going on this date! I am so in over my head, Mor.”
Her friend was silent for a minute. “Feyre, you met at the studio, right? This guy’s seen you covered in paint and wearing an old t-shirt. Whatever you put on tonight isn’t going to scare him off, I promise.”
”I’ve never been covered in paint,” she snipped, pulling a butter-soft cashmere sweater over her head. "And you aren't being helpful." Cursing the clock hanging in her tiny bedroom, she grabbed a pair of dangling earrings and stuffed her feet into her flats. "I've got to go. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Don't do anything completely stupid," Mor told her teasingly, ending it too quickly for Feyre to give a retort. Rolling her eyes, Feyre shoved her phone into her crossbody, throwing it over her head and sliding her coat on overtop.
Rhys was leaning against the front desk, chatting with Ressina when Feyre finally got downstairs. Once again, her collegue quickly found some place else to be. "Sorry. I was just... Anyways, I'm ready now." He was quiet for a moment, standing a little straighter as he took her in. To her relief, he wasn't dressed any more formally than she was, going with a button down shirt and dark-washed jeans.
"Is this... okay?"
"Of course. You look stunning, Feyre darling." She really wanted to say he was overdoing it with the endearment, but that little fluttering in her stomach was growing stronger and regardless of what she wanted to pretend, the truth of the matter was she wouldn't mind hearing him call her that again. He offered his arm and an utterly disarming smile. "Shall we?"
"We shall."
Their night was utterly magical.
Not only did Rhys treat her to an amazing dinner at a little mom-and-pop italian restaurant, but the riverwalk to follow was spectacular, watching the Christmas lights reflecting by the water, each ripple colored by the light show keeping time with the holiday repertoire. "This is brilliant. I've never even heard about his show. Do they do it every year?"
"A few times a week, all through December. My mom heard about it when I was just a kid. We went every year. It's a little bittersweet now. For me. Avy refused to come out this year."
"I can't imagine it's easy for either of you." She laced her fingers through his. "I know what it's like, being strong for the people around you. If you ever need to talk, or just not be strong..."
Rhys swallowed, nodding once, though it didn't seem all that sincere. But she didn't know him well enough to push. After all, this date was all that was between them so far. "When did you start learning to paint?" he asked, turning the subject on its head. "You're quite talented from the little I've seen."
"I started in school. My parents wouldn't entertain the thought of lessons for something so frivolous, but they couldn't stop me from self-teaching or taking art electives when I got older. So I got better and broke away from them as soon as I could. Went to community college and university later. That's where I met Ressina. Now we have the studio."
"You live there too?"
"On the second floor. Apartments in that area are insane and the space was there, empty. It works for me, and Ressina has a place with her husband, so..."
He gave a soft hum, stroking a thumb over her pulse point before threading their fingers together. "Tell me more."
She raised her brows. "More?"
"What you love, what you hate. Discarded dreams. I want to know everything, Feyre."
She blinked, a bit shocked. When was the last time a guy had wanted to hear about the little things?
"Well..."
The following Tuesday was interesting. Rhys was discreet, offering a smile as he helped his sister out of her coat, but nothing more. As for Avyanna… Even starting to come out of her shell in the weeks before, Feyre had never seen her show so much excitement at her lessons. Her brother must have made her promise not to question Feyre about Saturday, even if the girl seemed near bursting with her curiosity about Feyre’s side of the story.
Ressina was an angel, taking that side of the table for the evening class to ease some of the awkwardness. The session went smoothly enough, all things considered. “What did I tell you?” her partner murmured, passing out the ornaments from the week before in exchange for that evening’s paintings. “Unwarranted worries, hm?”
“Miss Feyre,” she heard, the familiar voice still reserved, but a lightle brighter than usual.
“Miss Feyre.” Her hand froze over the piece from the week prior. “I wanted to tell you, after art we go home for dinner and have hot cocoa before bed.”
“Is that so?” Her smile grew at that, especially when she glanced up to find Rhys shaking his head, exasperated. “That sounds like fun, sweetheart.”
“You should come with us.”
“And that is enough from you, goof troop. I’m sure Miss Feyre has plans of her own this evening.”
“Rhys, you said you were gonna ask her on another date and you haven’t yet.” Feyre, whipped around, covering her mouth before her laughter could encourage the child standing between them to help her brother along in his dating endeavors. “Rhys.”
“Alright, you impatient little menace. Get your coat.” The next time Feyre turned, Rhys was trying to hide his own smile. “I think her teenage years will actually take me to my grave.”
“Let’s hope it’s just a few gray hairs. I don’t find a silver fox too shabby.”
Eyes bright with mischief, Rhys offered her his arm. “Dinner, darling? With the company of a six year old. I don’t know that I need to promise any further entertainment at this rate.”
Cassian could only watch, could only blink, could only stay frozen.
Long forgotten were the cries in the other room or the droplet of milk on his wrist when he looked at her—really looked at her.
Valiana, six years old. Knows how to prepare a bottle of baby formula and how to carry her baby sister. Can kill you with a look, can scoff, and can scold.
Doesn’t trust everyone.
Especially doesn’t trust men.
Doesn’t know what a teddy bear is.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“We had danced. All of us together. And I had never seen Rhys so happy, laughing with Azriel, drinking with Mor, bickering with Cassian. I’d danced with each of them, and when the night had shifted toward dawn and the music became soft and honeyed, I had let Rhys take me in his arms and dance with me, slowly, until the other guests had left, until Mor was asleep on a settee in the dining room, until the gold disc of the sun gilded Velaris.”
~A Court of Mist and Fury, Pg. 441
AN: This was only supposed to be a moodboard, but @shallyne is constantly putting out little ideas I want to run away with. I'll just let the book quote serve as the summary.
“They’re a band of fools,” Rhys muttered, watching his drunken family members stumble towards various pieces of furniture one by one. The dawn was just kissing the sky as he was finally left alone with his mate once again. He loved his family to pieces, truly. And he had been smiling so often this evening his face was almost aching from it. It had been too long since he felt that joy. Since they all did.
And it was all thanks to the female beside him.
A slow melody was drifting over the dwindling crowd staying to embrace the morning, and as Feyre leaned against the red stone of the house to watch the pinkening sky he found his feet bringing him closer to her.
“I don’t think any sight could compare to the moment the stars fall, but there is something beautiful about the sunrise,” she said. “Maybe it’s just my imagination. Wanting to paint again may be changing how I view the simple things.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, either way. But I did mention before, dawn is exquisite to all of the solar courts. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself tonight.”
“How could I not? There’s certainly nothing like this in the human lands, and I’ve always found solace in the stars. To be beneath them tonight, here with you—” She paused, looking startled by her own confession as his own heart began to race. “—and the others. All of you, I mean.”
He reached out to cup her face, finding a bit of pink there beneath the shimmering dust from earlier. “Dance with me, Feyre. One last time, before we go home. Please?”
One more dance would never be enough, but it was all he could ask of her without pushing too hard. Even if he’d be cataloging every tender moment between them that night. Every intentional brush of fingers, every smile and laugh between them, every time she spun away from Cassian or Mor and right back into his arms, leaning into him before logic or fear had her pulling back to a more modest hold. He was a greedy bastard, clinging to those stolen moments, but he needed every one of them.
“I’d love that, Rhys.” She’d be the death of him, smiling like that. And he’d let her, if it meant she was healing at last. He squeezed her hand, drawing her away from the wall and back out to where the stragglers danced around them. She slid right into his arms, this time close enough to share breath. And as he started to lead her, she rested her head on his chest, the soft scent of her washing over him.
It would only take a few movements. Simple adjustments to shift his hand off of her waist and band his arm around her, to reach up and cradle her head, to lean down and press a kiss to her hair. All possibilities she may permit after everything that had changed between them.
All possibilities that could shatter the progress they had made. He couldn’t risk that, not even now with her body pressed to his, a tentative trust growing over these weeks. Months, he’d dare say. From the moment she left Spring, things had been changing, little by little. He had to hope this step wasn’t all to do with the wine they’d drank this evening. Or that she’d brush it off as only that, even if he didn’t deserve a happy ending with her.
“A thought for a thought?” Feyre mumbled into his chest sometime later, the visiting citizens long gone.
“Didn’t we already play that tonight?”
She shrugged. “You seem… pensive. I thought it might help. Was it too much after all, being with your family? You seemed happy earlier.”
He sighed, running a loose length of hair between two fingers. “I’m thinking, Feyre, that I’m more happy than ever. And I’m dreading the moment I have to fly you back to the town house and say goodnight.” He ducked his head, his nose brushing the side of her face as he brought his lips to her ear. “What’s your thought, darling?”
He couldn’t quite tell if it was the breeze around them or his tone that had her shivering in his arms, but he knew which he’d prefer. “I’m thinking I don’t want this to end either. But if I’m being honest, my feet are killing me.”
He chuckled, despite his disappointment that her confession broke the spell building between them. “Come on then. I’ll winnow back once we’re past the wards.”
She let him lift her in his arms, possibly holding her a little closer than was necessary. “Can we—can we fly the whole way? If you aren’t too tired?”
He smiled softly. “Why not.”
And as she curled her arms behind his neck, her head tucked under his chin, he knew he was utterly ruined for anyone else, regardless of what happened in this war. If he lost her…
He launched into the sky, flying directly to the townhouse and setting Feyre back on her own feet all too soon. “Goodnight, Feyre.”
“Goodnight, Rhys.” And something in her voice, in her eyes, held him there at her door. “Goodnight,” she repeated, softer this time. And as he slipped into his own room, that hesitation turned into a restlessness he hadn’t felt between them before. Almost like—hope. As if—She couldn’t want that. Not from him. Never from him. That bridge was long since burned, no matter what sort of chemistry they may have as mates.
And if he told her now, she knew between the story he’d shared with her about his parents and whatever Tamlin had told her, most mated pairs would try to force the bond to work. She had endured enough out of obligation and he would not risk swaying her with such a strong sense of duty. Not when she was just finding her independence again. He tried to send something soothing down the bond between them and moments later he sensed her settling in at last, exhaustion at the young hour finally claiming her consciousness.
Rhys fell to his knees at his own door. And he wept.
This is so gorgeous and so heartbreaking at the same time!! I’m absolutely obsessed w rhys’ pov atm, and so seeing that doubt and worry when it comes to his early days with Feyre is just fantastic. As always big big thank you for writing :)
For Feysand Week - Day 6 - Mates. @officialfeysandweek2023
Everything changes for Rhysand after he's freed from Under the Mountain. And things should go back to normal, but how can they? He has a mate now, one who's promised or another male, and he can barely hold himself together to run his court. Across Prythian, Feyre grapples with her own pain and loneliness.
Rated T, 3.9k words
-
Rhys dipped into a bow before Feyre, the light of the morning sun warm on his back. Based on her expression, she probably thought he was mocking her, but he felt ready to drop to his knees and pledge his devotion in earnest. All she would have to do is ask.
He was rising back up, back nearly straight, when his eyes met hers.
All at once, his vision went white as he was hit with the full force of the words he had been avoiding for months.
Mymatemymatemymate
The words were a lightning strike that restarted his wounded heart. Rhys had enough time to catch a glimpse of Feyre’s confused expression before he fell backward – and then he was gone, winnowed away. His body, at least, had been able to seize control of his magic.
My mate, my mate, my mate -
Cauldron, had he ever felt so alive? Every bone in his body felt like it was burning – not in pain, but in longing, with the urge to claim her that he was barely holding back. That was the sole thought keeping him from insanity – he couldn’t take her unless she wanted to go.
It had been a long time since Rhys winnowed this far north. He could feel the fabric of the world as he sped through it, trying to keep some measure of focus so he didn’t end up stopping in the middle of enemy territory.
And then, before he had any longer to spiral, he was home.
He landed in the townhouse’s living room, and the first thing he saw was Mor, bright and vibrant and right in front of him for the first time in fifty years.
She let out a shriek of joy and moved to embrace him, tears streaming down her face as she clung tight, trying to fit fifty years of hugs into a single moment. Rhys let her, but everything was still spinning, faster than he could comprehend. His thoughts were entirely of her.
Mymatemymatemymate.
Feyre, with her eyes like the sea and her artist’s hands, painting flowers on a table. Feyre, with enough determination and ferocity to save them all. Feyre, human and dead, alive and remade as fae.
His mate, to claim and have and hold.
His very being screamed at him to go back for her. It would be so easy to stride into the gates of the Spring Court and whisk her away here –
No, he couldn’t. For the same reason he hadn’t reached for her back on the balcony. She didn’t love him, and would never forgive him for doing something like that. And she deserved peace.
Mor’s arms around him brought him back to the present. Her hug squeezed him like a vice, but he hadn’t been embracing her back.
“Rhys?” she asked with hesitation.
“She’s my mate,” he said, voice raspy.
He drew back from Mor, pacing across the worn wooden floor. “She’s my mate – and she’s with him.”
Concern was radiating off of Mor as she stood, eyes tracking his every movement. “Who is your mate? Rhys, talk to me.”
Go get her, go get her. You belong together, you are hers, and she is yours. Mate, mate, mate.
Mor drew back, keeping her hands on his shoulders. “Who is your mate?” she asked cautiously, and Rhys could see her thoughts of the worst spelled out in her eyes.
“Feyre,” he said, and he couldn’t keep the wonder and pain out of his voice. “I thought she might be – but I couldn’t say anything. And now I know – fuck. She’s my mate.”
It didn’t even make sense. Courageous, bright Feyre, paired with someone like him?
“Where is she?” Mor asked, confusion still dancing in her eyes. She probably didn’t even know who Feyre was.
“She…she’s with Tamlin. They’re in love.”
“Tell me everything,” Mor said.
Rhys hadn’t told anyone more than a fraction of the truth in years. It all came spilling out, his cousin was looking at him with such love and heartbreak.
He told her the main points, at least. Skating over some major details that were best left unspoken forever, but telling enough to give a mostly complete picture. Unable to summon any of his dramatic flairs, he explained the curse, Amarantha’s iron rule, and the dreams he had started having three years ago. A knowing gleam came into Mor’s eyes when he told of his first meeting with Feyre at Calanmai.
Though he took no joy in what Feyre – his mate had gone through, he went into more detail explaining her time Under the Mountain. The trials, the chores, her broken arm, and their bargain. Throughout it all, Mor was silent, though he could see a thousand questions burning behind her eyes. Still, she kept silent and listened to his story.
When he was done, it felt like some kind of pent-up energy had at last left him. There was relief in being able to tell someone about what had occurred. Even if he couldn’t bear to tell Mor the worst bits, part of the burden had been lifted.
Mor reached for him and wrapped him up in another hug, sorrow in her eyes.
“Oh, Rhys,” she said mournfully, in that silken voice he hadn’t heard for so long. Her faint Night Court accent nearly sounded foreign to him. “Once the relief of having you back has worn off, everyone is going to be ready to give you an earful for all this self-sacrificing. But thank you for being there for us, and protecting this court. Feyre will come here, and she’ll fall in love with this court. I know she will.”
This time, Rhys did squeeze her back, giving her all the love he hadn’t been able to over the decades. It registered that these were the first loving touches he had received in a long, long time. Other than an occasional supportive hand on his shoulder from Nuala and Cerridwen, nobody besides Amarantha had touched him for fifty years.
Mor gave him another squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, sounding a little teary-eyed.
“I missed you,” he murmured into her hair. “I missed you all so much."
-
As much as the days had dragged Under the Mountain, they flew by now that he was free. There was so much to be done – he had fifty years of legislation and political developments to catch up on. The war bands needed settling, as did the Court of Nightmares – both of which had gone back to doing things that made his blood boil.
He tried to make time to just be, lounging in front of the fire with Mor and playing cards with his brothers like he used to. But it was in those times, when he tried to relax, that his mind wouldn’t shut up about the last fifty years.
He had suffered for so long, why couldn’t he be free now?
But being bitter about it didn’t stop the memories, so he kept himself busy instead. If he kept his appearance and demeanor perfect, it made him feel a little less like things were falling apart.
And yet, there was one thought that he couldn’t seem to block out. Maybe it was because, deep down, he didn’t want to. It echoed in his head with every document he signed, every swing of his sword and every flip of a page.
FeyreFeyreFeyreFeyreFeyre.
My mate, my mate, my mate.
A constant thrum in his mind, it grounded him as much as it drove him insane. Like a buzzing he couldn’t block out.
One rainy day, just over a month after his return, Rhys found himself in his office, staring down another mountain of paperwork. Mor had handed it off to him that morning. Clearly, she intended to get back at him for all the documents she had handled alone for the past half-century.
He hadn’t been at it for more than half an hour before he felt eyes boring into the back of his head.
“You know I know you’re there,” Rhys said dryly. “Do you have something to say, or are you admiring the back of my head?”
Azriel didn’t respond to his sarcasm, only stepping out into the light of the office where Rhys could see him. Shadows danced around his brother, curling around his hands and neck.
“I have a report from the Spring Court.”
His heart didn’t skip a beat – it didn’t.
“Go on,” Rhys said, meeting Azriel’s eyes.
“Feyre Cursebreaker is engaged to Tamlin. He proposed yesterday, and they’re going for a short engagement – just two months. The wedding planning has already started.”
Rhys clenched the armrest of his chair, willing his mind to be quiet. Azriel watched him for a long moment, looking like he was debating saying something.
He hadn’t told anyone besides Mor and Amren about what Feyre was to him, but Azriel was clearly aware of his attachment, even if he didn’t know the full extent of it.
“This changes nothing,” Rhys finally said after a long pause, before Az could decide to start talking and inevitably said something well-meaning that made him feel worse. “We expected that this would happen. Feyre deserves to be happy.”
“You don’t plan to make your feelings known?”
“That wouldn’t serve any purpose. I won’t be the villain in this story,” Rhys insisted. “She’s only ever wanted a life with Tamlin. Enough that she died for him. And she deserves peace.”
“Is that what she’s getting?” his brother said with a raised eyebrow. “She deserves to know, Rhys.”
Rhys didn’t respond, turning back to his pile of papers instead, silently holding his breath until Az gave up on waiting for an answer and left.
-
Late that night, Rhys couldn’t sleep.
These days, he had taken to staying at the townhouse instead of the House of Wind. Objectively, the House of Wind would have been a better choice. It was far more open and overlooked the whole city. But everyone else was there, too.
The Inner Circle all had their own places in Velaris, but it seemed that Cassian, Azriel, and Mor had taken to staying in the House of Wind half the time. He gathered that during those fifty long years trapped, albeit in a very different place than he was, it had been their central place.
Which was exactly why he couldn’t be there now.
He hadn’t had any nightmares of his own yet tonight, but that was because the moment he fell asleep, he had been thrust into one of Feyre’s.
That night was a particularly bad one.
His mate had the most horrendous nightmares, Rhys had discovered shortly after they were freed.
Was that not another way they were matched?
Some nights he was dragged from his own hellscapes straight into hers. It was easier, he found, to try and soothe her terror than it was his own, even if he didn’t know where to begin, and hers broke his heart in a way that he didn't know how to express.
She didn’t deserve any of this. A year ago, she was a human on the other side of the wall, daring to dream of a better life. Now, her only dreams were hellish.
Tonight, he watched through Feyre’s eyes – she was back in Amarantha’s dimly lit throne room. The silent faces watching her flickered in the torchlight as she surveyed the three faceless figures before her in horror.
It’s the third trial all over again.
He felt his hands - her hands - shake as she removed the first faerie’s hood.
A knife in hand, a quick motion, and the first was done. The boy falls into Feyre, red staining her own dirty tunic. The second one is just how he remembers it, too. The prayer, the serene eyes that forgave Feyre as she broke apart.
When the third faerie was unmasked, Rhys wasn’t surprised to see Tamlin’s face staring up at him. What he wasn’t expecting for Tamlin to be clutching an emerald engagement ring in his hand. Blood started spilling out of the High Lord’s chest before Feyre could even stab him – and nothing prepared Rhys for Feyre to angle the blade inward, stabbing herself in the heart as she had been meant to do to her lover.
She screamed as the blade found its mark, sinking to her knees – and taking Rhys with her. Everything he saw was through her eyes, he had no body here.
Why wasn’t Tamlin waking her up? Surely he could hear her thrashing around and making noise.
Rhys scrambled for something – anything he could do to intercede. He might not have been there physically, but he had one thing Tamlin did not – a link with Feyre’s mind.
He scrambled for a solution as Amarantha rose from her throne, presumably to torture Feyre as she had done- but no.
Another woman with dark blonde hair was on the floor before Amarantha, screaming as her body contorted and bones broke at unnatural angles. Feyre's sister?
In that moment, he did the only thing he could think of. It was what he had done all those months ago - sent images of the night sky to her, and bits of one of his favorite melodies – the one he had sent to her before, Under the Mountain.
Please, don’t give up, darling. There’s so much for you to live for.
It was so much easier to say the words to her than for him to tell them to himself.
Their pain was so similar, it seemed, and it was the kind of thing he would have wanted someone to tell him.
He kept sending the music – his memory of the melody was renewed, after only hearing it the week before. Dream Feyre’s screams subsided as the dark hell of the throne room gave way to the clear night sky.
Suddenly, it all disappeared as Rhys was thrust out of Feyre’s mind entirely. Relief coursed through him.
She must have finally woken up. Thank the Cauldron
-
Feyre jolted awake in bed, thrashing out of the covers as she struggled to breathe.
Tamlin, the faeries she had murdered, Elain –
Not real, not real, not real.
You got out, Amarantha is dead.
Gods, she prayed she would never hear her sister scream like that.
The dream had been so terrible this time.
The night was warm and sticky – a side effect of living in perpetual spring – but Feyre couldn’t stop her hands from shaking, the images burned in her head.
You got out.
She mouthed the words over and over to herself as she rose from the bed and lit a candle.
Silently, she placed the candle on her bedside table and curled up in the bay window. It was her favorite spot in the room, overlooking the whole front yard. If she turned partially, she could watch Tamlin, still fast asleep in their bed.
This was real.
How many nights Under the Mountain had she prayed for the chance to be with him like this? And maybe the Mother had listened to her prayers, because she had gotten out, but she still couldn’t settle herself.
At least she hadn’t woken him up. Tamlin never woke during her nightmares, and if he was having them, he hadn’t given any indication. She had tried to talk to him about it, to no avail.
So, it was better if he didn’t know about her nightmares.
Feyre had thought that tonight she might have been able to have a peaceful sleep. It had been a happy day, after all. Tamlin had asked her to marry him, and she had said yes.
It was everything she had wanted, once upon a time.
It was still everything she wanted. Things were just more complicated, nowadays. This would be enough, it would just take some adjusting.
She let out a long, slow breath, trying to beat back the dread of sleeping. Tamlin was still deep asleep on his back, golden hair spread across the pillow.
He never seemed to wake at night – how, she couldn’t guess. She had plenty of dreams of him being torn from her in the worst ways. Hell, she even had ones of Rhys – hearing him scream her name as he hit the marble so hard it cracked. Over and over.
She hadn’t heard anything from Rhysand in the past month and a half. Tamlin had not-so-discreetly been searching for ways to break the bargain between them, but so far, Rhys hadn’t come to collect.
How was he doing? He had been through a lot, too. At least Tamlin had the freedom to live in his manor most of the time. However horrible the Night Court might be, Rhys had been separated from it for fifty years. It couldn’t have been easy.
The thought of the night sky teased a thought at the edge of her brain, and she frowned.
Something about this nightmare had been different. It had changed, at the very end, almost been pleasant. There had been a night sky and the same music she had hallucinated during her fever Under the Mountain. It was what had snapped her out of her fear and woken her up.
Strange.
She highly doubted that was what the Night Court looked like – she had poked around in the library a few weeks ago, and the only descriptions of it depicted endless night and countless terrors.
I suppose I’ll be experiencing those firsthand, whenever Rhys comes to collect.
How would she be treated, during those weeks?
A week in a Night Court prison cell could hardly be worse than what she had already experienced. If he had chores for her, she was plenty used to hard work. Although – he had gotten her out of both of those things Under the Mountain. In his own way.
She knew she was supposed to hate Rhys. Tamlin and Lucien certainly did.
But – he had fought for her. Bet on her when no one else had.
And now, apparently, he had turned his attentions elsewhere. Which was perfectly fine.
The entire thing was a mystery, and Feyre knew she would get nowhere with it tonight. Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to go back to Tamlin’s side in bed. Sleep wouldn’t be coming to her now, anyways.
So she leaned her cheek against the cool window and watched the passing of the night.
-
Another week went by, and Rhys tried to keep himself out of Feyre’s mind. He only ever felt two things through their bond – overwhelming fear during her nightmares, or absolutely nothing. It seemed that she went through her days like a ghost, being dragged through wedding planning and meaningless duties.
He wouldn’t deny that a thrum of wonder pulsed through his veins each time he got a glimpse into her thoughts. They were rarely positive, but all the same, it was another undeniable sign that they were bound, and meant for each other.
But it was also incredibly overwhelming. Especially when her thoughts were so bleak, and she had no one to help her with them.
Tamlin’s problem had always been that when a crisis hit, he was a bystander. He had done nothing to warn Rhys about the hunt for his mother and sister, he had done nothing when Feyre was in the depths of despair Under the Mountain. And it seemed like he intended to continue down that road now.
It drove Rhys insane, to watch him do nothing.
If he had been there, Feyre would never have doubted how much he cared for her. She wouldn’t have to face her pain alone. She wasn’t painting, eating, or leaving the manor’s grounds – Tamlin always put the latter idea down when she brought it up.
Cauldron, he wanted to kill Tamlin.
A month had already come and gone, and Rhys hadn’t collected on his bargain, as he promised himself he wouldn’t. He was giving Feyre the time she needed to sort her shit out – and giving Tamlin time to heal alongside her, too.
So why wasn’t the bastard doing anything?
Maybe his promise to himself had been a mistake. If he just called it in once –
If you call it in once, you whisk her away from everything she cares about and she hates you forever. Things will get better in the Spring Court. Tamlin won’t just let her wither away.
-
Two months went by, and Rhys still wasn’t sure if he was making a mistake. Every day, he contemplated winnowing into the Spring Court and bringing his mate back with him. He imagined what it would be like to show her Velaris, especially the Rainbow. She would probably be terrified of letting him fly her across the city – but perhaps she would come to enjoy it. She could meet Nuala and Cerridwen again, and see who they truly were. And he could introduce her to his family.
It was thoughts like these that meant every day, his resolve got a little thinner, but it hadn’t snapped yet.
He would make sure it wouldn’t. Despite what his ridiculous fantasies suggested, nothing good could come of it – which was why he had made plans to distract himself today.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you day drunk,” Cassian commented with a snort. “Are you sure you can handle all of this hard liquor?”
He had a point. Rhys hadn’t really gotten drunk in over 50 years. Cassian could definitely drink him under the table – not that Rhys had any plans to admit that anytime soon.
“Last time the three of us had a weekend at the cabin, I wasn’t the one who passed out in a snowbank in my undershorts,” Rhys retorted.
Cassian chuckled. “That was a damn good weekend, though. Is there an occasion this time?’
“Do I need an occasion do drink with my brother?” Rhys asked. “I thought you’d be thrilled I was breaking out my expensive stash.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Cassian replied.
“Cheers to another weekend of reckless self-indulgence?” Rhys said, raising his glass of whiskey.
“I’ll drink to that,” Cassian said, clinking his glass against Rhys’s and downing the whole thing in an instant.
The whiskey was stronger than Rhys remembered, but he downed his glass in one go, too.
He reached for the bottle to pour them another, when suddenly pure panic speared through his entire body.
Not his own, he knew instantly – Feyre’s.
Help, someone. Stop this, get me out.
He didn’t register what Cassian was saying – he was on his feet and winnowing away before he even realized what he was doing.
His mate was asking for help – finally. He wouldn’t let her suffer alone.
He winnowed in with a dramatic flare, sending out a cloud of darkness as he appeared. He vaguely registered that people were screaming and winnowing away – good. None of them mattered.
Feyre looked up at him, and he laid eyes on her for the first time in three months.
Cauldron – she never looked in a mirror, so he had never truly seen her.
She was much too thin, drowning in a gigantic white dress, lovely eyes blotted out by panic.
It was a good thing he hadn’t actually gotten drunk, or he really might have killed Tamlin.
Instead, he smiled as people scrambled away from him in fear.
I love this so much!!! It’s such a gorgeous snapshot into what Rhys was going through after utm, and I love the little mentions of his anger towards Tamlin, i love the idea that even when Feyre was at her lowest Rhys was in her corner yk. Gorgeous stuff, thank u for writing!!
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