feysand-hivemind

[feysand-hivemind]

Chapter 8 by talented @belabellissima is up! 💕

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) - Chapter 8

written for the @feysand-hivemind timeloop fic!

Pairing: Feysand

Fic Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter.

Until one day...it doesn't.

Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up in Amarantha's bed Under the Mountain - over and over. Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact. 

Chapter Summary: Rhys forgets some things. Rhys learns some things.

Chapter Warnings: Amarantha, attempted murder, burns, non-sexy penetration, angst (it is me again so...)

Read on Ao3 or Chapter 8 below:

Spending his winnings in the wake of Feyre winning her first trial was out of the question. Amarantha was already pissed enough that he’d won at all, that he’d bet against her trial when everyone else had known to bet against Feyre instead. So Rhys tucked the coins away in his rooms and played it safe. After she’d punished him for publicly going against her, he didn't dare flaunt it. He wanted to hide, wanted to lessen whatever fallout there might be for going against the Deceiver. So he watched with a smirk and sick stomach as Lucien was whipped for helping Feyre. As Tamlin did it to his own best friend.

Part of Rhys felt something close to kinship with the Fox. Hurt by the same person, the same friend.

But kinship was dangerous Under the Mountain, so once he knew the Fox wouldn’t bleed out there on the stone, Rhys put it from his mind. He had plans to make, more things to try. Both he and Feyre had to survive this if the loop was to end, so he had to learn of every possible potential threat that might still exist, uncovered in the dark.

He sent Nuala and Cerridwen out with a whisper of a mental nudge – nothing strong enough that Amarantha might sense it. He felt their acknowledgement, the way they melted into the shadows in the last seconds before he severed the connection. They’d already given him so much information, but they’d yet to try and make it into the catacombs and dungeons where the Prythian fae were locked up. But for him, so close to freedom, he was sure they would risk trying to cross the warded gates and guards that patrolled - especially if they thought it would help him.

Amarantha eventually tired of hurting Lucien and ordered him dragged away, then clapped for the music to play and dancers to begin. They ignored the fox’s blood still wet on the stone, stepping over and through it as the beat began.

Rhys watched the Lady of Autumn from his spot in the shadows, the drawn look on her face and sharp tension in her jaw. Grief and fear for her son overtaking everything in the aftermath.

Then he looked away. Looked away from her, only to feel the dizzy sensation of time fading out. Of the loop resetting.

Fuck. What was it this time?

She should have been safe in her cell.

Rhys opened his eyes, the echoes of the dream with Feyre killing the wolf a normal refrain. Beside him, Amarantha slept.

“Fuck,” Rhys whispered.

~

Time passed as if a blur. Rhys lived through the motions like a puppet, some other entity pulling his strings as day after day dragged on. Seeing Feyre at Calanmai was the first time he really felt alive again, simply for the fact that he could hold her in his arms, feel her rapid pulse in her wrists when he caught her from hitting the ground.

Then the manor, making Tamlin bow, holding her mind with his own. Alive, the pulse within him said. Alive, alive, alive.

She came under the mountain, made her bargain with the Deceiver. He held her mind as her nose was broken, prevented the pain from reaching her. Helped turn the guards' attention away when the Fox went to heal her.

Then the first trial, the Wyrm. He still bet on her, still knew exactly what would happen when she leaped and let gravity kill the wyrm. There was a thrill to seeing how it all played out, to knowing exactly how he’d changed things, and how he could get the same result every time up to a certain point. Or change it, if that was what he wished. He still hadn’t fully given up on being able to stop the whole farce before it began, but for now, finding a way though seemed to be what the Mother wanted more, as nerve wracking as that was for him. There was a relief in complacency, in trusting what he’d already discovered and lived through.

He knew he didn’t have to fear for her when she threw the bone spear, when she was dragged away to her cell as Amarantha demanded his attention.

It was only after Amarantha was finished with him that the fear returned. After all, he was finally free again to find Feyre and find out exactly what the fuck had killed her this time around. New territory, and changing plans as a result.

He stayed hidden in the shadows of her cell, watching her as she slept, shivering and curled up as best as she could.

She murmured something after a few minutes, eyes roving beneath the lids. They blinked blearily open a moment later, looked right at him, but there was no recognition. No awareness at all that she was seeing anything.

Rhys crept closer, his nose wrinkling as he finally caught the scent of infection over the scent of vomit.

It was bad – bad enough that he wasn’t sure how he’d missed it before. She’d broken her arm in the arena, but he hadn’t realized…

Memories of the war accosted him. He’d seen this before, seen his friends and allies die slow, agonizing deaths from wounds less severe than this. Rhys didn’t know how he’d forgotten before. Of course she was still injured, of course Lucien couldn’t have come to her. Healed her the way he’d once healed her nose. And Feyre wouldn’t make it long enough to wait for him.

Hadn’t, once before.

Rhys allowed the shadows to fall away from him, crouching before Feyre, hands hovering over her when she didn’t stir. She was almost gone already. Again. And was his fault. Amarantha’s fault, truly, but for his own foolishness to be the reason she’d died, the reason she was suffering…

With tremoring hands, he reached for her arm. The moment he brushed it, she screamed, jerking it away from him and coming to with a jolt.

“You,” she groaned, hunching over her injury protectively.

Rhys couldn’t find it in himself to be upset – she wasn’t delirious, wasn’t nearly as bad off as he’d thought she was from first glance. She had a few more days, because this time, he’d caught it. Hadn’t waited around.

“Me,” he replied.

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you. I couldn’t allow Tamlin's champion to waste away to nothing. Not when he can’t come down here to heal you himself, watched as he is.”

Feyre glared at him, saying nothing.

“You can wait, I suppose. Hope for the Lord of Foxes to come heal you again, like he did your nose. But I wouldn’t bet on it. He’s currently bedridden, you see. Tamlin had to beg for Amarantha to spare him after he helped you in the arena, and she did, after making Tamlin give him twenty lashes. Between you and me, I wouldn’t place my hope with him.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed momentarily at the news, her friendship with Lucien worrying her momentarily. Right up until she tried to shift and the movement sent her grimacing again in pain.

“I’ll take the risk,” she said anyway. Rhys pressed his lips together impatiently.

“Just let me heal you, Feyre. Swallow your pride. You know you’re not doing well. You’re dying. Maybe not today, not tomorrow. But Lucien isn’t going to get here before you do. What does it hurt to let me help you this once?”

Feyre laughed bitterly at him. “What wouldn’t it hurt? What would you even want in exchange?”

He spoke without thinking it through all the way. “Come to the Night Court.” Someplace he could keep an eye on her. Protect her. Make sure she didn’t fucking die again.

“Not a chance.”

“Just for two weeks,” he amended, sticking with his blurted out request despite how foolish it was. “Two weeks of every month, two weeks of my choosing, you’ll live with me at the Night Court. Starting after this messy three-trials business.”

“No.”

“No? Feyre, you’ll die. Trust me when I say I’ve seen how a wound can fester. Seen and lived through the aftermath of losing someone I care about to such a fate. I won’t lose you to that fate when there’s something I can do to prevent it. Now, let me heal your arm.”

Feyre, stubborn to the last, did not let him see her arm. Rhys knew it would hurt, knew it wouldn’t endear himself to her in the slightest, but still grabbed her arm anyway, holding it between them so she could truly see the damage. She screamed, trying to pull back, too weak to retract her arm again.

“Look at it,” Rhys demanded. “The veins are already turning dark with infection. Your bone is sticking out, for Cauldron’s sake! I can’t just… heal it, okay? I don’t have that kind of magic. But I can make bargains, and the magic inherent so such matters will take care of the rest. Just accept it already and live.”

“Why do you care?” Feyre gritted out. “Like you said, I’m just Tamlin’s champion.”

“You are far more than just Tamlin’s champion, Feyre. You are everyone’s champion. The only hope any and all of us have left. None of us have a chance at stopping her when she holds our leashes too tight. You’re it, Feyre. Do you not get that?”

“Why would you care about stopping her?” she asked, panting through her teeth and staring at her own arm in his grasp, seemingly debating if it was worth it to pull her arm back or continue to let him hold it if it meant less pain for her. Evidently deciding on the latter, she looked back up at him. “She lets you run free.”

Rhys barked out a laugh, dropping her arm. She immediately tucked it close to her chest, the other one coming up protectively around it. “Free? You have no idea the things I have sacrificed for this. You think Tamlin is the only one who has people he cares about? A court under his protection? We all have that, Feyre, and in all honesty I have more to lose than him. His family is dead, after all. Mine isn’t. And so long as I appear her perfect little whore, they stay that way. Alive.”

An understanding flickered in her eyes.

“Now, do we have a bargain? Because I would really, really love for this whole thing to be over already.” And in more ways than one. He had thought in the beginning that he could do this as many times as it took. Suffer through the loops over and over so long as it meant that in the end, both of them would be alive. But it never ended that way, and Rhys was starting to become reckless. Become resigned, too, with each new variation that lead to a painful death for one of them.

Slowly, Feyre nodded. “Two weeks in the Night Court when you call it in, in exchange for healing my arm.”

Rhys nodded as well and held out his hand for her to take. She did, gingerly sliding her palm into his. Rhys would swear something shifted when her skin finally made contact with his. A warmth, lingering there, even as she swore and pulled back from the sudden rush of magic into her. The infected blood dripped from the rapidly sealing wound, the bone shifted back in, and Feyre almost passed out from it. Rhys barely caught her in time from slamming to the floor, tightening his grip on her before she could fully disengage from him. He watched the swirls of ink bleed into her skin from where he gripped her, a physical manifestation of his magic rushing into her to heal everything. Cleaning her too, while he was at it. It had to be uncomfortable to still be covered in wyrm shit, and he didn’t want to risk her getting another cut - no matter how minor - and having it get infected as well.

A minute later, she blinked her eyes back open, finally seeming to have recovered from the shock and likely pain of the rapid healing. She glanced at her arm, eyes widening as she demanded of him, “what have you done to me?”

The marks were beautiful to him - whorls and flicks of magic settling as traditional Illyrian tattoos for luck and glory. Fitting, and Rhys was briefly disappointed he wouldn’t have a set of his own to match, having already upheld his end of their bargain. But a part of him, and a large part at that, reveled in the knowledge that she was marked by him. That she, who was the true artist between them, would have the art of his people there, a gift from him to keep her going.

Rhys stood, running a hand through his short, dark hair. “It’s custom in my court for bargains to be permanently marked upon flesh.”

Perhaps those marks weren’t always Illyrian, but he was choosing to see it as a blessing from the Mother. A sign he was making the right choice, taking the right steps.

Feyre rubbed her left forearm and hand, not as happy as he was. “Make it go away.”

Rhys laughed. “Not a chance, Darling. Those patterns mean something to me, and they’ll bring you luck.”

She pouted at that, a cute little frown knitting her eyebrows together as she peered closer at the design. His words mollified her only slightly, so she was still almost petulant as she complained, “You didn’t tell me this would happen.”

“You didn’t ask,” he replied. “Now, you should get some rest. Even with magic, healing takes energy, and you’ll need it.”

Before she could reply, he faded into the shadows again and winnowed away.

~

He hadn’t expected her to be in his room a mere two days after that, a fireplace poker hidden behind her back and covered in ash from his fireplace.

She held her own in their vocal sparring, even drawing his wings from him for a few moments, before he hid them again. It was reckless of him, but he could still see the tattoos on her arm, and it made him happy.

Strange, for him to be happy while underground. He collected the last of the lentils for her as a gift, repayment for the one she had given him without even trying. Then the guards led her away back to her cell, and Rhys couldn’t help but grin as he knelt to light a fire.

The next day, Rhysand felt her sharp and sudden terror. He had been lurking on the edge of her mind just in case, and he was never more grateful for it than in that moment. Without thought, he winnowed to her, uncaring of any consequences in a moment such as that. What did it matter anyway? It would just start over again if he messed up too badly. He’d already killed Feyre himself, watched her die and been unable to stop it, and killed himself to speed up the process. But letting her stay afraid…

She was in the Autumn Court wing. The guards from the day before laughed as they dragged her limp, burned body between them out of a room. For a moment, Rhys saw a different woman, with blonder hair and just as injured by the Autumn Court. A Court made for destruction and decay. Rhys reached out for their minds without a care, gripping their thoughts harshly and freezing them as he strode up to them. Inside the room they’d just exited, one of the younger Autumn princes was sneering at him.

“What have you done?” Rhys snarled at him. He was going to rip this male to shreds. He felt his power growing in his fingertips, the desire to mist him, to rend him blood from bone and make him suffer, rising with it.

“She was rooting around under my bed,” the prince retorted. “How was I supposed to know she wasn’t a thief?”

Rhys felt his wings starting to grow behind him, the beast deep within snarling to protect her, attack him. Kill them all for daring to lay a hand on her.

Feyre moaned in pain behind him, effectively seizing his attention. Rhys turned back to the guards, shadow wings vanishing as he lifted Feyre’s limp body into his arms. He delved deeper into their minds and pulled up the memory of them dropping Feyre off.

“Count how many grains of rice are spilled,” one told her.

“Don’t forget to look behind the furniture.” The other added. “Or else the owner of the room won’t be too happy when he walks through and hurts his feet on them.”

Rhys pulled out of their minds, tearing at them as he went. They both collapsed into heaps, dead before they could realize his intentions. He winnowed back to his rooms, his real rooms, the ones that she had been in not even a day before, cleaning lentils from a fireplace.

He couldn’t understand why there had been uncooked lentils in his rooms in the first place, but now…

Household chores. Classic ones from old faerie tales his mother had once told him. It seemed Amarantha liked the theme. Old fae tales for a girl with an old fae name.

Her eyes were shut tightly from the pain, and she was grabbing at her arm unconsciously. When Rhys dared to look closely, he almost vomited at the sight. The once beautiful markings were marred by burns, oozing blood and pus already from the high heat. Her skin was peeling away in places, and her cheeks were red too, a more superficial burn. Her hair was uneven, the edges charred and fragile.

The Autumn princeling had likely cast fire towards her, and she’d thrown up an arm to protect herself.

Rhys hadn’t yet known Azriel when his hands were burned, but he knew what they looked like healed. And that was with supernatural healing. He couldn’t even imagine how badly Feyre would look having to go through it all the long, painfully mortal way.

Unless they made another bargain? But she would have to be conscious for that. And what would she give? The other two weeks per month? Unlikely.

Rhys set her down on his bed gently, brushing her hair from her face and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before he could stop himself.

He would wait for her to wake, then find something else she could give him for a bit of bargain magic. But in the meantime…

He had a prince to still deal with.

He stalked back down the halls to the Autumn Court rooms, slamming the door open to the room Feyre had been in. The princeling was still there, sitting at his desk. He jumped up and whirled to face Rhys, fists alight with flame, but Rhys didn’t give him the chance to attack. He launched himself at the princeling, determined to get justice for Feyre, for Azriel, for Mor even. He had just managed to get a grip on his jacket before someone was pressing a dagger to his throat from behind.

“You should have known better,” Eris hissed at him, “Than to go after any of my family.”

Then the blade opened his throat.

At least Feyre wouldn’t be in pain any longer.

~

They made the bargain again the next loop around. Rhys even followed through on stopping the guards from taking her to the Autumn Court wing after she cleaned out the lentils. He ensured hot food was given to her every evening, and sent fresh blankets and clothes to her when he could spare them. Regardless, he could sense her despair growing. Feel it down their bargain that the boredom and the fear and the whole damn situation was getting to her.

He wished there was something he could do for her, but it wasn’t like he could take her for walks around the mountain. It was safer for her to be out of sight of Amarantha, and therefore out of her mind. She was stuck, alone, unless he were to keep her company. But she didn’t wish to be near him, not after he’d made that bargain with her again, put those Illyrian tattoos on her skin. He doubted she’d want to talk with Nuala or Cerridwen either, or he might have sent the wraiths to her cell just to keep her company.

He would have to come up with some way to get her out of the cell. To get her a way to safely walk around and be around other people, exercise and take in something other than misery. He had plenty of time, at the very least. Time was the one thing he wasn’t short on.

She was nearly despondent by the time the second trial rolled around, but at last they had made it. Rhys had been desperate the last few weeks, practically pulling out his own hair to ensure nothing went wrong, that he would finally see what it was Amarantha had planned for Feyre. And then he knew - a riddle. A pathetically easy riddle, and all Feyre had to do was pull a lever.

Even like this she’d be able to complete the trial. She wouldn’t have to run or fight anything, wouldn’t have to avoid a monster trying to kill her. Rhys was relieved that Feyre would get through this trial easily.

The first had been physical. This second would be mental. The third… who knew. Rhys was sure Amarantha would come up with something. Probably something to do with her heart. A challenge on humanity. A challenge for her soul.

But that day was still a month away, and there was no point worrying about it when Rhys was sure he would have the timeline reset at least a few more times before he ever made it there.

As Feyre was led onto the platform that would descend into the chamber below - where poor little Lucien was already chained up - Rhys scanned the crowd around them. The crowd was jeering, and Rhys took note of all the faces that were a little too enthusiastic. When Feyre succeeded and freed them, they would be the first on his list.

After Amarantha, of course.

Amarantha would always come first. For his men, slaughtered in the first war. For himself, for suffering under her tortures for nearly six decades at this point, having lived the final year of her curse over and over enough times. For Jurian, even, trapped as a ring and forced to witness it. And for Feyre, who had suffered far more than even she knew as a direct consequence of Amarantha’s choices and power.

“Well, Feyre, your second trial has come. Have you solved my riddle yet?” Amarantha waited for an answer they both knew wouldn’t come. “Too bad,” she said, pouting in mockery. “But I’m feeling generous tonight. How about a little practice?”

Rhys watched the Attor and other surrounding faeries laugh, adding them to his mental list of targets as well.

“Begin,” Amarantha said, and the floor began to descend. Rhys didn’t bother to watch, he already knew what Feyre’s reaction would be when she noticed Lucien’s predicament.

He watched Eris instead, especially with little Lucien down in the pit with Feyre. Eris had already killed him once - an embarrassing feat that Rhys was glad no one would ever be able to remember except for him - and looked like he was getting far too much glee at the thought of Feyre and Lucien dying a horrible death.

A mask, Rhys guessed. If Eris had been willing to kill him over one of his rival brothers, surely he’d be upset over his favorite brother dying. But it wouldn’t do to let Beron or Amarantha know.

Down in the chamber, Feyre cried out, finally noticing her friend next to her. Rhys glanced at her for merely a moment, then returned his stare to Amarantha. She was smiling, a cruel, slight thing. Delighting in Feyre’s pain and fear.

He imagined forcing her to trade places with Feyre. Chaining her up in Lucien’s place so that she had to wait. Watching. Feeling the burning heat of the metal spikes above her as they grew closer and closer.

Down in the chamber he heard Feyre pull a lever. Around him, fairies gasped. Amarantha's smile grew.

Rhys looked back down at Feyre. She had pulled the wrong lever. He was stunned, frozen for several seconds before he dove into her mind to find out why.

Her panic thoughts took him for a moment. She knew she was going to die. She knew Lucien was going to die. And she blamed herself because…

Because she couldn’t read.

Rhys’ heart dropped. He’d known she hadn’t had the best education growing up, but he had never once assumed that she could not read. He hadn’t helped her with this riddle because he had thought it would be easy for her. He thought she would get it in an instant.

And instead she had panicked. The words had blurred together into one jumbled mess. Lucien’s distress from across the cavern had distracted her, had made her even more nervous than she had already been.

The spikes were barely above her head. Rhys could already smell burning hair.

Rhys did the only thing he could think to do. He seized a hold of her mind, but before he could end it, before he could restart the loop without Feyre’s pain - the same burning pain she had just suffered the previous loop as well - the Attor pounced on him.

“No interfering,” it hissed, dragging him down to his knees and forcing him to watch. He hadn’t realized Amarantha suspected him so much. He could feel his magic being restricted even more than normal, so that he was unable to even look away or block her pain.

Rhysand watched, horrified, as those burning spikes descended through Feyre and Lucien.

And when he woke up beside Amarantha mere moments later, loop already reset, he swore he could still hear her screams.

[feysand-hivemind]

What are your favorite Feysand fics? I just started reading them within the last few months and am slowly making my way through them while also trying to make a dent in my book tbr 😅.

I am VERY glad you asked hehe I've already posted a list of my favorite feysand fics long ago it's still somewhere in my blog (and I can't find it lol) but I'm gonna add some here as well. Also you can search #feysand fanfic on my blog and you'll see so many good Feysand fics<3

Before I start I think you should read these authors fics no matter what!!! Their mind is made of gold: @the-lonelybarricade , @littedidyouknow (Sophie writes the most fluffy/angsty fics<33) , @thesistersarcheron , @whatishowedyouinthedark (SVDG fanfics' tend to be very dark so be warned, but I suggest you to give them a shot hehe) @rosanna-writer , @popjunkie42 , @separatist-apologist , @amnevitahwritesstuff

Explicit, Fluff, Angsty, AU, Canon divergence:

Ready Or Not by Separatist_Apologist

The darker the fruit, the sweeter by Lady_Bluebird

I’m on my way to you by Littledidyouknow

Play me a memory by Littledidyouknow

Chains by Popjunkie42

A Study In Starlight by Vivienne1412 (Bridgerton AU)

Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met by ClimbTheMountain2020

All I See Is You by KingofSummer

tensegrity by SweetVillainDarlingGod

On The Usefulness of Kneeling by rainymorning

A Court of Dreams and Wishes by HighLadyOfIcedCoffee (role-reversal)

to take, to worship by VivereLibri

Poltergeist Darling by miss_belivet

miracles by VivereLibri

i mean, technically, (y)our marriage is saved by soopsiedaisies

Also these ones are on my tbr:

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) by amnevitah, BelaBellissima, ClimbTheMountain2020, Popjunkie42, reverie_rose, rosanna_writer, WordsAndWishes

Painted Blind by Popjunkie42

Blossoming in Winter by Popjunkie42

Bejeweled by miss_belivet

Buried Alive Inside My Dreams by Separatist_Apologist

I hope you love reading these as much as I did<3 although if you're looking for something specific let me know hehe

[feysand-hivemind]

it’s monday i’m in the labyrinth

[feysand-hivemind]

Kill me once, shame on you. Kill me twice, how did you did that.

[feysand-hivemind]

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) - Chapter 7

I Know You, I Walked With You Once Upon A Dream

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter. 

Until one day, it doesn't. 

Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact. 

A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt. 

Warnings: mild canon-typical violence, NSFW, sexual content

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Word Count: 4k

Notes: Surprise! I am part of the hivemind! I am not subtle, lol. I literally cannot tell you how much fun I have had with this wonderful group of people plotting and planning and cackling over all these chapters. @feysand-hivemind it’s been so fun to match your freak! I’ve had such a blast being a part of this.  <3 Thank you @popjunkie42 @tunaababee @witch-and-her-witcher and @rosanna-writer for the beta help! <3

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3 or under the cut.

Dead again.  

This time he hadn’t even known that something was wrong. He’d had a grand plan, a measured procedure for how things were going to go. Perhaps, he’d thought, if no one interfered at all, she would make it through the trials on her own and then the two of them might start with a cleaner slate. 

He should have known that she wouldn’t survive without any interventions at all. She was so lovely and beguiling, so smart and scrappy, so willful and stubborn, that it was so simple to forget she was also so tragically fragile and human. 

It had been two weeks since the last death, the reset having taken him by surprise, but he was biding his time now. Not intervening hadn’t worked, intervening too soon was equally disastrous. So instead, Rhys was performing his least favorite activity as he wiled his time away Under the Mountain: he was being patient. 

Blessedly, Amarantha had been sidetracked. Two uprisings in Day and Winter had kept her furious and occupied since he’d last awoken in her bed. The silence and privacy he’d been given in her distracted absence had left him time to think about what other approaches he might take to see this through to a different end. 

He sat on his bed in the darkness, the stress of the past two weeks compounding as he wondered where his little painter–where Feyre –might be now. He let his head sink into his hands, the pounding headache moving from his temples to the base of his skull. After fifty years, he thought he’d grow used to this living space, these bare, windowless walls, the stuffy and stagnant air. Normally, he could shove that claustrophobia, that need to breathe , somewhere deep down and far away. But today? Today Rhys had reached the end of his rope almost immediately upon waking, the walls closing in and sending his mind racing against the base need to feel open air on his skin. 

How many times was he going to live this torture?

He had wondered more than once about the potential merits of writing all the details down, even just to see them there on the paper. Would it make it more real? Would it make it more tolerable? At the end of the day, he’d decided over and over that it would be no use. He took nothing with him when the loops restarted–nothing but memories and the ever-growing desperation that this might be the punishment he’d earned for a lifetime of idiocy. 

And truly, he had earned this. He had done everything for the selfish benefit of keeping his home and his family safe. He would beg, barter, kill, and steal to keep them well and away from this, even knowing what torturous and questionable things he’d be required to do by Amarantha. He thought of his family as he so often did– Azriel’s brooding kindness, Cassian’s easy, teasing smile, Mor tossing her head back in laughter, and Amren’s harsh but loyal nature. He’d do it all again for them.

This time, though, the images didn’t end with them. They floated effortlessly into swirls of golden hair, freckles, and gray-blue eyes. They echoed with her taunting tone, her words–both sharp and curious–, her smile. Feyre was the key to this loop, somehow, and Rhys was going to figure it out even if it killed him. Again.  

Tonight had seen Rhys plagued again by nightmares. He had awoken in a cold sweat, the guilt and nausea eating at him as he’d shot awake in the dark room. Every night, he’d relive the light leaving her eyes as she died, that bright spirit guttering out as she searched for him across a sea of faces.

Feyre. Feyre. Feyre. 

He felt her name pulse through his mind like the beat of his heart. 

He was overcome by a need to see her, to assure himself that she was alright and unharmed in Spring. 

Without further time to hesitate, Rhys shot from the bed, tossing on clothes and sliding into the hallway. There were no sounds in the empty night, everyone having retired for the evening. The halls here were eerie even in the best of times, but Rhys hated the creeping feeling that was unique to this cursed place. He crept along the rock-hewn hallways, moving as silently as a specter and listening for even the smallest of sounds. There were no signs that Amarantha had returned, her quarters still quiet as the grave as he walked past. He sensed no thoughts from within, and hoped it meant that she was asleep or gone. 

He walked through the last of the halls to the tunnels, easily finding the door where he’d released the bogge. It had only been days ago, but lost in these loops it felt like it could have been years, lifetimes. As soon as he left the stifling swell of the wards, he was winnowing, taking the short bursts to Spring. The closer he got, the clearer the air smelled, that comforting and familiar tang of moss and honeysuckle and grass prickling at his senses. Long ago, he’d considered this place another home. 

He shook his head at the thought on his final winnow, arriving at the edge of the Spring woods, the magic of Tamlin’s wards shattering at a mere touch. 

Tamlin still couldn’t be bothered to fix his shitty border magic, despite the circumstances. No loops ever seemed to change that. Rhys could see the manor up ahead, a towering mass of marble and vines in the moonlight. The air around him was so warm it nearly felt like floating in a still sea as he moved closer and closer, following that lively trail of lilac and pear to the window he remembered as hers. 

That felt like years ago now, too, since he’d come here to find her and Tamlin embracing in their sleep. He shook his head again as if to dislodge the image as he materialized on the balcony’s edge. The security here would be laughable if it didn’t make him worried for Feyre’s safety. 

She slept with the balcony doors flung open, the gentle breezes of Spring dancing over her skin. This time, blessedly, Feyre was alone in the bed. She was faced away from him, curled on one side with her hands tucked beneath her chin. He could see the freckles across the bare expanse of her shoulders, and just like before, he ached to touch them. Rhys released a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, the tension already allowing his shoulders to sink back down. Just the sight of her, her mere presence, worked like a balm on his soul. 

He looked over to the door, laughing at the haphazard trap she’d rigged up for anyone daring to enter. By his calculations, she hadn’t been in Spring for long. She and Tamlin were clearly not together yet. An emotion flashed in his chest at the huntress’ rope and curtain contraption at the door, an odd flare of something at her audacity, her will. It was becoming harder and harder to not feel things for this ferocious human girl, the ache within him calling to her even when it would all be so much easier if it didn’t. 

But there she was, sleeping peacefully and silently on the bed. She wasn’t dead, wasn’t broken. Her throat wasn’t ripped out, she was not being taken by wounds or choking to death, and Rhys could hear the steady thrumming of her heart from the open doors. It took every bit of his willpower to not slip inside the room, to inhale that sweet, light smell of her greedily like a man starved at his final supper. 

Rhys knew what the right move was. Feyre was safe and dreaming and that should be all he cared about, especially since she wasn’t with Tamlin. But…

But…

No. 

It was not Rhys’s place to be here. He had come to see that she was well, and she looked well. This Feyre didn’t know him, and even the Feyres that did know him wouldn’t have wanted him lurking in her bedroom while she slept. He had to admit he felt a little bad about skulking around Spring to watch her sleeping in the first place, and that creeping thought of truly being the creature of nightmares bit at him. But he’d needed to see her, assure himself that she was living and breathing and okay. Seeing her comfortable and at peace was enough for him. If all went well, he was sure he’d see her again soon enough. 

After giving her one more look, committing the soft sighs and smooth lines of her face to memory, Rhys turned to go. But as he turned to step back through the balcony doors and take off into the night, her sweet voice permeated the air. He whipped around faster than a flash of light, worried he’d been caught, but Feyre still slept, turned towards him now, her eyes shut tightly and a murmur on her lips. 

Rhys stood shell shocked, unable to draw his eyes away from her form, naked from the waist up. He couldn’t look away from her, even if he’d tried, his mouth suddenly dry and jaw slack. She moved again beneath the sheets, the seam of them dropping even lower down her waist against her writhing. 

The smell of her arousal hit him like a brick, and suddenly he was grasping the door frame, cracking it beneath his hands in his grip before his mind could catch up. It was like getting hit with a tidal wave–a heavily perfumed, absolutely delicious tidal wave. Rhys wasn’t one to fall to his baser needs, but the scent was the most overwhelming thing he’d ever experienced. His grip on the doors tightened and the wood warped and cracked beneath his palms. He couldn’t inhale fast or wholly enough, filling his lungs greedily with the scent of her. 

His Feyre.

He needed to leave right this second. He needed to get out of there before he did something he would regret.

Touch, claim, mine.

Turning from the room was the most difficult thing that Rhys had ever done in five centuries of living. Moving away from the delicious smell of her nearly broke him, but he needed to go before it was too late. As he turned to jump and winnow, her voice rang out quietly into the silence, so soft that he nearly questioned if he’d heard it at all. 

“Who are you?” His eyes shot to hers, but he found them still closed, eyelashes settled on her freckled cheek. She moved her hand over her face, rubbing the heel of her palm into her eye as she sank down further in the plush down of the pillows. “Come back.”

Now that she’d beckoned him, called out as though just for him, he knew he couldn’t leave her, even if he should. He could deny his painter nothing. 

She rustled beneath the sheets again, murmuring and moaning softly, and Rhys slipped quietly and gently into her mind, just for a moment, he swore to himself. 

Rhys was immediately struck by the smell of her, somehow even more potent than before. In her dream, she was on the same bed, the soft light of the moon filtering in through the windows. She was no longer sleeping beneath the covers, but kneeling, her legs spread wide and naked save for a pair of lacy, navy underclothes.

There on the bed, there was a figure curled lovingly behind her, his hand over hers as it moved methodically within her underwear. The figure was blurred, features not clear in the dreamlike state they were in. It looked nearly like a watercolor, the purples and blacks and blues all running together and unfocused. Rhys walked around the bed, keeping his eyes on Feyre’s writhing frame. The realization struck him as solidly as her scent had, the equivalent of running straight into a marble wall. It was him who cradled Feyre in his arms, the raven black hair and violet eyes beholding himself like a mirror as the hazy image came into focus.

He hadn’t projected that–hadn’t gone into her head to touch her. Had she been dreaming of him as he'd dreamed of her? His little painter…had some memory stuck, or was she dreaming of him in all the loops before they'd met? Had it been him the same way that he'd seen her in his?

He wove those tendrils of power out into the fabric of her dreams, caressing the fragments of sparkling night over the mirror image of him that had hands on her. With a flick of his wrist, dream Rhys was gone, the open air suddenly cold behind Feyre causing her eyes to fly open and land directly on him. 

Rhys stuttered a step, ceasing his motions. She shouldn't be able to see him here, not unless he'd willed it. But she was staring right at him all the same, a blush rising on her cheeks. 

Rhys was entranced by her, his eyes darting across her freckles, her smile, her hooded eyes, too much and not enough of every little bit of her, as though he couldn't pick just one thing to behold. 

Despite dream-Rhys’s removal, Feyre had not removed her own hand, keeping it pressed motionless to herself.

“Hello.” Her voice was thick and smooth as honey, and just as sweet, the sound coiling around Rhys’s ears and going straight to the base of his spine. Feyre looked at him from beneath lowered lashes, and his body itched to step closer. “You came back.” Rhys nodded, the action entirely out of his hands, still completely unsure of how she could see him in this dream without him willing it. 

She stayed as still as a statue, eyes firmly planted on Rhys. “Will you tell me your name this time?”

“Rhysand,” he answered without thinking, without planning, cursing himself inwardly as the word left his mouth. But Feyre just smiled demurely at him, the motion lighting up her entire face. 

“Hello, Rhysand. I'm Feyre.” 

“Hello, Feyre darling.” The greeting purred out of him as naturally as anything, and he could see her breath catch. She sat back on her haunches, that beautiful blush creeping to her neck and decolletage, but still, her hand remained where it was.

“I've dreamed of you before. But you never interact with me. It’s always just flashes, but you're here now.” Her voice had dropped, the husky tone of it driving home that force of arousal building within him. She was so beautiful, so lovely. And in this loop, even if it was just a dream, she wanted him. “This is another dream, right?”

He shouldn't. This was wrong . 

She thought it was just a dream, that there was nothing to it. But the way she was looking at him, the way she smelled. He inhaled again, even halfway into her mind the scent was overwhelming. The loveliest thing he'd ever had the pleasure of scenting. 

“This can be whatever you want it to be, darling.” He saw her breathe in deep, nostrils flaring as her wide eyes fixed on him.

“Would you, I mean, if you–” Her words failed her, but the intent was clear as she began to move those fingers that had been stilled the whole time. 

It was an invitation. She wanted him, her open blue eyes begging for contact. 

Fuck it. 

“Would you like a hand, love?” He could see the hitch in her throat as she inhaled, her eyes sparkling at the timbre of his voice. She was so responsive, her nipples tightening against the thin lace of her top and leaving nothing to the imagination, and he took a single unbidden step towards her. 

She nodded eagerly. “Please.” He felt delirious with want.

Rhys bit back a groan. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it in all these loops, what her skin would feel like against his, her soft warmth against the hard planes of his body. He circled the bed and watched as she took another deep breath, letting her eyes slip closed. He magicked his boots and tunic away, leaving him behind her in nothing but pants as he crawled into the bed. 

It isn't a good idea, his thoughts whispered, but as he touched her shoulder and a crackle of something zapped through his veins, he knew he wasn't going to stop unless she asked him to. 

She sighed languidly as his fingers danced over her shoulders and played up and down the sides of her neck. He pressed the length of his exposed torso against her back, her skin scalding against his at the contact. He swallowed back a sigh that seemed to emerge from him unbidden, but Feyre simply laid her head back on his shoulder, wordlessly expressing the level of comfort she already felt at his presence in her dreams. 

Rhys ran his hands along Feyre's sides, watching as her flesh prickled in response. His fingers slowly crept higher and higher, the silky smooth texture of her skin driving him wild. 

“Touch me.” Her voice was a whisper of smoke in the wind, but nothing had ever sounded clearer to him. 

He didn't need to be told twice, his magic racing out to mist the thin layers of lace into oblivion. His deft fingers wasted no time in cupping her breasts, feeling the heavy weight of them in his large hands and tugging gently on her nipples as she let out the most delicious sound he thought he might have ever heard. Her soft sighs and gentle moans were like music to his ears, her whimpers a song that he’d been waiting for his entire life. He touched her chest, gently and playfully touching and circling them until Feyre was gasping and wiggling in front of him, her body rubbing against his like a cat in heat. He was painfully hard by the time she was begging and pleading for his hands to move lower, pulling them with her own until they reached her sex. 

Rhys hardly managed to bite back a groan of his own when he ran his fingers through her wet heat. She was soaked entirely through, her arousal running down her thighs as he spread her open with his fingers. 

“All for me, Feyre?”

“Gods, please .” 

He grinned as he pressed hot, open mouthed kisses to her neck and shoulders, dipping his fingers barely into her and circling them around her as she cried out. Nothing has ever felt as good as Feyre trembling against him, nothing had ever sounded as nice as his name on her lips. 

“Rhysand,” she gasped as he pressed a finger into her warmth. 

“Rhys. Just Rhys.” 

“Rhys,” she murmured, turning her face to his and capturing his lips with hers. When their mouths met, Rhys swore the world shifted on its axis, the arousal and emotion and feeling in his chest threatening to explode under the pressure. The light around them went soft and hazy as they moved together, the glow blurring around them like the dream was ebbing in and out with their shared breaths.

He added another finger as she undulated against him, each and every point of contact shooting sparks into his bloodstream as he gasped aloud. She responded by doubling down, reaching behind her to toy with the waistband of his pants. 

He felt nearly embarrassed, reduced back to a youngling as he bucked forward into her touch, his rhythm momentarily stuttering. 

He tried to pull back, resuming his own ministrations, but she wrapped her fingers into his waistband and pulled him back to her.  

“I want to touch you.” He couldn't argue with that. 

Rhys shoved his pants down, his erection jutting against her back. Feyre wasted no time in grabbing it with enthusiasm, Rhys's mind reeling with the pleasure of it as she began stroking up and down the length of him. The movements were somewhat jerking with the angle, and Rhys still thought as he brushed against the cheeks of her ass, that it might be the most magnificent thing he’d ever felt. Despite the angle, the rush of it all overtook them quickly, the natural back and forth of it seeming as easy as breathing. Before long, they were both a breathy mess, her head resting back against his shoulder and his forehead against her neck while they moved together. 

“You're exquisite,” he whispered into her hair, the smell of her so potent and overwhelmingly lovely at this proximity. 

He could feel her fluttering around his fingers, feel the echoes of her impending orgasm grasping at him desperately while she moved her hand faster around him. Rhys was glad she was close because he was losing control, the feelings thundering through his chest and threatening to burn him alive wrapping down around the base of his spine. 

He pressed the heel of his hand into her as he pistoned his fingers in and out, the movements becoming more intense as she responded in turn, their touch reaching a crescendo. 

“Come for me, Feyre.” 

She clenched around him. “Only if you come with me,” she responded huskily, even as she herself tipped over the edge. Rhys followed immediately, his vision nearly blacking out for a moment as he did. 

He wasn't sure when he'd eased them to the bed, their breathing evening out between their twisted limbs, sticky with sweat and cooling in the Spring night air. Rhys felt weightless, the dream or the satisfaction allowing the pull of the world to work differently around them. He brushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear and tugging her back to his chest tightly. 

“That was incredible,” she whispered, and Rhys fought the urge to preen. 

“It was. You are.” 

She laughed softly, turning her head to look at him. Her eyes looked like the sky after a storm, the heavy clouds that used to roll in over the snowy peaks of Illyria. Home. 

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and Rhys wondered if he'd ever felt so sated in his life. His time here was limited, but he was going to enjoy every single second he had allowed himself.

She had dreamed of him, recognized him. She had wanted him here. 

“Will I see you again?” she murmured quietly as he brushed his fingers up and down over her thighs and hips. Her eyes were already beginning to flutter shut. 

“I would be willing to put money on it.” His voice was tinged with relief, with laughter, with joy he had not felt in ages.  

“Do you have to go?”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. I do.” 

She was mostly asleep by now, sighing lightly as her eyelids finally shut and stayed closed. “I’ll see you soon, Rhys.” He smiled despite himself, brushing his fingers lightly across her forehead then placing a kiss there as her breathing evened out. 

He carefully eased himself out of her mind. Outside of her dream, he was still leaning against the door to the balcony, the distance between them feeling near-painful now, a throbbing ache in his chest that demanded he step closer. Rhys resisted this time, knowing that the dawn would be coming soon and turning from the room with one final look at his painter. 

As he winnowed back to the grounds, walking around the property to the woodline under the cover of remaining night, his thoughts were lighter than they’d been since all this loop nonsense had begun. She’d dreamed of him, his face, his voice, his touch. If she could seek him out in her dreams this way, think of him as a soothing presence instead of something evil, how might that change the future of the loop? 

Next time, it could be familiarity and not fear or mistrust that guided their interactions. 

Why hadn’t he considered this before? It changed everything . 

Rhys rounded the final corner of the manor that bordered the woods, light on his feet and his spirit buoyed with this newfound, unfamiliar, but welcome hope. 

The last thing he saw was the form of a sentry, the sword already flying through the air and aimed directly at his neck.  

Well, fuck.

[feysand-hivemind]

WIP - ✨Azris time loop au✨

In the first war against Hybern, Eris watches Azriel die to the kings blade. He's young, inexperienced though he'll never admit it, and grasping as he leaves the battlefield. He carries with him the only thing he took from the desecrated grounds: Azriel's dagger, Truth-Teller.

It's only when the same day starts again, Eris realizes something's gone terribly wrong.

~A (very long) one-shot~

"The courtyard's breath is stolen away. Every small sound of Azriel's body fighting for his next breath is absent. A void sits between him and Azriel and he is left in utter silence. Crushing, horrible silence. No longer can he ignore the persistent ache of his own wounds, his own pained breathing. Eris tumbles to the side, off his scraped knees, and stifles a cry when his raw hands land on the rough gravel."

guess who's having fun torturing Eris? 😎

mE. I am ehehe. I've already written 10k for it, not in chronological order or anything, but still. I have no idea when this will be posted, all I know is that I wanted to share because I LOVE time-loop au's. So I'm literally having the time of my life fully realizing the joy of time-loop au's and azris - best of both worlds I'm having the time of my life.

*ahem* also if anyone has azris time-loop fic recs, or literally anything time-loop with azriel or eris please send ����👈 I'm desperate I can't find any :(

[feysand-hivemind]

WIP WEDNESDAY

You’re most probably wondering “Can things get any worse for poor Rhys?” and we’re here to tell you that yes, they can (and they will). Poor guy. 😉

Anyway, here’s another look at a future chapter:

***

Taking a deep breath and trying to calm his racing heart, Rhys checked if anything else was amiss.

Everyone looked miserable. The Attor was accounted for, the bitch standing next to him. Every High Lord was present—

Almost everyone, he thought to himself with a growl. Tamlin was unaccounted for.

He cast his mind all over this sham of a court, the usage of his powers draining him more and more by the day, until he found both of them, their presences next to each other. Tamlin’s mind was a fortress, but Feyre’s… she was screaming every thought down the bridge between their minds.

More, more, more

[feysand-hivemind]

WIP Wednesday

How about a little sneak peak of a future chapter? You ever once thought, "Man, it sure would be nice if Rhys got to tell Amarantha what he really thinks about her..." Well my loves, today is that day.

“Has anyone ever told you what an insufferable creature you are?” She paused, almost as if in shock. Rhys had never spoken to her like this before. Not in all his 50 years under this godsforsaken mountain. He had always been such a good boy to her face. But none of that mattered anymore.  Besides, it wasn’t like she would remember any of this anyway.  “Oh, forgive me,” he continued. “Were you not expecting that from me? Have I played your adoring pet for too long? Well let me set the record straight here and now. You repulse me.” His face twisted into a snarl. He was sure he looked more wolf than fae in that moment.  Amarantha said nothing, still caught by surprise. The arena had gone silent. No one dared make a sound as Rhys voiced everything no one else was brave enough to say out loud.  “You’re pathetic. Whatever happened to that great and ruthless general I wonder? The one who struck fear into the hearts of her enemies? Are you so helpless and pitiful now that you had to bind all of Prythian through trickery? Have you grown so miserable and weak that you are reduced to playing games with a human? A child?” It felt so good to say this out loud. To finally tell her what a vile little cretin she was.  “I’ve met rodents more appealing than you.”

[feysand-hivemind]

A second entry from @rosanna-writer!

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) (6/?)

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter. Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact. A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt. Warnings: canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence, temporary character death Rating: Explicit

We've had one short Feyre death interlude, yes. But what about SECOND short Feyre death interlude?

I had so much fun giggling with the rest of @feysand-hivemind over silly ways to kill Feyre amid all the actual plot brainstorming we did! Much love to this group of unhinged goofball creative geniuses <3

Read on AO3 or find the chapter under the cut! The tumblr masterlist for the fic is here.

Watching Lucien bring Feyre back to the manor hadn't been enough to ease Rhys's mind. Even as he'd hunted the faeries who'd nearly gotten their hands on her—and enjoyed it—he'd worried.

He slipped back into the manor to check on her. And call it intuition, a gut feeling, or an impossible reason he might sense things about her that Rhys refused to even consider, but Feyre was awake. And creeping down the stairs.

Cloaking himself in shadow, he followed her, footfalls silent. She made her way down to the kitchen, completely alone with all the servants still out celebrating Calanmai. There were still a few hours left until sunrise, and Rhys was sure the denizens of the Spring Court were fully intent on wringing every last bit of merriment out of their very last Fire Night aboveground.

He couldn't blame them. He wanted to savor these rare few hours of freedom, too.

It had been so long since he'd seen the stars.

But more importantly, he wanted to see for himself that Feyre got back to bed safe and sound. Blissfully unaware of the revelry outside, with its undercurrent of frantic desperation, she was busy gobbling down half a loaf of bread.

And an apple. And a lemon tart.

Mother above, the girl could eat.

She grabbed a cookie next and practically inhaled it, so quickly that she began to cough. The coughs became strange gurgling noises. Feyre's face began to turn blue.

Before Rhys could react, she'd keeled over. Her breathing stopped. He stood there in shock, unsure what to make of the fact that Feyre had just choked on a cookie and died.

Right after the mermaid, too. Perhaps everything in the Spring Court was trying to kill her.

The thought made his insides twist as the world faded to darkness and time reset again.

He followed the same steps as before; the sequence of events was becoming painfully familiar. Rhys wondered how long it would be before he could follow them without even having to think about it.

No—he wouldn't let it come to that. He'd break them out of this loop well before that happened. He had to.

After the last disaster with the cookie, he followed her back to the kitchen after Calanmai again. And because Rhysand wasn't in the business of making the same mistakes twice, when she bit into the cookie, he called her name.

Rhys knew their encounter had frightened her, even if he had saved her from the picts. He did the only logical thing and used magic to distort his voice.

Feyre flinched. And coughed again. The whole thing ended again much the way it had in the last loop, and for the life of him, Rhys couldn't decide if seeing Feyre killed by a cookie—not even once but twice —was a message or merely some sort of divine punishment.

At least the mermaid had only deigned to attack once.

He tried again, misting the cookie before Feyre could get her hands on it. She merely choked on the lemon tart instead.

Casting a glamour to conceal the food just resulted in a head injury when Feyre fell off the step stool she'd climbed, utterly determined to find something to eat.

In the next loop, he barred the kitchen door. She managed to injure herself attempting to pry it open.

The High Lord of the Night Court accepted that he'd been bested by a cookie.

The world remade itself again, and Rhys didn't attempt to dissuade her from the kitchen. He kept his distance. She lived.

Perhaps that was the lesson behind all of this—that Feyre was better off without him getting too close. Instead, he set to work hunting the picts, and as Tamlin bit Feyre's neck somewhere in the distance, Rhys tried not to sink further into despair.

[feysand-hivemind]

Chapter five by @amnevitahwritesstuff is up now! 💕 This was a delight. Thank you.

Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter. Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact. A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt.

Part of the @feysand-hivemind

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Teen

Triggers: Murder, (Temporary) Character Death

Surprise! Bet you didn't think you'd see me as a part of this project (except you probably did because I haven't been nearly that subtle these past few months)! Anyway, please enjoy this (very short!) silly little palette cleanser of a chapter before I hand you back off for our regularly scheduled angst.

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Chapter Five: The Mermaid (Loop 26)

“What the-?”

Arielle blinked her eyes open in confusion at the waves and ripples that had disturbed her slumber. She had just settled down for the night, in her bed of waterweed and algae, when- 

There, towards the little shore of her pond, she spied a pair of feet wading through the water followed by the sound of drunken laughter. Were they…? Oh Cauldron, they were!

The mermaid grimaced in disgust. 

Did the high fae not teach their children any manners? Honestly!

Clearly some people still needed a reminder not to encroach upon the homes of others. 

While river mermaids were somewhat different from their sea dwelling cousins (primarily in that they were lazier and more prone to napping in the sun rather than luring sailors to their deaths) they more than made up for their lack of blood thirstiness with pettiness and a zero tolerance policy regarding home invaders. 

Especially if said invaders were trying to get frisky right on her front doorstep. 

“Excuse me!” She said tersely as she swam towards the intruders. “Don’t you know this is private property-”

And that was right about when one of them decided to step on her hair. 

Arielle shrieked, jerking back in pain and shock and knocking the perpetrator clear off their feet. She felt them crash into the water with a cacophonous splash while their companion seemed stunned into stillness at discovering that this pond was, in fact, home to something other than a few frogs. 

“First you invade my pond without permission and then you attack me in my own home?!” The mermaid screeched furiously as she grabbed ahold of the figure trying to scramble back to their feet and pulled them back underwater. 

They toppled into the water and while they were still disorientated, the mermaid wrapped her fingers around the figure’s skinny little neck and squeezed. Their hair floated prettily around them like gold thread as the fae thrashed instinctively before their neck…snapped.

Arielle blinked. 

Surely fae were sturdier than that? She’d pulled several down into her pond in the past for one reason or another and they always managed to fight her off easily enough. So why did this fae have such a breakable little neck?

Wait…no. Not fae. 

Human. 

The mermaid stared down at the intruder, puzzled, noticing rounded ears and tasting the whiff of mortality that hung around the creature like a cloud. 

What was a human doing in her pond?

They were Arielle’s last thoughts before a different set of hands grabbed ahold of her and tore her out of the water. 

She thrashed. 

Until she came face to face with the High Lord of Spring himself. 

And he was furious. 

“Do you realize what you’ve done?!!”

“Do you realize how rude it is to invade someone’s home?!” The mermaid couldn’t help but snap. High Lord or no, it was terribly rude to gallivant through her pond without so much as a by-the-by. 

“She was our only chance of breaking the curse! You’ve ruined us!”

For a moment it felt like the High Lord was speaking in riddles. Curse? What curse? But then…

“…Oh. Well that’s not good.”

The High Lord didn’t answer, only exploded in a flurry of fur and claws and Arielle’s pond soon ran red with her own blood. 

In the shadows of the trees, Rhysand banged his head against a tree and moaned in agony and frustration. 

“How the fuck did I not know there was mermaid in there?!”

[feysand-hivemind]

Surprise! Lovely @darling-archeron is part of the feysand hivemind. Chapter four is up now. Enjoy!

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

chapter four: until the night is over: loop seventeen

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter.

Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.

A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt.

Warnings: canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence, temporary character death

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Word Count: 7.5k

Notes: Behold, my humble contribution to @feysand-hivemind's timeloop fic! Working on this story with all of you wonderful, talented people has been an absolute delight.

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Another failure, and Rhys was back where he had started.

Again, the dream. The wolf, the arrow, and Feyre, sharp hate in her eyes. And he was back in Amarantha’s bed.

The loops were starting to pile up. There had been far more variables, far more failures, than he had hoped. Would there be a limit to the number of second chances he was given?

Beside him, Amarantha stirred. He tensed, shifting his gaze over, but she only adjusted her head before falling still again. Her long red hair fanned out across the bed, brushing up against his shoulders. 

His sleep in Amarantha’s bed was almost always shit, so the good news was that he had plenty of time to think.

In nearly every loop so far, save the first one, he had tried to change Feyre’s path early on. The window between Feyre letting go of her hatred of faeries and beginning to trust Tamlin was practically non-existent. Either she didn’t trust him because he was a faerie, or because he was an enemy of the Spring Court and obviously sneaking around.

The first time, she had progressed the farthest – but exposing her to Amarantha’s ire, when she was still on edge, had been disastrous.

There had to be some kind of middle ground.

He loathed the idea of letting her go back Under the Mountain. He wouldn’t watch Amarantha break her again.

And yet – what if Feyre going Under the Mountain was the key? It was where they had, at least, gotten closest, with Feyre admitting her love for Tamlin, even if it had been too late.

The far easier option would have been to get her to admit her love for Tamlin sooner, before she even stepped foot in Amarantha’s court. But what if that wasn’t enough? His appearance at the Spring Court in the first loop hadn’t been enough to spur her on.

All he had were theories, the best of which had been strung together with hardly anything to hold them.

Clare Beddor – that was the name Feyre had given him in place of her own. Had he given that name to Amarantha and told her that Tamlin had brought a human to the Spring Court, he would have been spared in the first loop. Of course, that didn’t exactly solve anything, because Feyre still wouldn’t have.

Of course, that was assuming Amarantha found her under that alias. As long as she was in love with Tamlin, he doubted Amarantha cared what a human’s name was.

But what if Clare hadn’t been fictional? It was an unmistakably plain, human name, perhaps belonging to someone from wherever Feyre had once called home.

Even if it wasn’t, was it possible for him to orchestrate things so Amarantha’s ire fell on someone who wasn’t Feyre?

The makings of a plan began to take shape in his head.

It wasn’t a particularly honorable plan. It involved putting Feyre in danger, it involved at least one scapegoat. But he had already lost his – his Feyre too many times. And he knew, deep in his heart, that he would do whatever it took to keep it from happening again.

He knew by now that sleep would elude him the rest of the night. His mind was restless, but any moment of repose was strength.

There might not have been any more dreams ahead of him tonight, but Rhys lay awake and went through his usual ritual, picturing those he loved and wondering what they might be doing right now. Tonight, he dared to add one more name to the list.

I will not fail you, Feyre.

-

The previous times he had felt the call to seek her out on Calanmai, he ignored it. This time, however, it would be necessary.

And Rhys couldn’t deny that he felt a little thrill at the idea of seeing her again.

It was a perfect spring evening. The air was cool and fresh on his face – something he never took for granted anymore. He didn’t know how Amarantha could stand to spend most of her time Under the Mountain, choking on the same stale air year after year.

Cloaked in shadows on the edge of the tree line, Rhys observed the nearby figures, only illuminated by firelight. The drums had been beating for hours now – it wouldn’t be much longer before they reached their peak, and Tamlin would select his maiden. He bit down a wave of revulsion at the thought of Feyre being selected for such a ritual.

Luckily, if her thoughts from the previous loops were any indication, it wouldn’t come to that.

Not far from where Rhys stood, there was a group of half a dozen male lesser faeries. Loud, bawdy, and vulgar. After a moment of combing through their minds, Rhys saw that their thoughts were equally foul.

He selected the worst three, and then planted the seed of an idea in their heads.

Go and see what kind of trouble we can find. Plenty of fresh meat on a night like tonight.

As the minutes crept on, the pulling sensation in his chest drew tighter, and he scanned the firelit crowds for the shape of his painter.

Where are you? Come, find me. Go see Calanmai, he urged, even if she wouldn’t hear.

At last, he caught a glimpse of her weaving through the crowd, alone.

Any other time, he would have been angry that Tamlin didn’t have any protections on her. Wandering alone on a wild night like this only meant trouble for a human woman.

However, in this situation, it played right into his plans.

Feyre wandered through the crowd, likely searching for Tamlin or Lucien. Slowly, she wandered away from the throng, closer to his edge of the woods.

Closer to where he had led the males.

He watched from afar as they approached Feyre, nearly cornering her. One of them leaned in much too close –

And Rhys winnowed, right behind Feyre, catching her as she stumbled back on a piece of loose rock.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

-

The first meeting on Calanmai set things into motion. Though he had longed to linger, he had kept things brief, not getting as much as her name out of her.

She had thought he was the most beautiful male she had ever seen.

Why did the knowledge bring him such pleasure?

The name of the game was to still appear intimidating and a bit frightening, but not so much that he couldn’t be trusted. He couldn’t let the mask drop the way he longed to, but it was better than nothing.

He hadn’t been able to avoid taking the head, branded with the Night Court sigil, to the Spring Court a few weeks later. If he spared the faerie Amarantha had initially chosen, she would just pick another. However, he was able to put it somewhere else when he delivered it.

It was simple enough. He winnowed to the Spring Court and immediately sought out Feyre’s room. He could sense her even without having her in his sights, still fast asleep in the time just before dawn.

He cast his magic towards her, dragging her subconscious into a slightly heavier sleep. She would sleep halfway to noon, but that would give Tamlin plenty of time to deal with his little gift – and even if he didn’t, she would be far less likely to see it in the smaller garden where he left it, spiked on the ornamental fence.

He saved Feyre from the horror, but Amarantha expressed her displeasure that he had picked somewhere too subtle.

Her nails were sharp on his bare shoulders, tendrils of red hair brushing his neck as she loomed above him.

“What happened to your sense of theatrics, Rhysand?” she crooned. “Perhaps I need to put on another show, to give you some more inspiration to work with.”

Encased in the ring on her finger, Jurian’s eyeball spun. If the male was still in there somewhere, at least one of them could be panicked about the situation.

“If you wish it, my queen,” he crooned.

Whatever he could do to satisfy her nearly unabating thirst for violence before Feyre arrived.

-

Weeks passed, and Rhys spent hours trying to find another way back to the Spring Court. Every little interaction he had with Feyre before she came Under the Mountain could be crucial to their success.

Unfortunately, Amarantha’s paranoia only stretched so far.

“Why so eager to go back to the Spring Court, Rhysand?” Amarantha mused one night, when he had again suggested it. “One might think you’re hiding something there.”

He forced himself to stay calm, to continue rubbing her shoulders to relieve the tension from them.

“Only eager to see Tamlin flounder, my queen. You must admit, his attempts to break the curse have been laughable.”

“Which is why I’m hardly worried now. You serve me here, Rhysand.”

For not the first time, Rhys wished the bed would open up and swallow him.

-         

In the days leading up to the curse’s deadline, Amarantha finally loosened his leash as she had in the first loop. He knew the terrible things he would have to do in the days to come, but he also couldn’t deny his excitement at seeing Feyre again. Other than the day he had left the head spiked for Tamlin, he hadn’t so much as glimpsed her.

The bustle and brightness of spring greeted him as he winnowed onto the front lawn. Even with a fraction of its denizens, the manor was busy, as always.

Last time, the way things had unfolded was accidental. This time, he needed to keep this part as close to how it had first happened as possible.

He let scraps of his power wash out before him, alerting the whole manor of his presence, strolling into the dining room that only appeared to hold Tamlin and Lucien.

This time, he immediately noticed the third plate betraying her presence. He swore he could sense her, too. How had he been so oblivious the first time around?

He let the same words as before spill from his lips, as if he was acting out one of the plays Mor loved to watch at the Velaris theatre. Taunting Tamlin and Lucien, pretending to be surprised when he let his gaze land on the third plate.

When Tamlin’s glamour fell from around her, he had to hold back his sigh of relief. She was still safe and whole – lovely, with the midday sun at her back, bringing out the gold in her hair.

“I remember you,” he said softly. “It seems like you ignored my warning to stay out of trouble.”

It was all he could do to keep up the familiar song and dance with Tamlin and Lucien. The urge to reach for her, make sure there wasn’t a single mark on her, was stronger than ever.

Instead, he reached for her mind, seizing it between his mental hands. As he traced his finger across her collarbones, her throat, he felt her fear.

“Don’t be afraid, darling,” he whispered into her mind.

“Don’t – “ Feyre ground out, too afraid to say much more.

One day, I swear, I will make it up to you, Feyre.

He flipped through her mind – and curiously, found no memories of her being intimate with Tamlin. Only memories of Tamlin biting into her neck on Calanmai – only hours after he had first met her.

“Amarantha will enjoy breaking her,” he said, letting his cruel words settle over the room. “Almost as much as she’ll enjoy watching how you anguish over it.”

He was aware of Feyre’s growing apprehension as he threatened Tamlin, and he almost reached back into her mind, to whisper something more soothing to her, but he stopped himself just in time. 

Not here. Not now, when there were so many variables still at play.

Tamlin shoved at him, but he sidestepped easily.

“Not now, Tamlin. I’d hate for the lady to see you become a smear upon the floor.”

Tamlin fumed, but Rhys finally had an excuse to turn his attention wholly back to Feyre.

“What’s your name, love?”

He felt her hesitation – felt the lie in her mind before it formed on her tongue.

“Clare Beddor,” she gasped.

Rhys smirked. “I’ll be sure to give Amarantha your regards – all of your regards.”    

-

When Amarantha summoned him to the throne room for a full report, it was all too easy to tell the truth. To give her Clare’s name.

Anything for Feyre.

Now all that remained was to wait and see if his gambit paid off.

-

Two days later, and the Attor dragged poor Clare, kicking and screaming, Under the Mountain.

As he had expected, Amarantha made a game of pulling pain from her like notes from a violin. He stood there and watched, the same bored smirk on his face.

He went into her mind, took away her pain as easily as snuffing out a candle.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Clare. I know you didn’t deserve it, didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Please, just end this,” she begged, unaware or uncaring of who she was speaking to.

He hated himself a little bit more as he didn’t reply. For Feyre to be safest, Amarantha’s bloodlust had to be fully spent.

“I don’t have that power, but your pain is gone. Scream when she expects you to.”

Over the next few days, Rhys remained at Amarantha’s side, watching as she tormented Clare. Perhaps because he was a glutton for punishment, he delved into her mind to get a glimpse of the person whose life he was destroying.

She was a simple village girl. Kind, gentle, she loved teasing her younger brothers and caring for her family’s animals. She hated the taste of oatmeal, and shunned the Children of the Blessed when they came to town.

The days wore on, and finally, Rhys couldn’t take it anymore. He reached back into Clare’s mind and ended it, once and for all.   

-

All too soon, the doors to Amarantha’s throne room swung open again as the Attor dragged another human girl through its doors, throwing her on the ground before Amarantha’s throne.

Rhys felt the pain in her knees as they hit the marble, so sharply it might have been his own. He did his best to steady his breathing. If anyone sensed how quickly his heart was beating, he would be fucked. 

He had to focus. Amarantha couldn’t know that a single thing was amiss this time around.

“What’s this?” The False Queen asked, leaning forward in her throne.

“Just a human thing I found downstairs,” the Attor hissed, leering at Feyre, and Rhys fought the urge to mist the wretched creature then and there. “Tell her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs – why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court.”

He watched as Feyre proclaimed her love for Tamlin in front of all seven courts, bargaining for his freedom. She practically beseeched him to say something, but he didn’t so much as nod. Only sitting there as still and unfeeling as his stone heart.

“Give me a single reason I shouldn’t destroy you where you stand, human.”

“You tricked Tamlin. He is bound unfairly.”

Amarantha prattled on, enjoying the sound of her own voice. Rhys would have blocked it out entirely if Feyre’s safety didn’t entirely depend on Amarantha’s words. What would come next was the one part he had truly been unable to predict.

After all these years, Rhys understood how Amarantha worked well. If he had gambled right, she would offer to a game with Feyre, string her along for a bit while dangling Tamlin in front of her like a carrot. Not an optimal outcome, but it would give him time to better understand Feyre’s purpose on this path. From there, he could formulate the rest of his plan.

After she had just torn Clare apart, doing the same to Feyre would be boring, predictable. All things The Deceiver despised.

“I should have listened when darling Clare said she’d never seen Tamlin before, or hunted a day in her life. Though her screaming was certainly delightful. I haven’t heard such lovely music in ages. I should thank you for giving Rhysand her name instead of yours,” she crooned.

Though he stood in the shadows, off to the side of Amarantha’s throne rather than directly beside it, he felt the eyes of the court turn to him. Feyre didn’t spare him a glance, her eyes locked on Clare’s mangled body, but he could feel the horror radiating off of her.

He had known Clare’s death would complicate things. But seeing Clare through Feyre’s comparatively innocent, human eyes – the weight of his crime crashed down fully upon him.

Another sin added to the list of reasons he would burn in hell.

Amarantha verbally toyed with Feyre for a bit longer, enough that Rhys’s dread grew as he started to wonder if he had gambled wrong.

But then she spoke the words he had been praying for.

“I’ll make a bargain with you, human.”

He saw Feyre stiffen – and he was far from relaxing, either.

“You swear you love Tamlin?”

“With my whole heart,” Feyre insisted, her voice heavy with conviction.

“Well then. Proving your devotion should be easy. You complete three tasks of my choosing – three little tasks to prove how deep that human sense of loyalty and love runs, and Tamlin is yours. Just three little challenges to prove your dedication, that your kind can indeed love true, and you can have your High Lord.”

She turned to Tamlin, spouting more nonsense about fickle human hearts. Rhysand’s mind was already racing.

Three tasks – they could be anything, with so many variables. How would Amarantha see fit to make a human prove her love?

Amarantha went on to list conditions, stipulations, throwing a riddle into the mix.

That made him relax a bit. Amarantha had never been as clever as she gave herself credit for. Even if she forbade everyone from giving Feyre hints, it couldn’t be too difficult.

“So – are we agreed?” Amarantha said at last.

Feyre glanced across the throne room once more, eyes locking on Tamlin, who still hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Agreed,” Feyre said.

Cauldron, please, tell me I haven’t just subjected her to a fate worse than Clare’s. 

And with Feyre’s words and a swing of the Attor’s clawed arm, ripping into her skin, her fate was sealed, and Rhys’s along with it.

-

Rhys did his best to monitor Feyre from a distance. She had appeared alright when Amarantha gave her the riddle shortly after her arrival. He knew Lucien had already been to see her and patched up her injuries from the Attor’s beating, but it wasn’t enough. He had to see how she was faring and start getting her to trust him.

Also, a selfish part of him admitted, he hated to be so far from her when she was at last within his reach.

Amarantha had given her one of the worst cells in the dungeons, which was truly saying something. It was foul smelling and damp, and perfectly situated so that the screams and groans of the other prisoners angled themselves into the cell.

When he winnowed inside, she looked so small, curled up on a palette of foul-smelling hay that threatened to make his nose start running. At least she had a cloak to keep her warm. She hadn’t arrived with it – Lucien’s, if he had to guess.

At first, he thought she might have been asleep, but she shot up, eyes flying to where he stood in the corner of her cell.

“Hello, darling,” he crooned, stuffing his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t have to hide his tense fists.

“What do you want?” she hissed, blue-gray eyes narrowed.

Good – the fire hadn’t gone from her yet.

“I’m only checking in on my favorite human. How are you faring?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of question is that?”

“An honest one.”

“I’m fine,” she said, scowling in a way that reminded him of Mor when she was irritated.

“Is that so? Because your situation would imply otherwise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she shot back.

“I mean you’ve come to claim Tamlin, without the faintest idea of what you’re getting yourself into.”

“You’re just saying that to get into my head.” Her voice was steely, but he saw a shiver shoot through her. Not just from the cold, although that was likely part of it.  

“I assure you, I only have your best interests at heart. And, just between the two of us, I’m happy to extend my assistance in any way I can.”

A dangerous, dangerous thing for him to say.

Feyre raised her eyebrows. “You want to help me? You’re Amarantha’s – her lackey.”

“That’s what everyone thinks,” Rhys admitted. “But have you never considered that I might have my own agenda?”

“Well, I don’t want any part of it,” Feyre spat.

Internally, Rhys grimaced. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with her today.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned a blanket he had stashed in a pocket realm earlier. It wasn’t anything particularly nice, and there was a hole worn through in the middle. One of the nobles’ discarded rags.

“Think on it,” he said, tossing the blanket towards her, and winnowing back out of the cell before she could reply.

-

A few more long days went by, and Rhys could barely stand the thought of Feyre alone in her freezing cell. He slept on silk sheets and ate some of Prythian’s finest food every evening. Not only that, but her first trial was rapidly approaching, and he had made almost no progress in gaining her trust. He hadn’t been back to visit her, but he had checked in on her thoughts a handful of times. They ranged from bored, to angry, to fearful. She was pondering the riddle but hadn’t come closer to the right answer.

Six days after his initial visit, he convinced himself that he had waited long enough. It was midday, and Amarantha was sound asleep. She had dismissed him after he had serviced her – a rare mercy. It also gave him the perfect window of opportunity to visit his painter again.

“Go to hell, Rhysand,” she said, sounding bored when he appeared.

“What – no Rhysand, apple of all eyes, or Rhysand, all my waking moments are consumed with thoughts of you?” he purred.

She glared at him - a sight that was becoming quite familiar. “What do you want now?”

“The same thing I wanted to do last time. To see how you’re faring down here, Feyre.”

“How the fuck would you be faring, in my shoes?” she spat.

“You’ll find you have no idea what my shoes are like,” he shot back. Cauldron, what was it about this woman that set him ablaze so quickly?

“How is Tamlin?” she finally asked.

“The High Lord of Spring is doing perfectly fine, as far as I can tell. Amarantha has been dragging him around like a puppy, but he hasn’t so much as budged.” He said truthfully.

That seemed to bring her some satisfaction. “Good,” was all she said.

“Does it bother you? That he hasn’t been down here to see you?” he said the question in his same coy, teasing tone, but he longed to know the answer.

“What does it matter to you?”

“Feyre, please. I – I can’t lose you again.” He blurted it out before he even realized what he was saying. But it certainly got her attention.

Fuck, this was really starting to wear on him. In his desperation to monitor Feyre at every hour, he had barely been getting any sleep.

“What?” That got her attention, and she turned to him at last. A crease formed between her brows, trepidation in her eyes.

How much could he tell her without obliterating any chance of earning her trust? With his powers stolen, he didn’t dare to go in her mind and wipe away the thought. As much as he hated to admit it, he was out of practice on human minds, and he certainly wouldn’t be testing his theories on his painter.  

But if he played it right – perhaps having her know could prove advantageous. He just had to make sure he didn’t sound insane.

Feyre was still waiting for his reply.

In the quiet, he used his magic to feel for any listening ears. Years of intuitively knowing when Azriel was nearby had honed his senses well.

“What do you think my goal is, here?”

Feyre frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“Just tell me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I assume to save your own skin and piss Tamlin off however you can.”

Well, her assumptions could have been much worse.

“Feyre, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say, and not make any assumptions or jump to conclusions until I’m done.”

“Why should I trust you?” She spat. 

“Have I done anything to cause you harm thus far?”

“No, but-“

He cut her off, knowing he would never get a word in edgewise over his painter if he didn’t.

“I have been Amarantha’s lackey under this Mountain for forty-nine years. Most of them have been long, the same things happening year after year. But months ago, something changed. I had a dream.”

Skepticism danced across her face.

“I dreamed of a young woman, drawing her bow in a snowy forest. Aiming at a deer first, and then a wolf, which she shot with remarkable precision. It left me with a strange feeling in my chest, but I cast it aside, convinced it was only an exceptionally clear dream. But the feeling didn’t go away. On Calanmai, I felt a strange inclination to visit the Spring Court. Another unusual feeling – I’ve made a point to avoid that court and the sycophants that live there for years. So I ignored the pull. I barely believed you were real, much less human, until I saw you for the first time, in the dining room with Tamlin and Lucien when I interrupted your dinner.

“That’s not –“

He kept going, or he knew he would never finish. It was best to keep this part succinct anyway. “By then, Tamlin’s time was almost up. He sent you away to protect you, but you came back, came Under the Mountain, just as you did now. But your timing was poor, in a way you had no control over, and Amarantha was angry, and I tried to protect you from her wrath, but – things didn’t end well. We both died, and I was prepared to meet the Mother.”

“And then….I had the same dream, of you killing the wolf. And I woke up the same way I had the time before, and I watched the same events unfold before my eyes, only changed by my interference. Not just once. Over and over. You always killed the wolf, you always came to Prythian and fell for Tamlin. And eventually, I realized that I’m stuck in some kind of loop, reliving the same events over and over again.”

“You’re insane,” Feyre breathed, taking a step back.

No, no, no. He couldn’t let this go poorly.

“Let me prove it to you,” he said, extending his hand. “Mind to mind.”

“I’m not letting you in my mind again,” she said, taking another step back. “I felt you, back in the dining room in the Spring Court. Tamlin has told me plenty about you, you know. I’m not a fool.”

He took a step towards her, bridging the space between them. Even as both of their lives hung on the line, something was electrifying about arguing with her like this. It made him feel more alive than he had in a long time. He could admire her stubbornness, even as it worked against him.

“And what has Tamlin told you?” he asked softly.

“That you’re responsible for terrible things.”

“And you believe everything Tamlin tells you? Even when he concealed this whole mess from you?”

“That was part of the curse. He couldn’t help it.”

“Couldn’t he?” Rhys raised an eyebrow.

Feyre dropped his gaze at last, falling silent.

“I swear to you, on the Mother that I will not harm you. Nor will I enter your mind again without permission.”

He watched her consider for a long moment, fingers fidgeting at her sides in an attempt to appear unruffled.

“Fine.”

She didn’t hide her scowl as she held out her hand, and Rhys considered telling her that he didn’t need physical connection to initiate it, but refrained. This was, after all, the first time she had willingly let him touch her.

He took her callused hand in his – though his was much too smooth, after all these years away from weapons that had once been like an extension of his arm.

For a brief moment, he considered showing her Velaris, snippets of his happy memories. If things went awry, he could always start the loop over again. But even that felt too risky. He couldn’t divulge it.

Instead, he did what he had promised and entered her mind. Gently, like walking through a forest in autumn and trying to avoid snapping a stick.

“See? Not so bad, is it?”

“Can we get this over with?”

He caught brief glimpses of her thoughts. Wondering if he was insane, wondering if she was insane for letting such a mentally unstable individual near her.

A strong sense of curiosity, too.

Good. That meant that not all was lost.

He showed her his memories of the first time he had watched her shoot the wolf, and their meeting in the dining room, and standing before Amarantha. He skipped over their deaths – that was the last thing he wanted to show her. Instead, he skipped ahead through other loops, showing their interactions or things he had watched her do.

Selfishly, he tried to pick the ones that painted him in a more flattering light.

After he had sifted through all the half-decent memories from previous loops, he switched gears. She needed to see more of him to trust him, and Velaris was too risky. But there were other things he could show.

He sent memories of him drinking with Mor, sitting at a desk next to Amren, piles of documents surrounding them both. Flying with Cassian and Azriel.

He could feel her jolt of surprise at the last one, at the revelation of his wings.

How peculiar, for that to be the thing she found most shocking.

At last, the memories ended. He could have sifted through her thoughts some more to find out what Feyre was thinking, but he found himself wanting to hear her voice her thoughts on her own.

She was staring at him in stunned silence as she pulled her hand away from his.

“Well?” Rhys promoted. “I’m sure it’s a lot to take in.”

She took a few steps backward, dropping back on the pallet, eyes wide.

“So you and I are all just players in this sick game? No – I’m not even a player. I’m a pawn.”

“Feyre –“ he tried to interject.

“If we fail, you’re the one that has to do this all over again. I – this version of myself, and everything I’ve gone through – I don’t even die. I just cease to exist.”

Rhys thought he might have preferred being in her position to reliving the same months over and over, but he kept that thought silent.

“It’s not fair. But – we’ve never done it like this before. We have to believe that this time, we’ll make it through.”

“How many times have you said that to me?”

“Never,” Rhys admitted. “I’ve never told you that we’re in a loop before.”

At that, the tiniest sliver of amusement appeared on her face.

“Well, that would explain why you did such a piss-poor job of it.”

“But you believe me?”

She exhaled, letting out a huff of air. “Unless you have some insane strategy, I don’t know why you would be making it up.”

“I meant everything I said earlier,” he finally said.

This was so, so far off the course of his original plan.

“We have never worked together before. If we do, I believe we can get out of here.”

What came after that, he truly had no clue.

“What about those other memories, Rhysand?” she asked. “The ones that weren’t part of the loop? Were those just to make yourself look good?”

“Would you think worse of me if I said yes? I won’t lie, I’ve done some monstrous things. But they have all been in the name of keeping my people, my family, safe.”

That seemed to resonate with something deep in her, and he watched as she seemed to mentally to go some far-off place for a moment.

“And Clare?” she murmured.

He offered up another bit of truth. “It was her or you.”

A grim line of determination creased on her forehead, and Feyre was silent for a long, long moment. Rhys again had to stop himself from instinctually reaching into her mind to see what she was thinking.

“Alright,” Feyre said at last. “What’s your plan?”

Rhys could have fallen to his knees before her at the relief he felt.

“You go through the trials like nothing has changed, you’re still fighting for Tamlin’s love. I swear that I will be beside you every step of the way, keeping Amarantha’s attention off of you as much as I can. And for the love of the Mother, think on the riddle she gave you.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

“What about the trials? Do you know anything about those?”

He shook his head. Amarantha had been tight-lipped about whatever she had in store for “the puny human.”

The sound of footsteps drawing near to Feyre’s cell drew his focus. “We don’t have much more time.”

“I have so many more questions.”

“Next time we get a spare moment, I’ll answer them,” he promised, scanning her up and down as if signs of the truth between them could be seen on her.  

Before Feyre could respond, the door swung open, revealing the red-skinned, pot-bellied guards that escorted her everywhere. They tossed in a stale-looking piece of bread and a bruised, mushy apple.

It simply wouldn’t do.

Reaching into their minds was as easy as cutting through butter.

“No more of this slop. From now on, you’re to bring her a fresh, hot meal from the kitchens twice a day. Tell the others, and the kitchen staff, too. Stay out of her cell, and don’t touch her. If you do, you’re to take your own daggers and gut yourselves. Understood?”

Feyre straightened, staring at him with a mix of emotions he couldn’t entirely decipher – but Cauldron, how he wanted to.

“You’re welcome,” he purred instead. Her surprised eyes were the last thing he saw before he winnowed away again.

-

Rhys could scarcely believe how well things had been going.

Of course, if you considered his painter trapped Under the Mountain by a murdering psychopath “going well.”

If he had thought Feyre consumed his thoughts before, he had been wrong. Having her in such a close proximity, not loathing him, felt like a fantasy.

Rhys did his best to make good on his promise. Each day, he made a point to send a hot meal to her cell. He was getting the sense that Feyre’s first trial would be some kind of physical test, and she had to keep her strength up. He installed wards that muffled the sounds of the screams that tore through the walls to Feyre’s cell at all hours.

In his free seconds, he found excuses to sneak back down to the dungeons under the guise of emotionally tormenting Feyre.

In reality, he was doing his best to satisfy her insatiable curiosity. She did her best to act nonchalant, but Rhys recognized the curiosity, the stubbornness, behind the mask. He knew it because the same traits were reflected in him.

Talking with her was a…disarming experience. She had seen him without the mask he had worn for so long. She saw the desperation that lay underneath without him having to voice it. It only made him question more why the Cauldron had shoved them together into this wretched situation.

“A question for a question,” he finally said one night, after she pressed him for more information on the Night Court. “You’re learning all of my secrets, but I can’t say the same. I’ll answer one of yours if you answer one of mine.”

Pure selfishness, on his part. He couldn’t help it.

She raised her eyebrows. “What about me could possibly interest you, Rhysand?”

“Rhys,” he corrected automatically. “And I think you’re drastically underselling yourself, darling.”

She shifted uncomfortably on the hay pallet. Even after everything he told her, she was still fiercely protective of her secrets; especially the human family she had left behind.

“Fine.”

“You said you’ve seen this over and over again. How do they end? Is it always with me dying?””

“Not always,” Rhys replied honestly. “Sometimes I go first.”

That set her mouth in a grim line.

“I know you like to paint,” he said. “Why?”

She gave him a funny look. “I always enjoyed it, even as a child. My mother hated that out of all the talents that were suitable for a young lady, I had an affinity for the one that was as messy and wild as I was. And when things changed and my family lost our fortune, painting became a rare luxury. A bit of color in my dreary life, I guess.”

When they weren’t asking questions, Rhys prepped her about the different trials Amarantha might have in store. The first one was less than a week away, and he was still in the dark about it. It could have been some kind of duel, or puzzle, or perhaps an archery test. Amarantha had remained impossibly tight-lipped about it.

Whatever it was, Rhys knew Feyre would prevail. The hours he had spent in her cell, getting to know her, had only strengthened his opinion on that. And if for any reason, she stumbled, he would be there to pick her back up.

They had each other now, and this strange, tentative trust. They would not fail.

-

At last, the day of Feyre’s first trial was upon them.

The day prior, Amarantha had her lackeys bring in some sort of muddy labyrinth, hauled up from the catacombs somehow and reassembled in a giant pit. And in the early morning hours, when Rhys gazed upon the completed project, he knew what awaited Feyre in a few hours.

“Feyre – I know what your first trial is. She’s going to have you outrun and hunt the Middengard Wyrm.” 

He was at a loss for how to describe the wretched creature, so instead, he sent an image of it into Feyre’s mind, well aware of how terrifying the creature was.

He felt the tide of horror rise up in her mind.

“She wants me to kill that thing?”

“Yes – but Feyre, the Middengard has weaknesses. It’s blind, and it relies on smell. It knows its lair like nothing else, but if you can disrupt it, you’ll throw it off. I’ll be a second pair of eyes for you, too. Don’t worry.”

“Easy for you to say,” she responded, voice shaky.

Oh, she had no idea how not easy all of this was.

Later in the morning, he found himself back in Amarantha’s bedchambers, where she sat at her vanity and brushed out her long hair, her back to him. 

“Rhysand,” she mused as he came in. “You haven’t gotten anything else interesting out of the human, have you?”

“No, my queen. It seems she truly loves Tamlin. She believes with all her heart that she’ll be able to free him.”

The Deceiver scoffed. “And you haven’t noticed anyone helping her? Nobody developing any attachments.”

“Not at all.”

Her smile, slippery as a snake, curled upwards in the mirror’s reflection.

“Very good.”  

-

An hour later, Amarantha’s court had gathered around the pit that held the Middengard’s lair, waiting for Feyre’s entrance.

In a typical move for her, Amarantha had her throne moved into here so she could preside over the festivities above everyone else. A smaller chair had been brought in for Tamlin, who sat beside her.

That was another merciful thing about Feyre and Tamlin’s presence down here. It saved him from having to be at Amarantha’s right hand as often.

Feyre was brought in, escorted by her usual guards, and Rhys was again struck by how small she looked. But she held her head high, chin jutted out in defiance.

“So, dear Feyre, are you ready for your first trial?” Amarantha crooned. She looked especially bloodthirsty today, dressed in a long-sleeved black gown. There was a glint in her eyes that Rhys didn’t like.

In response to Amarantha, Feyre nodded.

“Well, I have been ready too,” Amarantha continued. “I’ve been excited to see how you’ll fare against the little surprise I have for you. But I suppose it won’t be much of a surprise, will it?” Her tone turned icy.

What?

“Imagine my shock, Amarantha said, “When someone came to me this morning with a full report. Telling me that someone’s been helping you the past few weeks. Fresh meals, warm blankets. Information.”

No, no no –

Who had betrayed him? He had been so careful.

He raked through his past interactions, doing his best to keep his face a blank mask, only cocking an eyebrow.

Amarantha’s hawkish gaze whipped around to him.

“Rhysand,” she hissed. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Gasps of shock and rapid whispering went up around the room.

“I don’t know what you're referring to, my queen,” Rhys replied smoothly. He wasn't afraid for himself - only Feyre. He had withstood Amarantha’s wrath many times before, and he would do it again.

“Liar,” she hissed, and before Rhys knew what was happening, a wall of force hit him, sending him crashing to his knees. 

No, not again -

He struggled to bring himself to his knees before another wave of her stolen power hit him, sending him back to the floor.

The throng of people that had been near him scurried out of the way.

“You’ve been helping her. Giving her comforts, preparing her for the trials.” 

Her questioning earlier had been a test.

“No!” A voice shouted from the other side of the room - Feyre’s. “He hasn't been helping me. You're wrong.”

Her attempt to spare him was touching, but Rhys knew it was too late for them. And it only turned Amarantha’s attention back to his painter. 

Tamlin seemed to finally remember that he could speak. “Amarantha, no. You can’t harm her, you made a bargain with her.”

Amarantha laughed – a horrible, high-pitched sound, and Rhys felt the pit of dread growing in his stomach. There had to be some way to salvage this. They had come so far.

“You’re finally defending her? When she only has eyes for Rhysand, of all people? The bargain is only upheld if the human’s heart is still set on you, Tamlin. And there is nothing in our agreement that stops me from tearing her apart whenever I please.”

Rhys stopped caring about Tamlin and whatever pathetic, useless pleas he had when Amarantha extended a clawed nail towards his painter. 

Her hand flicked, and Rhys watched, still crushed on the ground, as Feyre joined him on the unforgiving floor with a scream.

He knew this was the end. 

“You should apologize to me, human. I offered you a chance, I arranged this entire trial, just for you. And yet you refuse to play fairly.”

Her limbs twisted, going in directions that made him nauseous. 

His body was on fire, but he reached for Feyre’s mind.

 “Feyre,” he rasped, unintentionally saying it out loud, too. 

“Rhys, are you there?” Feyre asked.

He sent out a wave of comfort, as much as he could manage as he fought through the fog of his own. “I’m sorry Feyre, I wanted this to go differently.”

“If she spares you somehow – don’t let her find my family.”

He knew she wouldn’t, and the moment Feyre’s heart stopped beating, it wouldn’t matter anyway, but he didn’t say that.

“I won’t let her find them.”

“I guess you’ll see me in the next loop,” she said, sounding strained under the wave of pain, making her thrash and scream through gritted teeth.

He heard the snap, snap, snap, of her bones, and reached for her mind, to take away the pain as he had done before.

SNAP

A roar of pain coming from Feyre’s mind, and then, silence.

Amarantha had underestimated the durability of humans in her rage.

And this –

All of this – had been for nothing.

He had tried so hard to plan things out, to do it differently this time, and it was all for nothing.

Searing pain sliced through his body once more as he shifted, his gaze meeting Amarantha’s. She had stood from the throne, face twisted into a snarl above him. 

“Traitorous filth. After all these years, you try to deceive me?”

“I hope you burn in hell,” Rhysand spat with the remainder of his energy.

Her sneering face was the last thing he saw before the world dropped away into darkness.

[feysand-hivemind]

Sneak Peek

We can't wait to share the rest of this chapter with you next week! Catch up on the full fic here on AO3 <3

The makings of a plan began to take shape in his head. It wasn’t a particularly honorable plan. It involved putting Feyre in danger, it involved at least one scapegoat. But he had already lost his – his Feyre too many times. And he knew, deep in his heart, that he would do whatever it took to keep it from happening again. He knew by now that sleep would elude him the rest of the night. His mind was restless, but any moment of repose was strength. There might not have been any more dreams ahead of him tonight, but Rhys lay awake and went through his usual ritual, picturing those he loved and wondering what they might be doing right now. Tonight, he dared to add one more name to the list. I will not fail you, Feyre.

[feysand-hivemind]

Surprise! The lovely @reverie-tales is part of the Feysand Hivemind! Thank you Mel for this gorgeous chapter, we’re honored to have you with us 💜

We hope you guys love it as much as we did! 🥰

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter.

Until one day, it doesn't.

Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.

A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt.

Warnings: canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence, temporary character death

Rating: Explicit

Chapter 1 and Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Fragmented Hope (Loop 13)

Notes: Written for @feysand-hivemind.

Surprise! I have been anxious for this chapter for months. I'm so thrilled to share it with you all. Ready for a twist? This time, our chapter starts from Feyre's POV before shifting to Rhys's.

All my love to the Feysand Hivemind. It has been an utter joy to work on our little project with you. 💕

Chapter Word Count: 2716

Chapter Warning: Suicide/Self-harm

Read on AO3 or below

• FEYRE •

Tamlin had not returned to the manor.

Not after Feyre retreated to her room, sharpening her knife—a piece of stolen cutlery—with a garden stone. Not after her hour long watch through her window.

Feyre was indifferent to the Fae lord. Her own nagging gut instinct, however, hindered her from dragging herself to bed. All those years she hunted in the forest, following her gut never failed her. It would have been foolish to ignore it now when it urged her to stay on watch. Perhaps learning how Tamlin fared against the Bogge would be vital indeed. If he survived, it would aid her in learning the strength or weakness of her captor. If he perished, it would give her an opening to flee home before Lucien or any other faerie decided they wanted to end her life as payment for the Treaty after all.

She remained, watching.

Minutes ticked by.

Then there it was. Movement beyond the estate.

Feyre hid behind the lush emerald curtains, not wanting Tamlin to discover her waiting for him. Eyes squinted and trained on the figure approaching from the forest, obscured in the darkness that follows night.

The figure neared the hedge fences of the manor, bathed in moonlight. It was clear enough to see for anyone who was watching.

A gasp escaped Feyre's lips, and she stepped out of the curtains.

Not Tamlin in his beastly or high fae form stood outside the manor, facing her window—looking for her—but a man hunched and leaning into his simple, carved cane.

Her father.

A mingle of terror, surprise, and relief swam over her. Don't ever come back, he had told her the last time he saw her, and yet he had come for her. Her human father had followed her into Prythian.

Were his words back then intended to conceal his intentions of following her? Were her sisters with him too? She didn't know. What she did know was that she needed to hurry and meet with her father.

Opening the armoire, she layered herself in tunic after tunic. It would be winter in the human lands, and freezing before she and her family were safe was no option. She lamented not having any food to bring for the journey home, but maybe she could hunt if necessary. Finally, she tucked her knife in her boot and donned her cloak.

Returning to the window, she found her father beckoning her towards the metal gates. She prayed to the long-forgotten gods that no one was listening to her movements. With a bid goodbye to her room, she reached for the trellis of wisteria and climbed down.

Careful not to make any noise, she landed on the gravel. A crunch sounded. She looked back to the manor, thankful to find only a few hall candles lighting the manor and no one peering outside their window.

With swift, silent steps, she rushed towards the gate. Her father was limping his way to meet her. His clothes were too simple for him to have braved the winter on horseback alone. Had he brought a carriage with him then and hidden farther in the forest? And how did he even manage to find her? Did he hire the mercenary to track her? Her father had probably paid with whatever means Tamlin had given her family to get by. She hoped he had managed to pay for a ship to take them away to a new continent because, without a doubt, they would need to flee. They would be hunted down, and the farther they were from the wall, the better.

Feyre's gaze latched on her father's brown eyes. They were alert and clearer than she had even seen them before, strained with worry. He had one hand through the gate, reaching for her.

She ran the final steps and grasped his hand. "Father, we must go before—"

Tamlin's angry beastly roar sounded in the distant forest, shaking the previously too quiet trees, she realized. A forest was quiet only if danger was nearby. The hair on the back of her neck rose.

Keep your wits about you—even your senses will try to betray you here. Alis's warning clang in her head too late.

The metallic tang of magic rose in the air.

Her father spoke, "I'm sorry, Feyre." His voice was too smooth as silk for him to be her real human father.

"No," Feyre protested.

She had been foolish.

She tried to back away, tried to break from his grasp, but he held firm.

Darkness speckled with stars gathered around them swirling in a jasmine-scented wind. The world and the ground beneath her feet vanished. She had no choice but to cling to that hand in fear that she would be lost to the void.

The foothills came into view, and he let her go. Feyre staggered back. They stood at the entrance to an ominous, dark cave. She scrambled to free the knife in her boot. Pointing its sharpened edge at him, she gritted her teeth, "Who are you?"

A faint shimmer of magic, and his glamour fell through. Standing before her was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, dressed in an exquisite black jacket and pants. But he was no man at all. High Fae. His short blue-black hair gleamed like raven feathers against his pale face, as if his tan skin had been deprived of sunlight for months or, for worse, years. Darkness surrounded his very being, as if he controlled the night itself. Powerful. Regal. Dangerous.

He slipped a hand in his pocket. "My name is Rhysand. I'm here to help you." Enchanting violet eyes that were moments ago the familiar brown eyes of her father blinked at her. Stars twinkled and vanished in their depths, shadows gathering on the edge of his irises as if he were in pain.

Why would he be?

Faeries cannot lie, but they're masters at twisting words to their advantage. She did not believe him. She could not trust him. "Where is my father?" Her voice broke. "Did you hurt him?"

"He's in the human realm, as he should be. I promise you, I did not cause him any harm." He took a step towards her. "But I need you to listen to me."

Feyre held a hand up. She still brandished the knife at his chest with the other. "Don't. Don't come any nearer."

"Feyre, please," he begged. "Trust me."

Another ear-deafening roar sounded. Closer this time in the foothills. At any moment, Tamlin would have arrived.

In one swift motion, Rhysand was prying off the knife in her hand. She pulled back, but he was too strong. She couldn't overpower him, even if she tried. He tossed the knife away from her, landing on the grass behind a boulder. She could make a run for it, but she had a feeling he would catch her easily, so she stayed put, assessing his next move.

"There is no time to explain." Rhysand pointed to the hollow opening on the hill. "This is a door leading to the Winter Court. I want you to take it. I've bargained for your safety. Someone will be waiting at the end of it to bring you to a protected city." He swallowed, lifting her chin with a finger. "If you stay, you will die."

She shook him off. He was making no sense at all. She was convinced the male was insane. She did not want to go to Winter. She would be in danger there just as she was in Spring. From fairies. From the blight. It was all the same. What she wanted and needed to do was cross the wall and return to her family.

"No. I'm not doing that. Take me to the wall—to my family." She had a promise to fulfill. Her mother's last words to her echoed in her soul. Stay together, and look after them.

"I can't—"Rhys started, but he was interrupted by a golden flash of magic in their line of sight. Tamlin's beast form was bolting towards them. Rhysand moved swiftly, placing himself in front of her and shielding her.

Tamlin paused a single breath away from Rhysand's face. His massive front paw was clawing at the ground. "Get out of my land and give me the girl," he growled.

Rhysand didn't even flinch at those sharp canines. His lips curved into a placating yet deadly smile. "Feyre is not mine to give. It would be wise for you to leave and let Feyre and I conclude our business."

Feyre had enough of these faerie males arguing over her, as if she were a human girl they could easily toy with or trade with. She slipped past Rhysand and stood in between the two. She sought Tamlin's jade eyes. "You told me you didn't care if I went to live somewhere else in Prythian as long as I didn't cross the wall. Why do you care if he takes me?"

Tamlin clenched his jaw, as if there was something he wanted to say but couldn't. He heaved a heavy breath. "He's a ruthless monster working to spread the blight. He kills without any remorse. What's the use of me sparing your life for you to be used as a pawn in his games? His mind tricks?"

If he said it, then it must have been true, she mused, unless Feyre was terribly wrong about faeries incapable of lying. She was getting an inkling that she was.

Rhysand laughed, though there was no humor in his darkening eyes. "I didn't realize you were a jokester, Tamlin."

Oh she definitely was wrong.

Tamlin glared at him, then returned his focus to Feyre. "If you return with me, I promise your family will continue to be cared for."

"And how would I even know that?" Feyre snapped. She wanted to scream. "Do you faeries even realize what it takes to care for humans? How long before my family is cold and starving?"

"Your family is better cared for now than they were when you were there. They're fed and comfortable with more money than they spend."

His words were a slap in the face. What's her use if her family is no longer in need of her? Though she shouldn't take his word for it, not unless she saw their living conditions for herself. Not unless she was still able to flee Prythian somehow.

If she did as Rhysand asked, for all she knows, Winter may be situated farther up north. A long way from the wall. If she remained with Tamlin in Spring, she would be closer. It will only be a matter of biding her time for the perfect moment to escape his grasp.

She had been naive and foolish to think her father had come for her. Her father, who didn't even lift a finger to help her or her sisters fend off starvation, let her fourteen-year-old self walk into the forest in search of food. He had once told her that we needed hope, or else we cannot endure. And so perhaps she will hold on to hope that someday somehow she will return to her family. Nobody was coming to save her. She needed to save herself.

Boldly approaching Tamlin, she declared, "I'm returning with you."

Tamlin huffed his approval. With a look of disdain at Rhysand, he told him, "You need to leave. She will be looking for you to warm her bed."

Rhysand ignored him.

Feyre and Tamlin started moving.

"Feyre, stop!" Rhysand called. "Don't make me do this."

Feyre turned to look back at him. His violet eyes were wild with desperation.

An invisible, talon-tipped hand brushed against her mind. She froze. What monstrous power did Rhysand wield? Despite the rising need to do whatever he says crawled in her veins, she said, "I made my choice."

Rhysand's eyes flickered.

"You told me you were here to help me. Help me by letting me go do as I please."

His brows knitted together as if he were warring with himself. "Very well," he exhaled, and then the talons retreated from her mind.

Tamlin led the way down the foothills. "Feyre," he growled as a warning to follow.

"Thank you," she told Rhysand, and she trailed after Tamlin. With a final glance back at Rhysand, she swore she saw regret painted on his face.

• RHYSAND •

Rhysand watched the retreating forms of Feyre and Tamlin fade through the rolling green hills.

He did not care about the beast. His eyes followed his lovely painter.

Feyre's braid whipped along the midnight breeze, and she watched her pull it under her cloak.

Heartbreak swallowed him whole, seeing Feyre choose to go with Tamlin instead of him. Yet he understood. His painter didn't yet truly know him enough to trust him.

Or trust his plans.

Rhysand ran his fingers through his hair.

He had plotted, plotted, and plotted. Accepted the fact that Feyre needed to kill the wolf and be dragged into his side of the wall—to Spring of all places. Mulling over it, he considered the possibility that Feyre needed to arrive in Spring Court without needing to stay there.

Winter Court, specifically their guarded city, was the answer—or so he thought it was.

He strategized.

It took a lot of careful sleuthing into people's minds to figure out how to make contact with Viviane—the High Lord of Winter's cherished friend and the leader of the small city. When he did, he bargained with her for information. He made her aware of the havoc Amarantha would bring forth if her people rebelled, and he vowed to do everything in his power to prevent it from occurring in exchange for Feyre's safe passage into her city and the guarantee that she would be taken care of.

He bled and sacrificed himself, distracting Amarantha from all his plotting.

If he could, he would have winnowed Feyre to Velaris instead. There was a time when it would have been easy to do so, but not anymore. He was uncertain if whatever remained of his power was sufficient enough to unshield Velaris and shield it once more. The odds were not in his favor.

That left bargaining with Winter Court without Kallias, their High Lord, knowing. It was the only option. It was a risky move, but with Amarantha frequently calling in the High Lords on a whim, he had to do it. No matter that, he could erase every thought in the blink of an eye.

He disguised himself as Feyre's father to lure her out of the Spring Court Manor as if he were puca waiting on their prey, and it worked.

What Rhysand failed to realize was how much Feyre loved her family. How her every thought was consumed by getting back to them. How she would do anything and everything for them.

He was an imbecile for thinking he could send her somewhere safe without considering she would want her family with her too. Feyre would rather protect her family than herself.

She had shown him, though. Her blue-gray eyes blazed exquisitely as she shut him down and made her own choice.

He would never take her choice away from her.

And so he let her walk away.

Rhysand sauntered over the boulder to where Feyre's knife lay on the grass. Picking it up, he admired its sharpened edge. He expected nothing less of his huntress.

Unbuttoning his jacket, he sat on top of the boulder, staring up at the few stars shining in the night sky. He weighed the costs of returning to Under the Mountain. He had stayed outside too long. Amarantha would make certain that his punishment would be painful and gruesome. He would have endured it and made peace with it if he had succeeded in making sure Feyre was in safety at the Winter Court sanctuary.

She wasn't.

This shard of time in an endless cycle was over, he concluded. His fragmented hope for it ended the moment Feyre left his side. It was time to start anew.

He angled the knife to his throat, slitting his jugular in one swift motion. When he met the darkness, he felt no pain.

Thank you for reading! 🩷

[feysand-hivemind]

ACOTAR Through Time

It goes to say that we love stories that play with time! Give us the angst, the hope for a better outcome, the characters doomed by the narrative.

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) is taking a break this week as a lot of our writers are working on Elucien week material. In the meantime, here's a rec list of some of our favorite ACOTAR fics that deal with time loops, time travel, and that tempting opportunity to redo it all again...

(These fics have a variety of ships and are in various states of completion!)

All of the Girls You Loved Before by @separatist-apologist

The fic, the myth, the legend...let Elain and Lucien break your heart in this fantasy AU. Elain and her sisters are witches, and have separated to avoid the witch hunters that are born to pursue them. Her small life as a healer in a village in the human lands seems to be quiet and perfect until the vicious Lord Graysen Nolan shows up for the hunt.

Never Alone by @thefloweredskull

A mysterious magic visits Rhysand on Calanmai and takes him back to his human mate as a child, who needs help with her homework (and maybe a birthday cake as well). The magic visits Rhys and Feyre and brings them back in time to each other when they need help the most.

A Court of Faded Dreams by @the-lonelybarricade

It’s impossible to make this list without the one and only! The classic story, and gateway drug for so many into ACOTAR fanfic. Losing Rhysand to the Cauldron in ACOWAR, Feyre rages and demands the Cauldron brings him back. Instead it sends her back to the beginning - to her human travails in the Spring Court.

Sunshine in Autumn by @asnowfern

Written for Elucien week 2023 - Elain's seer powers warn her of impending doom, and in order to save her family she travels back in time to the Autumn Court where her only ally is her mate, who has no idea who she is.

A Court Outside of Time by @sonata-ix

Give the people what they want...fae Feyre, on a quest to find out why she can't become pregnant, engages the help of a powerful magical being who sends her back in time UTM, to the mate who doesn't yet know he's her mate.

Magic in the Air by LadyLoec

Let's not forget the time travel excuse for putting MORE smut into ACOTAR...Feyre is having recurring dreams of Calanmai, and with a little magical help from Amren she's able to exert some control over those dreams.

Of Talons and Light by @isthisclever

Post ACOSF - possibly dangerous magical enemies drag Feyre away from her life in Velaris with Rhys and Nyx, back to the human lands where it all began. Now she has to prove herself to be the Cursebreaker once again, hoping to gain the help from her family and loved ones along the way.

Reblog if you have a favorite time travel, time loop, or fix-it-with-knowledge fic you'd like to recommend!

[feysand-hivemind]

We've been blessed with a sneak peek from another member of the hive!

The first few weeks after each new loop were always agonizingly slow, but they seemed to move by a little bit faster as Rhys began to plot. Rifling through his experiences in his head - what he knew, what he’d observed. Trying to find a good moment to slip away while also getting the chance to see Feyre again, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. There was a hunch deep down in his soul that if she knew the things she could do, that she was capable of? What they could be capable of if they were together? It would have to drive her in the same way it compelled him, even just a little bit. Their fates depended on it either way.

Every night as he lay next to the wicked wretch he was forced to call his master, he would be patient. His eyes would trace the constellations he imagined on the ceiling of her bedroom as he laid deadly still. Each breath he took was carefully measured - the length of them, the depth of them, how quiet they were - to give the illusion that he was sleeping peacefully beside Amarantha. For hours he would wait, ensuring that she was deep in slumber before he attempted to do anything that might resemble trying to flex the muscle of his remaining powers. If he was to find her again, even if it was just to catch a glimpse of the human woman he now called mate in his head and heart, Rhys couldn’t risk it.

He couldn’t risk her.

[feysand-hivemind]

We love you @rosanna-writer, your wet, wrinkly brain and your beautiful, wonderful way with words 💜

Thank you to @yourstarsmyscars and @tealeaves-and-rosepetals for the tags <3

1. How many works do you have on A03? 26!

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 264,972, but I don't think this is entirely accurate; some of those works are co-written for events and include stuff written by other participants.

3. What fandoms do you write for? ACOTAR

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? I try my best! I'm here to make friends, so if you're in my comments section I'm like HI HELLO NEW BESTIE. But tbh I get distracted and don't always remember.

5. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Nope

6. Have you ever co-written a fic before? I have! I participated in a writing circle event last summer, where each fic was three chapters with a trio of authors writing each one, and I'm part of the @feysand-hivemind writing a "round robin" style fic.

7. What's your all-time favorite ship? It's probably a tie between Feysand and Sherlolly

8. What are your writing strengths? I'm good at coming up with buzzy, high-concept ideas that you can describe in a few words and still make people go "ooooooo I'm already obsessed, I need that NOW"

9. What are your writing weaknesses? I'm so bad at "crunchy specificity" - I tend to gloss over description or use descriptors that are too generic to be effective. With fic, I sort of use canon as a crutch and borrow a lot of descriptive language (or just say fuck it, the audience knows who these people/locations are lol), and it's a weak spot for me.

10. First fandom you wrote for? Artemis Fowl, baby's first book boyfriend, and I'll ship him with Minerva and defend her until the heat death of the universe

tagging @popjunkie42, @secret-third-thing, @cauldronblssd, @whatishowedyouinthedark, and anyone else who wants to jump in!

[feysand-hivemind]

Our second chapter by @rosanna-writer is here, and we couldn't be more excited to update again!!!!

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) (2/?)

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter. Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact. A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt. Warnings: canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence, temporary character death Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~2k

To absolutely no one's surprise, I'm part of @feysand-hivemind! I am so lucky to be able to create something alongside the sweetest, most talented group of people with the biggest, wettest, wrinkliest brains (and the biggest wingspans to match). I love you guys so much!

Moodboard by @octobers-veryown

Chapter 1: now we're at the starting line (i did my time) - Loop 0-2 | Chapter 2: Loops 5-11

You can read it Here on AO3 or under the cut!

It had started with a deer and a wolf and a forest. Rhys supposed it could end there, too. There had to be a reason that he found himself back at this moment in particular, over and over.

Something momentous, something world-changing happened every time Feyre loosed that arrow. He knew that down to the marrow of his bones.

Perhaps, then, he’d been tasked with stopping it.

The biting cold and the gnawing hunger were there again, and along with her scent and the sight of her alive, it was nearly enough to distract him.

But her eyes landed on the deer. And then the wolf.

“Feyre!” Rhys called her name, the first time he’d ever dared to voice it aloud.

She turned, and the look she leveled at him was pure hate. A human with ice in her heart, indeed.

Faerie. Rhys heard her thoughts, and she’d spat the word, all venom in her mind.

He hardly noticed. His Feyre moved like an expert, drawing the bow and aiming before she’d even finished turning, loosing the arrow on instinct. It hit its mark, and Rhys couldn’t help but marvel—it had taken him years of training in Illyria to be able to hit a target while doing anything but standing perfectly still.

His painter was a predator, too. He wasn’t even upset she’d shot him.

Rhys’s hand drifted to the wound in his chest as he watched her. Feyre hadn’t wasted time watching to ensure her arrow had found its mark—no, she’d reloaded, and Tamlin’s sentry was already dying, too.

Blood was soaking through his tunic, and Feyre had reloaded again, clearly intent on shooting him a second time to finish the job. Relentless. She had exactly the sort of tenacity Cassian had always said was a hallmark of his most promising recruits.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Rhys said, putting his hands up.

Feyre nocked the arrow but didn’t draw it. “Your kind isn’t supposed to be on this side of the Wall.”

His head was swimming, and for the life of him, Rhys couldn’t tell if it was the blood loss or those blue-grey eyes that were making him dizzy. A giddy, delirious, decidedly un-High-Lord-like laugh bubbled out of him.

“And I would have done something about that if you hadn’t shot me,” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” She reached back for another arrow but didn’t close her fingers around it.

Darkness was already eating at the corners of Rhys’s vision; there wasn’t much time left. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Feyre said something else, but Rhys didn’t hear it over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He swayed on his feet, stumbling backward until he hit a tree.

Something that might have been regret flickered in Feyre’s eyes.

The stain on his chest was growing, the fuzzy darkness overtaking more and more of his vision. Staying on his feet was too much, and Rhys tumbled to the ground. There wasn’t much time left.

Feyre didn’t kneel at his side or take his hand. He was dimly aware of her standing above him, watching silently as the last of his life drained out of him, probably just making sure he stayed thoroughly dead.

Good. She was being careful. Rhys had seen more than a few warriors die because they got cocky in the brief period between landing a killing blow and their opponent's final breath. Feyre was too smart to let someone she killed go down swinging and fell her too, and for some reason, knowing she could handle herself brought him an immense sense of relief.

Rhys faded out of consciousness, and with Feyre watching over him, it was almost…peaceful.

All too soon, he found himself right back where he started. A deer and a wolf and a forest. Cold and hunger.

Perhaps he’d frightened Feyre by calling her name so abruptly last time. He must have made her panic, so of course she’d reacted on instinct and let her arrow fly.

Rhys wasn’t stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. This time, he gentled his voice as he called her name.

And again, Feyre turned. And again, she shot him without hesitation.

But as he brought his hand to his chest again, Rhys noticed her cheeks had gone pink, most likely from the cold. Perhaps though…perhaps he’d overdone it and purred her name a bit too much like a lover.

He caught the tail end of her thought about him being the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and even as blood oozed from the wound next to his heart, Rhys wanted to preen.

He was running on borrowed time before he bled out and time reset. None of this mattered at all, so he said, “For what it’s worth, you’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, too.”

Just for that, she put another arrow in his throat. The world faded into too-familiar nothingness.

Deer. Wolf. Forest. Cold. Hunger.

Rhys had called her name, and that had been a mistake—as far as Feyre was concerned, he had no reason to know it. Though it seemed patently ridiculous, he didn’t want to frighten her into shooting him again, so he said, “Pardon?”

Feyre whirled around, blinking in surprise, and drew the bow. “What do you want, faerie?”

“You need to run. Do not return to this part of the forest. Please. It isn’t safe.”

Her thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion, churning so quickly that Rhys could hardly keep up with all her questions or even begin to answer them. Somewhere in the middle of it, the deer bounded off into the trees.

Feyre swore. As far as she was concerned, Rhys was the reason her only chance at eating that day had just slipped away. She muttered something about faerie bullshit and shot him in retaliation.

As life drained out of Rhys again, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d expected this to turn out any differently.

And yet, he tried again. Each time, Feyre either perceived him as a threat and shot him immediately, or enough time passed that the deer got away, and then she shot him in retaliation anyway.

Rhys had known his painter held hate in her heart for the fae, but he hadn’t anticipated just how deep it ran. In the few seconds he had before she let her arrow fly, it was impossible to get Feyre to trust him.

He lost count how many times she let him bleed out in the snow before he accepted that he needed to play the long game. That was fine—Rhys was an extraordinarily patient male.

He’d known that Feyre changed the world when she sank her arrow into the wolf’s eye. Perhaps trying to stop it was wrongheaded of him; it seemed as good a guess as any that these repeated deaths were a message.

Feyre needed to kill that sentry. Rhys needed to let her.

A deer and a wolf and a forest. Cold. Hunger. And a shadow, watching over all of it.

Resigned to do things differently, Rhys woke again Under the Mountain. He stared up at the ceiling as Feyre’s scent faded from his nostrils, and for a moment, he just savored the short-lived peace. It wouldn’t be long until Amarantha was awake, too.

Somewhere across the Wall, the Cursebreaker was slinging a carcass over her shoulders and trudging home.

And maybe one day, she’d bring Rhys and the rest of Prythian home, too.