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the-lonelybarricade · 2 years ago

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The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: @separatist-apologist AND I ARE BACK WITH MORE CHAOS BOIS

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter

Chapter 2/10: A Painting You Could Never Frame

The leather bracelet couldn’t be removed.

At least, not in the testing Rhysand had conducted while the huntress slept soundly beneath the stars.

The material didn’t act like any leather he’d ever encountered. It couldn’t be cut by the Illryian blade. It couldn’t be loosened and stretched with water. He couldn’t even slide the bracelet up to the narrower circumference of his wrist, no matter how he pushed and tore and cut.

It was melded to his skin.

That in itself was fine. Rhysand could live with an eternal accessory if its only purpose was to remind him of the bargain he’d made with Feyre.

The magic proved more tedious than that.

He thought Feyre was naive when she agreed that he could take the first watch while she slept. The second her breathing had evened, he’d grabbed for his provisions and his sword, deeming that Feyre was surely safe this close to the Wall. She would wake up in the morning, see him gone, and venture back into the safety of their village, perhaps to find some other fool to manipulate.

Except Rhysand had made it all of five paces before a shimmering golden chain had materialized from the bracelet. It led back to the woman sleeping soundly on the forest floor and had been pulled so taught that he couldn’t take another step forward. He exhausted himself trying.

Leashed, just as he’d suspected. No better than a dog to heed her command.

Though his father would assert the opposite, Rhys considered himself a practical man. As he sat back against the firm trunk of a towering tree, watching the slow rise and fall of Feyre’s chest, he decided that he had all of three options.

The first, to cut off his hand above the bracelet’s bind. It was admittedly the least favorable choice, but an option nonetheless. Rhysand enjoyed the use of his hand the way any ordinary man might, and besides the obvious inconveniences, he was certain it would win him no favor with his father nor would it aid him in finding a wife when he eventually returned. Which perhaps wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

The second option was to oblige the woman he was suddenly bound to by fulfilling the bargain. That solution operated on the assumption that Feyre had not lied to him. Which, Rhysand noted while glaring at his newfound chains, would not be surprising. While he believed the story about her sisters—he’d recognized that look in her eyes well enough—Rhys currently had no proof that fulfilling the bargain would free him. Harmless as she looked, Feyre was clearly a cunning creature, who knew far more about the fae than she had initially let on. It put him at a distinct disadvantage when trying to outwit her in these lands.

And so he’d decided on his third option: to kill his captor.

She looked so peaceful while she slept. Moonlight filtered through the trees, falling over Feyre in silver ribbons that made her skin look achingly soft. His fingers twitched with the useless longing to see for himself. Maybe it was an illusion, a consequence of the magic that lived here. Everything was more pleasant across the wall. The world of faerie was designed to lure, to instill whimsy on its observer and lull them into a false sense of security. It was why the night sky seemed brighter, why the flowers smelled sweeter, and why Feyre looked like the loveliest thing he had ever seen.

No senses could be trusted here, even that of lust. Even that of mercy.

The hilt of the Illyrian blade shaped his palm nicely as he drew it from its sheath. Could he really do this? He reasoned that Feyre would get them both killed if he let her drag them on this journey. She had brought this upon herself. He had been willing to help her towards the wall, might even have been convinced to help her sisters, but not against his will. Rhysand had spent too long fighting his father for every drop of freedom, had risked too much to chase this one final dosage, for it to be usurped by a clever pauper that didn’t even look as though she could lift the weight of his sword.

Killing her now would be a mercy, compared to what a faerie might do to her.

The mossy carpet of the forest swallowed each of his footsteps as he snuck into a crouch over her. She looked younger without all the cutting glances and knowing smiles. Thin, but still so beautiful. He’d started to reach out, to brush the backside of his knuckles across her cheek, before he caught himself. Desperate people did desperate things. He could forgive her for trapping him with magic, if she could forgive him for doing this.

Rhysand raised the blade over her, took a deep, shaky breath, and plunged the tip towards Feyre’s chest.

It sank to the hilt in the earth.

The chain. It had materialized once again, heavier this time, and had pulled the blade off its path.

“The terms of the bargain are that I’m returned safely to the wall,” Feyre said, eyes bright and perfectly awake. Had she even been sleeping at all? Rhysand tried to mask his surprise, but he must have done a piss poor job from the way Feyre raised her brows.“You really thought the magic would allow you to kill me?”

He yanked the blade out of the dirt, swallowing a strange combination of resentment and relief. “You can forgive a man for trying his luck.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to return the favor when it’s your turn to sleep.”

“You won’t kill me,” he said on a long exhale. Light gleamed off the blade as he wiped it clean against the soft moss. “You need me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered putting this bracelet on me.”

Feyre sat up, eyes narrowed. “Just as well that I did, otherwise I would be dead.”

He doubted that she would have slept if she hadn’t known the magic would protect her, but it hardly seemed worth the argument now. Rhysand only had two options remaining, and since he wasn’t in the mood for cutting off his own hand… he supposed they’d have to find a way to tolerate each other.

“Kill me if you want to even the ledger,” he said, stalking back to the tree trunk. The bark that scraped against his back was less abrasive than the gaze he could feel on his face, even after he’d shut his eyes. “Since you’re awake, it’s your turn to keep watch.”

She huffed the same way his sister used to when he’d taken his teasing too far. Rhysand didn’t want to draw the comparison. His sister had been a child, and they were nothing alike aside from their insistence on causing him trouble.

But it softened him to her. Enough that he peaked an eye open to say, “Tell me about them.”

“Who?”

“Your sisters.”

Feyre scoffed. “Go to sleep.”

“Tell me their names, at least.” Both eyes were open now, and all he could see was Feyre, bathed in a mixture of shadow and moonlight, dancing along her cheekbones, hiding in her eyes. Like they clung to her.

“Nesta,” she said softly. “And Elain.”

He tried again to recall them, and was met with vague memories of the Archeron sisters on the outskirts of his social circle. He’d only ever glimpsed them in passing. “And they’re younger?”

“Older.” Feyre was frowning. It was odd, the way that bothered him when he had been willing to kill her just a minute ago.

“I had a younger sister,” he said. Quietly. It was as much as he could muster for an apology.

Feyre nodded like she was unsurprised. If she’d been in their social circle back then, she’d have likely heard the story of the lord’s wife and daughter passing.

She asked, equally quiet, “If you had to use me to get your sister back, would you have done it?”

Yes. He didn’t bother denying it. He knew the answer was likely plain on his face. “Goodnight, Feyre.”

He reclined further back against the trunk, intent on falling asleep. It was easy enough, in spite of Feyre’s watchful eyes. The spring air was temperate, and the exhaustion of their hours of walking became a heavy blanket, settling darkness over him the minute he yielded his conscious mind.

Then a hand gripped Rhysand hard by the shoulders, jolting him awake. Feyre crouched over him, blocking the low sun spilling over her back. With sleep clinging to his mind, he couldn’t help thinking the blushing sunrise looked beautiful on her cheeks.

Her eyes were wide, still filled with rage and starlight. “Get up.”

She dropped him roughly against the tree trunk, and Rhysand quickly scrambled to his feet, instinctively reaching for his sword as he scanned the quiet forest. “What is it?”

Feyre pressed a finger to her lips. She craned her head, listening carefully, and Rhysand strained to hear anything that warranted the way Feyre slowly drew her bow. She pulled the string backwards, an arrow notched for the ready. The focus in her eyes… It was honed with an expertise that reminded him that while he’d been venturing into the woods for fun, she’d been doing it for survival.

She turned, aiming the bow towards him. Rhysand regretted never becoming better equipped with a long range weapon. He held up his hand. “Whoa, Feyre—”

A branch cracked behind him.

Feyre released the arrow. He could feel the whir against his cheek as it whipped past, followed by a hissing screech that sent every bird in the forest vaulting towards the skies. Rhysand turned to see a ghastly creature fall backwards, an arrow protruding from its black scaled chest.

“Run,” Feyre said with lethal calm.

Metal sang as Rhysand drew his sword from its scabbard, twirling the handle around his hand in a performance that was designed to say: no. He wanted to fight. This was why he’d come across the wall, and if Feyre wanted to be bound to him then so be it. He wouldn’t be fleeing from battle any time soon.

“Rhysand,” she hissed. “We need to go.”

“Why?” He scanned the forest, feeling his adrenaline wake his mind, sharpening his senses. “Things have just gotten fun.”

Another dark figure broke out of the trees, only to immediately find another of Feyre’s arrows in its chest.

Rhysand flashed her an approving grin over his shoulder. “Save some for me.”

She didn’t so much as glance in his direction as she quickly reached over her back and deftly notched another arrow. Perfectly playing her part of the grim, ever-serious huntress.

“This isn’t a game,” she said, pulling the string back towards her cheekbone.

Maybe not to her.

Rhysand launched into the forest, intent on encountering one of the humanoid beasts before it met the wrong end of Feyre’s arrow. Faeries. Just how he had imagined they would be, creatures borne of shadow and hate. The air had turned sickly with the smell of their rot. They moved silently, keeping to the darkness cast down by the tall trees, but now that he knew what to look for, they were easier to detect.

There, a spot of unnatural darkness, skin like an abyss sucking the light from the earth. Rhys smirked. “There you are.”

“Human,” it spat. By its tone, he thought he ought to have been insulted.

“Faerie filth.” Rhysand readied his stance and flashed the creature a charming smile. “I’ve been waiting a long time to find one of you on the other end of my sword.”

The chain around Rhysand’s wrist materialized. He ignored its tug, imagining that if he glanced over his shoulder he’d find Feyre walking the opposite direction, attempting to pull him away through brute force. She might as well have been a kitten batting at his leg.

Rhysand knew he was stronger and heavier and if she wanted to be bound to him, then he’d decide where they went. He fought against her weight to take a step towards the creature. On the other end of the bracelet, he could feel Feyre digging her heels to take the space back. Evidently, he’d be fighting creatures on both sides.

The faerie lunged, clearly uninterested in the silent tug-of-war between humans. Rhys couldn’t help feeling disappointed in the lack of repartee as he jumped backwards to dodge its flesh-shredding talons. The movement slackened the chain until it faded from sight, giving him the required space to maneuver. The faerie was fast—maybe even faster than the wyvern. They had the same soulless look in their eye, one that sent his heartbeat thundering with the reminder that he was staring into something other. Dark and twisted and evil.

Evil that he would vanquish as a favor to the world.

They circled each other. Rhysand’s focus narrowed to the battle at hand. As he studied his foe, he could feel the hilt of his sword vibrating with anticipation. Faeries were adept predators, maybe, but their primal instincts did them a disservice. The creature snarled before its attack, showing Rhysand rows of sharp white teeth that stood out starkly against the darkness. That warning gave him ample time to prepare, despite its superior speed, and when the faerie dove towards him, Rhysand’s sword was waiting.

Easy.

Rhysand jerked the blade before pulling it out of the creature’s stomach, grimacing at the dark blood he’d now need to clean off.

“Rhys!”

The chain reappeared, glimmering softly in the dark. It yanked him backwards with unexpected ferocity. He stumbled in the direction of its pull, narrowly avoiding the dark body that had lunged at him from behind—and the brutally sharp talons that grazed his cheek. Air rushed through his gritted teeth, moreso in surprise than pain. Rhys could feel the blood already welling from the wound, wetting his skin. He hoped it didn’t scar. It would just be another thing his father could stare at in disappointment.

“Bastard,” he seethed. A familiar white-hot rage curdled in his gut, sending him forward with a snarl that rivaled the beast he was fighting. He swung his sword in a wide arc, letting the momentum carry him through the resistance of bone and muscle until the faerie’s head was rolling across the forest floor in a clean cut.

He used the back of his hand to wipe the blood spray off his face, though he was likely only smearing it. No use fretting now, not until they were certain that was the last of the beasts. Later, they would find a stream to wash off the crusted blood.

“Is that it?” he asked, swiveling his head to search every shadow.

Feyre still kept her distance, a sign that there were likely more faeries lurking. Though he wasn’t certain how she could tell.

“Rhysand,” she called again, only just loud enough to reach him. “Time to go. Now.”

Why? After how easily they’d taken down four faeries?

The forest had gone eerily silent, the smell of rot gone. There was only the gentle spring breeze and the sound of his racing pulse. But then the air shifted.

Rhysand went stiff.

He could feel something watching, different from the faeries they had fought just a moment ago. The scaled, serpentine monsters hadn’t caused every hair on his neck to stand up. Not like this. He swore the forest held its breath as Rhysand cautiously ventured towards the unsettling presence. Hidden through the thicket of trees, the first thing he made out was deep green, golden flecked eyes. Then the creature moved closer, revealing a face like that of a wolf, but far, far larger.

“Run,” Feyre said again, the single word dripping with panic.

This time, Rhysand listened.

A bone-shattering roar sounded from behind them, reverberating through the ancient trunks he sprinted past. The chain dragged him forward—try as he might to catch up to Feyre, she was fast and she’d had a head start on him. Still, he was grateful that he was chained to someone quick. She’d probably needed to be, to survive in the forest as long as she had.

The brush crashed behind them. No matter how fast Feyre was, nor how Rhysand had always prided himself on his own speed, they were no match for the creature whose thundering steps were growing louder, closer, inviting no comfort in the idea that they might escape.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Feyre said, taking a turn so sharp that the momentum on the chain flung Rhysand forward, careening his body none-too-gently against a tree.

“Fuck, Feyre!”

“Run faster!” she snapped, entirely unsympathetic.

A dull roar sounded ahead, nearly as threatening as the creature at their backs. It originated from something just as mighty, a force of nature in its own right. A river. Shallow enough to cross, but Feyre chose to run beside. Seeing as she was ahead of him, Rhysand had no choice but to follow.

“Where are we—”

She stopped, forcing Rhys to skid to an abrupt halt that nearly sent them both toppling over. When he saw what she had stopped for, Rhysand thanked the long forgotten gods for blessing him with fast reflexes. They were standing at the edge of a cliff face, where the river fell into a pool down below.

He could already see the plan shaping in her mind. “Feyre…”

“We either jump together, or I jump and take you down with me.” She turned her head, eyes burning so furiously that Rhysand knew she meant it. “I know which option gives us a better chance of survival.”

Rhysand stared down the face of the cliff, measuring its distance and the depth of the pool below. It didn’t look rocky, but the way he saw it they had just as much a chance of survival as they did fighting for their lives. He wasn’t a coward.

“You’ve gone mad. With your arrows and my sword, we could—”

“We can’t,” she said evenly. “That thing will kill us.”

He held her gaze, even as the gigantic beast broke out of the thicket and snarled. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, but Rhysand didn’t look away from Feyre. A few stray locks had spilled out of her braid, clinging to the damp on her dirt-smudged face. Maybe she wasn’t a coward, either. There wasn’t a trace of fear in her expression, not at the beast rampaging toward them, and certainly not for whatever lay at the bottom of the precipice.

Rhysand slid the sword back into the scabbard at his back and extended his hand toward her. “Together?”

Her hand was unexpectedly soft for a huntress, and much smaller than his own. Cunning eyes, soft hands, and a pretty face… despite her family’s fall from fortune, he wondered why no one had ever pursued her. It was yet another curiosity that he tucked away as something to marvel at later.

“Ready?” she breathed.

They didn’t have the choice not to be. The faerie was a raging force racing toward them, gaining quickly now that it was running straight on. If they didn’t jump now, they’d find themselves beneath its claws.

Rhysand squeezed her hand, encouraging her to take a step back, then another. His instincts raged at the idea of moving closer to the beast, but they’d need a running start to ensure they cleared the cliff face.

Breathe, he could hear his mother say in the back of his mind. That had always been her instruction when the world was overwhelming. He’d overheard her muttering it to herself in moments she was deeply aggrieved. Breathe, she would say, before preparing to take on whatever the world, or her husband, had decided to throw at her.

Rhysand heard Feyre release a deep exhale in time with his own.

He wasn’t certain who moved first. Feyre seemed intent enough on dragging him to his doom that he wouldn’t be surprised if she had taken the first step. But when they leapt from the edge, they did so as one.

Wind and water swallowed the beast’s roar as they plummeted, faster and faster. The world became a blur of color and sound, broken by the sudden, hard slap of water. The sting of impact blistered Rhysand’s skin and he gasped, only to be met with a mouthful of bitter water as gravity dragged him beneath the surface.

He tried to propel himself up to the surface, but found unexpected resistance. Something had coiled around his leg. Rhys kicked aimlessly, dismissing it as some underwater weed that had tangled around his ankle. But it yanked in response, with the force of something sentient. Rhysand strained his eyes open against the stinging cold. The water was clear, illuminated by the soft glowing chain that withstood the pull of the vine curled around his calf, suspending him in both directions.

The river was deeper than he expected. Another vine slunk out of the dark abyss below, aiming with impressive speed towards his other leg. Rhysand thought better than to contemplate what it might be attempting to drag him towards as he reached with his spare hand for the Illyrian blade at his hip. Even below the water’s surface, light caught on the blade as he sliced through the water, cutting himself free of the plant’s grasp.

Just as he began to kick himself up, the chain yanked him sideways—Feyre. She’d been thrown from him in the fall, but as his eyes followed the mysterious glow he could see her. Furious, kicking Feyre, whose screams erupted into a cluster of bubbles, dispersed haphazardly as she futilely clawed at the vines around her legs, which quickly shot to her wrists.

It seemed that for whatever reason, the plants found her to be far more interesting prey.

Ignoring the burning in his lungs, Rhys pushed towards the direction of that magical pull. He willed his thundering pulse to calm. He had to make every second count, had to rage against that seizing in his chest, though his lungs felt like someone had lit a fire beneath them.

Feyre had been underwater just as long as him. He could see the moment she caved to her body’s intrinsic need to ease that burning. She opened her mouth, inhaling a deep, fatal breath of springwater. It gave him pause. If he left her, would that release him from his bargain, he wondered?

Let Feyre get herself killed—it was the perfect loophole.

Even as he contemplated it, he continued swimming toward her. Perhaps it was the magic compelling him. Get her to the wall safely, that was what he had promised, and the chain had lured him this way, practically discouraging him from rising to the surface without her.

Magic. That was how Rhysand justified cutting her free from the vines and sliding his arms around her waist. He hauled her against his chest, noting with dismay that there was no resistance from the fierce huntress. Her body was practically limp.

His own lungs were screaming. Rhysand gritted his teeth, determined to break his jaw before he surrendered to the siren song of breath. Of all the heroic endings he’d imagined for himself, he’d never thought the foe that vanquished him would be a river.

White fog clouded the edge of his vision. His control was slipping, but he knew it was just one last push. The sun danced over the waterline, taunting him in its proximity, and—

He spluttered as he broke through the surface, greedily gulping down air. Feyre slumped against his chest, and for now it was all he could do to swim backwards, floating her on his body so her head stayed above the surface.

He dragged them towards the water’s edge, depositing Feyre on her back in a wet splosh before he pulled himself after her. Water sliced off his heavy clothes, muddying the sandy bank beneath them.

“Feyre?” He rasped, pushing her wet rope of hair aside to feel for a pulse.

A dull thud answered him in the back of her throat, then another—louder—that dissolved into a coughing fit as she turned her head and vomited water across the shore.

Rhys grimaced. “Lovely to see you alive and well, darling.”

Feyre raised a shaking hand to wipe her mouth. “Prick,” she said, voice horse.

“I think you mean thank you. It wasn’t my idea to jump.” He glanced over his shoulder, to the top of the cliff where the wolf-like faerie stood, watching them with eyes too intelligent to belong to a mindless beast. “I’m not certain how much time it bought us. Can you walk?”

He hauled her up by the arms regardless, keeping a steady hand on her waist once she was upright. Feyre’s entire body was shaking, and while Rhysand was in better shape, he could still feel a numb fatigue settling in his bones. They wouldn’t be getting far like this.

Feyre batted his hand away. “I’m fine.”

Her voice crackled, lacking any of the haughty anger she’d liked intended. Rhysand was certain if he pushed her shoulder with any amount of force, she’d topple right over. Still, that wild focus had returned to her eyes—devastatingly blue against the dirt smudging her cheek.

“There,” Feyre said, pointing towards a faded trail leading away from the bank. “Those are footprints. It might lead to a village.”

He frowned. “A faerie village?”

“Keep your hood over your ears and they might believe we’re High Fae.” At his blank stare, she sighed, casting her eyes to the sky like she was begging its omnipotent observer for patience. “Faerie nobility,” she explained flatly. “Our clothes are nice enough, ignoring the dirt.”

“And will they ignore it?” He pressed. “Or will it be obvious we’ve just been fighting their kin?”

Feyre said, just above a whisper, “That beast likely plagues their village, too.”

The sympathy in her voice surprised him. In truth, he hadn’t considered that faeries might be victims of one another. He imagined they were all monsters of equal caliber, operating on a hive-mind that sought only destruction and deceit. Of course, he had heard tales of Prythain’s splendor: the high-brow culture, sophisticated politics, and courts flush with wealth. Rhys expected it all came from a faerie’s mouth. A trick to lure mortals in, only to be met with the beasts he had so far encountered.

Distrust churned in his gut. Rhysand loathed the idea of potentially delivering themselves to the fae’s doorstep. But he supposed their luck wasn’t much better lingering in the forest and risking the beast’s wrath.

He swept his arms toward the path in front of him, bowing lightly. “Lead the way, o’great’n’clever huntress.”

Feyre didn’t indulge the mockery. She flicked her weeping hair behind her shoulder and strode in front of him down the path, each step squelching into the wet dirt below. Rhys followed behind wordlessly. He made an effort to stay close, in case a strong breeze came by and did suddenly topple her over. And as he studied her slight frame—all the more obvious from the way her wet clothes clung to her body—he felt ashamed for giving her such a hard time. If his mother were watching, would she be horrified that he had nearly resigned Feyre to death twice now?

That thought bothered him. More than the drag of his wet cape, or the frigid cold growing in his fingertips, or the branches scraping against the fresh wound on his cheek as the overgrown forest reached towards them.

Though, he found it bothered him less after Feyre wrenched aside a branch so that it flung back into his face. She laughed—laughed—when he grunted, and a sound had never before elicited such an intense combination of loathing and awe. It was the first time he’d seen her express any joy since they’d crossed the faerie border. How fitting it would be at his expense.

“Careful, darling,” he crooned, sliding up close enough that he could see she had freckles on the back of her neck. She was sufficiently short that he could easily reach over her to part the next branch for both of them. He smirked. “If you keep being so cruel to me, I’ll forget to rescue you next time.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. “Then who will save you from the naga?”

Naga. He hadn’t realized there was a name for them.

Rhys opened his mouth, prepared to say something stupid, when Feyre abruptly turned on her heel. Before he could speak, she reached for his belt. The Illyrian blade became a lightning streak of silver in his peripheral, accompanied by a dull thud as a dismembered vine landed on the forest floor.

It hadn’t occurred to Rhysand, until that moment, just how… alive the forest had become. Practically teeming with life. Moss blanketed the forest floor, branches tangled overhead. The trail that once led to the village nearly eradicated by foliage. He had assumed it was the fault of low foot traffic, but as he peered up the trail, he could see the brush taking over in real time, growing across the path until it was completely obstructed. A year’s worth of steady growth suddenly completed in a manner of seconds.

He crouched as he drew his sword, treating every branch a suspect.

“A type of fae?” he asked.

Feyre shook her head. “I think it’s magic.”

“Who’s magic?”

“Prythian’s,” she said with a frown. “The same magic that casts this land in eternal spring. It seems… unstable.”

Unstable? “It’s attacking us.”

To prove his point, Rhys lashed at another vine creeping toward them.

Feyre began cutting her way ahead, huffing, “Did you expect Prythian’s magic to be welcoming?”

It was a fair enough point that he shut his mouth. They focused on cutting their way through, falling into a silence filled only by their fight against nature itself.

“Pull your hood up and sheath your sword,” she hissed once she cut away a brush that revealed a dark smokestack crawling towards the sky. A village lay beneath it, halfway demolished.

The forest stopped at the crumbled walls, and once they passed, the reaching vines fled back into the safety of the shadows. Rhysand, begrudgingly, put away his sword and pulled the wet fabric over his head. The state of the village placated him momentarily. He stared, open mouthed, at the buildings they walked past, either crumbled or taken by overgrowth. Doors had been broken and thrown askew. Most glaringly, the surrounding walls were embedded with deep claw marks that Rhysand could easily guess the origin of.

Only a few buildings in the center were left standing, fewer still lit within.

“What happened here?” He chose to whisper in caution that he may wake some long dead thing resting beneath the soil.

Feyre’s hands turned to fists at her side. “I don’t know.”

One of the doors creaked open. They both whirled to see a humanoid faerie with treebark skin standing at the doorway. Her hands rested on her hips, brown eyes narrowed as her pupils flitted between the two of them. There was none of the viciousness of the naga or the primal rage of the beast in this faerie, nothing that immediately screamed threat.

Still, Rhysand’s hand wavered, desperate to reach behind for his sword.

Feyre possessed no such reservation. She had transformed beneath the faerie’s scrutiny, entirely unrecognizable from the pauper he had met in the village. Chin tipped, back straight. Even looking like a wet cat, she commanded an authority that could certainly have passed for nobility. Rhysand supposed that she had once belonged to high class society, after all.

The faerie pursed her lips once she’d finished her inspection. “What brings you to this village?”

The question was directed at Feyre. Rhysand tried not to be offended that she was selected as the leader of their duo.

He watched Feyre mentally weigh the best answer. “Refuge,” she said, finally. “We were fleeing from the beast.”

The faerie’s attention settled on Rhys, from the dripping clothes and the sword at his back, to the scratch along his cheek, down to the cuff around his wrist that marked him a prisoner. She hummed. Hummed like she knew immediately what he was. Why he was there. “Very well. You won’t need to worry about the beast here. The village is warded.”

Rhysand made a point of gesturing towards the rubble. “What happened here?”

“Hubris,” the faerie answered bitterly. “And betrayal.”

“The beast did this?” Feyre asked, though by her tone it seemed she had already guessed.

“He was once a High Lord. A respectable one.” The faerie frowned. “Now in his madness, he’s little more than a blight on the lands he once swore to protect.”

A mad king. That was a familiar tale to Rhysand, at least. He tried to hide his glee at knowing that he had been right. Something terrible had happened. A High Lord, the ruler of these lands, terrorizing its citizens. It was good—good to know that the faeries were weak. If they found a way to vanquish the beast, humans might be able to establish a stronghold at the foot of the wall. One he could lead with his expert knowledge once he returned. And he would return.

The faerie pointed to one of the empty buildings, a cottage of stone and wood that was pretty, if not a little worn. “You can stay there for the night. Not any longer. If the High Lord is chasing you, I don’t want to bring his attention here.”

That seemed as much a dismissal as any. Rhys went to let himself into the lodging, desperate to be out of the cold and away from the faerie’s cutting gaze, but Feyre stayed.

“Can he be killed?” She asked.

The faerie woman shrugged. “If you can survive getting close enough to bury the ashwood through his heart.”

Her tone didn’t instill him with confidence that such a thing was possible, but Feyre nodded. The faerie raised a brow. “I have an ashwood dagger, if you’re feeling foolish enough to try.”

“Why?” Rhys couldn’t resist asking. “What’s to stop us from using it on you?”

Feyre scowled at him over her shoulder, but the faerie woman only laughed. “Then you would be putting me out of my misery.”

The faerie disappeared into the dwelling, and returned with a wooden dagger unlike anything Rhysand had seen before. Its polished surface gleamed beneath the sun as she tossed it, not at Feyre, but at Rhysand, who caught its hilt out of midair. It was heavier than he expected.

“Don’t miss,” she said to him, before shutting her door.

He stared at the wooden dagger, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know you needed a special wood to kill faeries.”

Feyre snorted. Her shoulder brushed his as she passed. “Decapitating them tends to work, too.”

It had worked on the naga, sure, but even he wasn’t arrogant enough to think he could decapitate a High Lord. Not in a clear sweep, certainly.

He stepped with her through the cottage door. The inside was less charming. Every surface was covered in a thin layer of dust, telling him that its previous occupants hadn’t been here for a long while. The smell of rotted wood stung his nostrils.

“Your arrows?” He asked, busying himself with lighting the fire so they could at least attempt to dry their clothes. “Are they made of ashwood?”

“Only some.” He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she pulled the quiver from her back, frowning at its contents. There were significantly fewer arrows than there had been that morning. She had only used two in the woods, and he assumed that a good number had been swept away in the river. “The others are tipped in faebane.”

Rhysand paused in his arrangement of the firelogs. He said conversationally, “I’ve never seen anyone peddling weapons like that.”

“Perhaps you haven’t been looking in the right places,” Feyre said, setting her bow and quiver on the wooden dining table. She came up behind him. “Does a lord’s son even know how to light a fire?”

Just as she finished the sentence, a flame sparked to life, taking quickly to the rest of the wood in the hearth. It danced in Feyre’s eyes as he turned to offer her a smug grin. “You’d be surprised what I’m capable of, Feyre darling.”

She hummed, an unimpressed sound, as she settled beside him in front of the fire. Rhysand didn’t know why, he supposed there was nothing else to do, but he found himself fixated on the way she stared into the growing flames. He wished he could take the fire poker to her mind, turn it over for every hidden ember glowing elusively behind her eyes.

“You saved me,” she said, without turning her head to catch him staring. “Why?”

Magic, he’d nearly said. But he wasn’t prepared for Feyre to tell him it was a lie. She would laugh while she made him examine the truth, the same way she had laughed flinging a branch into his face. Instead, he asked, “How do we save your sisters?”

She sighed, though he was uncertain if it was in relief or sorrow. Her fingers stretched towards the fire, painting the red tips in flickering amber light. “We’ll have to make our way North. They’re keeping them in the Night Court.”

“Night Court?” he echoed.

“There are seven Courts,” she explained. “This is Spring, which borders the Wall. My sisters are on the other side of Prythian, at the northernmost point, in the Night Court.”

The fire was beginning to make his damp clothes cling to his skin uncomfortably. Rhysand busied himself with unclasping his coat, murmuring, “And I suppose we’re to simply walk straight through?”

Feyre glanced over her shoulder, watching with an intent he had difficulty weighing as he deposited his cape in front of the fire and began unlatching his scabbard. “There’s tunnels,” she said. He was only half paying it any mind, all too aware of her attention as he moved on to unbuttoning his tunic. It was the first time, in a long while, where Rhysand found himself nervous he would fumble whilst undressing before a woman.

Feyre continued, tone betraying no deeper interest, “I believe they aren’t far from here. They connect the Courts and will allow us to take passage quickly.”

“Then I supposed we leave for the tunnels tomorrow?” She didn’t respond, and Rhysand tried to feign the same disinterest she paid him. It burned him not to know what caused her silence, more so than the fire against his bare chest and the cool air that lashed against his wet skin in every place the heat couldn’t touch.

Only once he deposited the tunic beside his cape, spreading them so that they could dry, did he venture a glance towards Feyre. She wore a pinched expression he interpreted as disapproving. He explained simply, “Your clothes will dry quicker this way.”

She lifted a brow. “I suppose that line has worked for you in the past.”

Rhysand knew his smile was roguish, and he offered it to Feyre because he hoped it would get under her skin. “Usually I don’t have to drown women to get them wet.”

Her scoff was nothing short of disgusted. “I would rather drown again than undress myself for you.”

“Then you’re a poor strategist,” he purred, waving toward his bound wrist like it were the grand reveal of a magician’s trick. “With this leash, I imagine I’ll get to see you in every state of dress. I’m particularly excited to bathe at your side. Perhaps you can help me wash my—”

His vision suddenly jolted, accompanied by a dull thunk and a shock of pain on his forehead that caused Rhys to blink. Then blink again. He raised a hand to the tender spot on his skull, feeling carefully at the bruise already forming. On the floor laid the culprit. A shoe.

And across from him was Feyre, hand already braced around her second shoe, raising it over her shoulder threateningly. There was so much rage in her eyes—rage that he had only ever glimpsed within himself.

The last thing he’d expected was for Feyre to throw a shoe at his head, and for him to finally find a kinship in her.

“Go ahead,” he snarled, pulling his teeth over his lips just like she was. “I dare you.”

He meant it, too, more desperately than he was willing to examine. If Feyre was going to attack him, he at least wanted to stare into her eyes, witness the goddess-like fury that lit her face while she did it.

And how that fury blazed into loathing. Stark, delicious loathing that blotched her cheeks and colored her ears when she launched the second shoe at his head and he caught it out of the air with relative ease.

The boot dangled tauntingly from his fingers. “I have half a mind to throw this into the fire,” he warned.

The ire drifting off her was hot enough to keep the entire cottage warm. Rhysand relished in it, as life giving to him as the sun.

“Go ahead,” she snapped. “I’ll just steal a new pair from the village.”

“That’s right. I forgot you were nothing but a thief.”

The words were intended to cut, but he might as well have taken a blade to whetstone.

“And I forgot you were nothing but a prick.”

Prick. It was such a harmless insult, he was beginning to find it endearing. Rhysand snorted and threw the shoes back at her. They tumbled against the wood and skidded to a stop just beside Feyre’s leg, the shape of which he could see perfectly from the way the water had suctioned her trousers to her skin.

He thought better than to let his eyes waver. “I’m going to catch up on sleep,” he said dismissively, laying out beside the fire with his back to her.

“Better hope I don’t kill you while you sleep.”

Rhysand hid a smile at her bitterness. “You’d be doing us both a favor then, Feyre darling.”

They ventured out early the next morning. Partly, Rhys was certain, because they couldn’t stand to be idle in one another’s presence for a moment longer. He’d shared his rations with her reluctantly, noting that she’d been the one who decided to venture into Prythian with just her bow.

“I hope you’re better at hunting than you are at swimming,” he grumbled, taking stock of what was left. Hardly enough for a journey that would last them weeks.

Feyre slung her quiver over her shoulder. “I hope you’re better at killing beasts than you are at charming women.”

He had forgotten she said anything at all when he noticed her hair flick over her back with the movement. Hair that he had watched her patiently comb her fingers through that morning, until it was as untangled as she could achieve without a brush. Rhysand had been amazed by how long and well-kept it was, despite her poverty and despite sleeping on the dirt the night before. It looked… soft. Wild, in the same way Feyre was, as it tumbled loosely over her shoulders. But it was accompanied by an understated elegance he couldn’t quite explain, something in the grace with which she quickly braided her hair, the way the sun slanted through the window and caught against the streaks of gold hidden in the honey-brown strands.

His fingers ached. Rhysand tores his eyes away, occupying himself with more useful things: re-packing the bag of rations, buckling his scabbard over his back, inspecting his cape for spare flecks of lint.

“Ready?” She asked.

The chair screeched under him. Rather than answer, he grabbed for the wooden dagger the faerie had imparted to them, and strode to the door. That suited Feyre just fine—silence had quickly become their intermediary. She followed closely at his heels, bow in hand and arrow feathers peeking over her shoulder. From her white-knuckle grip, she clearly suspected the beast would be waiting for them the second they fled the safety of the village.

“Do we know which way the tunnels are?” he asked, only once they’d stopped on the perimeter of the crumbled village walls. One more step, and they’d be lambs entering the lion’s den.

“North.” Feyre’s eyes had gone hard, in a way that startled him. It was the same look he’d seen in soldiers during his years in the military, before they rode into battle. “Through the foothills.”

With the sun barely a hand width’s distance from the horizon, it was easy enough to orient themselves. Assuming, of course, that the sun rose in the east in Prythian. Or that moss grew towards the north. Every natural compass had lost its merit in these lands. Even his mind, the sharpest and most reliable tool he’d ever wielded, strayed under Prythain’s influence. He knew it each time his eyes flickered to Feyre. Indeed, no observation could be trusted here.

“You’ve been there before?” He asked, if only to distract her for a moment as they crossed the invisible ward. The tension vibrating off her was beginning to make him feel off-kilter.

He might as well have been speaking to mud for the way Feyre dismissed him. She was too focused on scanning the surrounding wood, listening.

That’s when he felt it. There was an unsettling weight in the air, pressing on his lungs. At some time in the night or early morning, stillness had blanketed the land. Not even the trees whispered in the wind.

Feyre crept into the forest, steps light and feline, holding her breath for any sound of pursuit. Rhysand was certain they’d hear a creature the size of that beast long before it was upon them. Yet… he had the distinct sense the forest was watching. Waiting.

They trekked undeterred through the woods and over the steep slopes of the hills. Not a single vine or leaf strayed from its place and though Rhysand was relieved they didn’t need to fight their way through, it hardly felt like a good omen. What could quiet an entire land, if not its High Lord? That thought rattled his mind ceaselessly with every step.

He’d lost track of how long they’d been walking, could measure it only from the burning in his legs as they ascended a hollow between two hills. Despite the sun at its peak, generously warming the valleys surrounding them, the air had gone cold. Rhysand fought a shiver as he drew his cape over his shoulders. Before them was a slender cave mouth, its open maw prepared to swallow them into darkness.

Feyre’s lips softly parted open. She lowered her bow. “He… let us go?”

“Not a beast in sight,” Rhys agreed, curving his hand over the jagged obsidian of the entrance. “Perhaps he doesn’t fancy our chances in the cave.”

It wasn’t a particularly welcoming sight. Staring down the tunnel, Rhysand could find no more than an abyss of darkness and a waft of the cold damp that awaited them. It seeped out of the cave’s mouth like rancid breath, poisoning the fresh spring air.

“I don’t understand,” Feyre was saying. Rhys, meanwhile, was searching the nearby trees for a branch they could use as a torch. “Why would he let us go?”

He grunted as he tore a green branch loose. The tree immediately began oozing to mend the wound, which he used to coat the end of the stick in sap. He reasoned aloud, “Why would he bother chasing down two humans? He probably suspected we didn’t survive the night. High Lords probably have larger threats to worry about.”

Not that Rhysand necessarily believed that. All that mattered was that Feyre did, so that the furrow in her brow relaxed. The last thing he needed was a high strung archer at his back.

“Could you make a fire for us?” Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have asked for the help, but he hoped that giving Feyre a task would soothe her nerves. Rhysand always found it calmed people to have something they could control. Feyre especially, with her magic leashes and binding contracts, seemed the type to scramble in the face of the uncertain.

Not Rhysand. He relished not knowing what lay beyond that darkness. Already, his energy was coiling restlessly, discontent with waiting for Feyre to spark the fire for their torches. He wanted to explore, to fight. To find what trap waited for them, be it from the High Lord or some other faerie that wished them death. Let them find him, and discover they’d caught a wolf dressed as a lamb. Eventually, Feyre finished the fire, and the end of Rhysand’s torch ignited with flame, beckoning him towards the cave.

“Where next?” Rhys asked, practically bouncing in his step as they parted the frigid shadows with firelight. “I don’t suppose there’s a tunnel directly to the Night Court?”

His voice echoed down the long stone corridor, tangling infinitely with the sound of dripping water and crunching boots.

“There should be a tunnel for each Court,” she said.

Should. Rhys mulled that over. Perhaps she hadn't been to these tunnels, afterall. His mind was drowning in questions he knew she wouldn’t answer.

“Is there a way to tell them apart?”

“No.”

So stiff. Rhysand frowned, glancing down towards the huntress who walked with her back ramrod straight, lips pressed tightly together. She still carried her bow, eyes flickering distrustfully towards the walls of the cave like she suspected they might close in at any moment.

“Afraid of enclosed spaces?”

“No,” she said, sharper this time.

“The dark?” He guessed.

Feyre laughed. “I’m the last person who’d be afraid of the dark, Rhysand.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Silence answered him. Silence that stretched the length of the tunnel, until they came to a fissure in the cave wall, just large enough to squeeze a body through.

When he stopped to inspect it, Feyre said quietly, “I’m afraid of losing the people I love.”

His heart threatened to crack from the weight of memory, but he melded it shut and hardened his voice to respond, “Aren’t we all?”

Not that there were many people left for him to lose. Rhysand supposed he would mourn the loss of his father, though not quite in the same way he had mourned his mother and sister. Perhaps worse than losing someone he loved was having no one to love at all.

“Do you think you can squeeze through here?” He asked Feyre, pushing that thought aside. When he held his torch to the gap, he could see a carved passageway on the other side. If the fae expected they’d be in these tunnels, he reasoned it was wise to take a route they least expected.

Feyre raised her brows. The crack was jagged and rough, clearly not designed to be used as an entryway, but she was smaller than he was. She’d be the best person to squeeze through and let him know if there was anything worth exploring.

“Are you joking?”

“No,” he said patiently. “I thought a little thief like yourself would be excellent at sliding into small spaces.”

They held each other’s gaze. Rhysand was unsurprised to find that even in the dim lighting, the blaze in her eyes was untempered. She reminded him again of the stars, always tenaciously burning no matter how dark the night.

He was prepared to surrender and let them continue on their way when she huffed, handing her torch off as she pushed past him to squeeze into the small opening. It was tight even for her size. Falling pebbles hissed, cascading towards the ground as she pushed through, inspiring no confidence in Rhysand that he would be able to follow with his height.

Once she was through, Feyre stuck her hand through the crack, demanding her torch so she could see. He handed it over wordlessly, ducking to watch as she cast the light over the passage. It was a long, deathly silent hallway, adorned by torches on the walls that Feyre was able to light.

“If these tunnels lead to the other Courts, I’m surprised no one guards them,” he said.

Feyre bit her lip, casting her eyes anxiously down the hall. “I’m not convinced no one does.”

She wandered further down that direction, causing the chain at his wrist to burst to life, pulling him against the wall.

Rhys pressed his palm to the damp stone in an effort to steady himself. “Should I try to squeeze through?”

“I’m not sure where it leads,” she called. “It may be better to—“

Her sentence trailed off as she turned to face him.

Rhysand watched the flame of his torch flicker in her eyes, growing larger as her pupils widened.

His heart became heavy for a stagnant beat. Hot breath spilled over his neck, a sharp contrast to the cold cavern air. Feyre didn’t speak. She had frozen on the other side of the wall, her expression stricken with horror. All Rhys saw were her lips moving, shaping the prettiest version of a word he’d likely be encountering for the last time. Run.

A deafening roar cleaved through the tunnels, shaking every loose stone to the ground as it vibrated through the walls. Even the light of their torches trembled before the sound. Rhysand’s ears were ringing, but his eyes never wavered from Feyre’s face.

There was no need to exchange any words. With no other options, they both broke into a sprint down their mutual passageways. He prayed they were parallel, knowing that the second either path veered they’d be trapped by the chain that tied them together.

For whatever reason, the beast let him run. Rhysand was well aware he’d been within striking distance of the large claws that could have killed him with a single swipe. Now the beast walked leisurely down the hall, hardly concerned with pursuit.

Foolish, Rhysand thought. He’d surrendered his element of surprise. The bastard clearly wanted to play a game, and Rhysand was happy to partake.

Pain lanced through his body as his wrist suddenly jerked backwards, forcing Rhysand to a skidding halt. Feyre had stopped running.

Her voice came muffled through the stone, “I can’t go straight anymore!”

Rhys grit his teeth. It wasn’t ideal terrain to stage his fight. Unlike Feyre’s side of the tunnels, his light was provided strictly by the torch in hand. He’d need to fight one handed, knowing the High Lord likely had the vision of a nocturnal predator

The beast snorted. A laugh, as arrogant as Rhysand had expected from the mad Lord of Spring. Rhysand shuffled closer to the wall, slackening the chain to give himself space to move as he sought the ash dagger from his belt.

Stab him through the heart. Easy enough.

The beast stalked towards him, each slow, deliberate step reverberating through the cave. He was easily the size of a horse, feline in the way he slunk through the shadows. But his head was wolven—his smile even moreso. The face of every cautionary tale Rhysand had ever been told as a child. Elk-like horns stretched to the ceiling, casting an intimidating shadow that would have frightened any child into behaving.

Naughty children are mistaken for the fae, his nursemaid used to say. Eat your supper, or they’ll steal you away!

Rhysand remembered how he used to puff his chest, declaring with misplaced confidence, they’ll have to fight me first!

Even as a child, that thought had never frightened him. Just as the horns and the shadow and the wolf-like fangs didn’t frighten him now.

“High Lord,” he greeted, watching its approach carefully for any sign of weakness he could exploit. “Pleasure to run into you again. I’ve had a lovely time visiting your Court.”

His fur was thick and on all fours, Rhysand wasn’t certain how he’d get a knife through the beast’s chest. But perhaps the neck would be a good target. He could weaken him, then take the final kill once the chance presented itself.

“A human,” the beast said. Rhysand was admittedly surprised he could speak at all. “Has one of you finally come to kill me?”

“Who’s to say? I might have been coming across the wall to have a pleasant chat. Before you chased me through the woods, that is.” He clicked his tongue. “Terrible hosting etiquette.”

The beast bellowed in response, shaking the ground beneath Rhysand’s feet. But it left his neck exposed, and Rhys lunged forward with the wooden dagger. Faster than his eyes could track, the beast slashed out with his paw, sending Rhysand hurtling back into the cave wall. He heard something crack on impact, but the adrenaline coursing his veins made it difficult to tell if the sound came from his bones, or the stone itself.

“They always like to talk,” the beast grumbled, ambling forward on his large paws, effectively cornering Rhysand against the wall. “She put you on a chain, but will she cry when I shred your skin and break every bone?” He closed the distance between them to press his wet, huffing nose against Rhysand’s neck. Rhys immediately raised the dagger, only for the beast to pin his wrist to the wall beneath a large paw. The High Lord made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a growl and a purr. “Will you cry?”

Disgust slithered Rhysand’s spine at the proximity, but he flashed the beast the very same smile he reserved for the women in his bedroom.“I appreciate the offer, but I prefer a tender lover myself.”

The beast snapped forward, teeth gnashing as they aimed directly for Rhysand’s throat. There was nowhere for Rhys to dodge, but he dropped his torch so he could use his spare hand to unsheath the Illyrian blade and drive it forward, deciding he could at least weaken the creature before it went after Feyre. It would be the heroic end he had craved for himself, if a bit sooner than he had intended.

Except the sharp fangs never pierced Rhysand’s skin. The chain had materialized again, spanning diagonally from the wrist pinned level to his throat. It had lodged into the beast’s mouth like a horse bit, shielding Rhysand perfectly from the attack. Certainly, Feyre hadn’t intended it. He assumed she’d likely been scrambling down the passageway and had unknowingly saved his life.

The beast reared back with a furious snarl, releasing Rhysand’s wrist so he could spit out the chain. The freedom allowed Rhys to drive the dagger towards the faerie’s exposed chest.

The blade had hardly pierced the beast’s skin before Rhys was being tossed away, like he weighed little more than the pebbles he used to skip across water. Hard stone slammed into his back, before it crumbled beneath the weight of the creature that landed over him, gigantic paws cracking the walls on either side of his head.

Stone crumbled into dust, sending Rhysand backward upon the rubble. He screwed his eyes shut as debris rained over his face, falling over his nose and mouth. And while he lay on his back, winded and choking on rubble, the beast raised its head towards the new passageway he’d broken them into. Towards Feyre.

The roar that pierced the air spoke of more than mere ire. It was fierce, primal rage that permeated the tunnels as the beast leapt towards her. The bracelet tugged at Rhysand’s wrist, and now he was the one trapping Feyre, preventing her from fleeing the beast’s wrath while he laid uselessly on the floor. Feyre and the beast exchanged words that Rhys couldn’t hear past the low resonance in his ears, likely a series of taunts similar to what he had exchanged with the beast.

Rhysand groaned, forcing his aching body to sit up. Intentionally or not, Feyre had saved his life. She needed him alive—he knew that. If it had been purposeful, it had not been borne of any sentiment. And yet, he decided at that moment that he would not be responsible for Feyre’s death. Arms shaking, Rhys forced himself to rise, biting back every protest from his bruised, possibly broken, bones. His eyes met Feyre’s.

Her bow was pulled to its anchor point beneath her chin, string pressed to the corner of her lips. Poised every inch like a huntress of old, with her steady hands and fearless heart. She was the very thing they used to make religions about.

Though as the beast took another step towards her, she didn’t shoot. Her attention remained solely on Rhysand. She moved a foot backward, pulling him forward not with the chain, but with her eyes. One step, then another, keeping the glowing strand taut between them so it acted like a boundary at the creature’s side. Once they cleared the debris, Feyre’s eyes darted to the side.

And somehow, he knew exactly what she was trying to tell him.

“Your lands are suffering, High Lord,” Feyre said, a means of distracting the beast while Rhysand slipped around them in a wide circle, careful not to let the bindings disappear.

From the way the beast’s ears twitched, it was obvious he’d heard Rhysand. Certainly, he could feel the chain curving around his thick neck. But Feyre was the one with an arrow trained at the beast, and was consequently deemed the larger threat.

The High Lord huffed a bitter laugh. “And are your lands not suffering?”

Rage blistered Rhysand’s throat with everything he fought himself from saying. Of course a faerie lord, in all his arrogance, would think that the suffering of the human lands was at all comparable to the carnage he’d wrecked in his own Court. All the more reason to take the land back.

“Whose fault is that?” Feyre snapped, equally enraged. “The world is bleeding. It’s not something to be proud of.”

Rhys toed himself carefully into the beast’s periphery. The chain slung around the High Lord’s neck in a lopsided U-shape. They needed to cross the chain, but Rhys sensed if he ventured any closer to Feyre, their proximity would vanish the chain. Her eyes slitted to his, only briefly.

Trust me, they said. He stayed where he was, though he could feel his tension winding back on itself, coiling around his bones in unspent energy that made him jittery. The hilt of his wooden blade smoldered his palm, aching. He stayed.

The beast’s tail flicked, an irritation he hid from Feyre in place of a slow, feral grin. “But the anguish in your eyes?” he crooned. “The futility of your rebellions. It has been worth it to watch you claw at the walls.”

Fury colored her cheeks. Rhysand’s fist tightened around his blade. Rebellion was a nice word for the massacres the fae had inflicted on their people.

“Even if you manage to kill me,” the High Lord said, pitching his voice low, denser than the air. It rumbled through the tumbles like a deep undercurrent. “There are still six more in my place. And I would die peacefully, knowing what you will need to face in my departure.”

It was stupid—utterly foolish—to listen to a single thing the beast said. And yet as he breathed that warning into existence, it must have drifted to Rhysand in the stagnant air, must have lodged unpleasantly in his lungs until he was choking on it.

Because as Feyre released her arrow, a heavy awareness settled over Rhys that they had set out on a course that was irreversible. An executioner’s rope had been cut. And he had the strange, foreboding sense that the blade would fall on his own head.

The beast tried to dodge backwards, but corralled by the chain the most he could do was ensure the arrow landed nowhere vital. A furious roar split the tunnel and as the beast reared back in pain, Feyre turned to Rhys. It was instinct. Pure, wordless instinct that prompted him to move towards her at the same moment. He dropped to the floor, sliding his body across the stone as Feyre leapt into the air with impressive height—enough so that they maintained the necessary distance to keep the magic afloat. So that when they ended up on opposing sides, the binding now hosted an additional captive. A thrashing, snarling High Lord that batted at the restraints with increasing desperation, and yet the magic held.

Dagger drawn, Rhys met Feyre’s eyes as she circled behind the beast to anchor him. They took a step as one, moving the chain like a pulley, circling it slowly around the beast’s neck until Rhysand stood before him.

Unlike the rest of his appearance, the beast’s eyes looked like a man’s. Jade green, with flecks of gold that had been drained of all their fight. It was resignation that stared Rhysand in the face. A human enough expression that for a moment, Rhysand considered mercy.

Then he looked to Feyre.

The beast hadn’t struck her. Or at least, Rhysand thought that he hadn’t. But whether by claws or the rubble or something else, there was a gash along her forehead, dribbling blood over her dirty face. She stared at him through wide blue eyes, eyes that were full with anguish.

Anguish that the beast had reveled in.

Gritting his teeth, Rhysand surged forward, driving the wooden dagger into the creature’s chest. He expected another thunderous howl of pain as he slid the blade deeper, but instead he was met with a hot release of air. A sigh, as though in relief.

There was a ripple in the air. A shuddering through the earth, as if some great god blew a breath into the mouth of the tunnels. The ground quaked, nearly throwing Rhysand off his balance as every rock and stone and pebble answered the tremors. In the distance, he heard the scrape of heavy stone, like someone were pushing a boulder through the cave.

Then it all went silent.

Rhysand yanked the dagger free. At first, he thought it was blood on the tips of his fingers. Black in the shadows of the cave. Until it moved, slithering up his knuckles and spreading in whorls of darkness that stopped once they reached the cuff of his bracelet. He flexed his fingers, hoping it was an illusion, but the markings stayed.

“A curse?” he whispered, the beast’s final warning echoing like it had gotten stuck in the tunnels. I will die peacefully knowing what you will face in my departure.

Feyre’s grim expression was far from consoling.

“We should go,” she said. “I expect all of Prythian felt his death.”

Rhysand could hear what she refrained from saying: And they’ll be coming for you.

#Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #thelonelyapology

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starfall-spirit · 2 years ago

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AHHHHHHHHHH!

MY LOVE, EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS!

I AM SPEECHLESS!

THANK YOU FOR GIFTING US THE WONDERFUL CASSIAN!

Rhys saving Feyre, hostility peeling away. I seriously can not wait to see where all of this goes, especially with all of our favorite bat boys in the picture now. And Feysand is finally getting somewhere. You and LB have dragged this out for too long. Is the whole point of this fic to give us a wonderful story and a slow burn from hell?

Also, jealous Rhys is so sexy. Give me more.

The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Note: @the-lonelybarricade and I have a surprise inside! This chapter is like a kinder egg- illegal in some parts of the world.

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter

Chapter 5/10: Nowhere Left To Go But Heaven

There was no looking at her as she said her goodbyes. Rhys kept his eyes on his boots, dry thanks to Tarquins gratitude and generosity. Rhys fingered the leather pack slung over his back and tried not to think too hard about the new, dark leather conforming to his body. Made by Fae hands, of Fae materials far nicer than anything he could have hoped for. Feyre, too, wore a similar piece of clothing that hugged her like a second skin.

He didn’t want to look at that, either. Rhys cleared his throat as the white haired High Lord came to him, hand outstretched. Rhys took it, surprised when the bare chested High Lord pulled him into a hug.

“For everything you did,” he said, sliding something into Rhys’s palm. Looking down, he found a small, bright red ruby nestled against his skin. “A token of our gratitude.” Feyre was watching, eyebrows raised when she saw what he held. Rhys was tempted to gloat, if only a little—The Faerie likes me better than you.

He didn’t, if only because he didn’t have it in him. Maybe it was all the killing or how little sleep he was getting…or how often he was forced to confront his own mortality. Hell, maybe it was the oppressive fucking heat sapping his desire to torment Feyre.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing Tarquin what he hoped was an appropriately charming smile.

“Back to Autumn, I presume?” Tarquin asked, still looking at Rhys. Rhys nodded, cutting a glance to Feyre. If it bothered her, she gave no indication of it.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she told him again. And this time, when Tarquin came toward her, hand outstretched to cup her cheek, Feyre gently turned her face to avoid his touch. There was no pretending that didn’t please him, though Rhys didn’t outwardly show it. Rhys merely had to be grateful Feyre couldn’t hear the slant of his thoughts. Otherwise, she’d realize he’d developed some manner of feelings for her outside of just raw attraction.

And she’d likely kill him for it. Violently…with her bare hands. Fuck, what did it say about him that the though of Feyre straddling him, even with violent intentions, made his body achey and tight?

Rhys shoved those thoughts away before they betrayed him, gritting his teeth when Tarquin winnowed them back to the door that would bring them to Autumn. Assuring them Eris would be waiting on the other side—as if anyone was looking forward to seeing that bastard again—Tarquin flashed them one last smile before closing them in the dark.

Neither he nor Feyre spoke, the only sound their boots shuffling against the dirt, occasionally kicking an errant rock that would ricochet off the walls. Was she thinking about Eris? They’d been so familiar, so…so close. It was on the tip of his tongue to demand she tell him what she really knew about the new High Lord of Autumn when the door swung open and the hated male himself was right there.

He hadn’t come empty handed, either.

“Well,” he said in a smarmy voice. “You survived.”

“Don’t sound so pleased about it,” Rhys snapped, stepping into the glittery jewel tones of Autumn. After the shock of heat, Autumn was a lovers caress against his skin. Feyre nodded at Eris, who held two heavy, fur-lined capes.

“Are these for us?”

“You’ll need them,” he replied, eyeing their clothing with distaste. “Leather isn’t very warm. If you wanted to stay another night, I could–”

“No.” Like hell was Rhys going to subject himself to Eris Vanserra’s brand of hospitality. Feyre, too, didn’t seem too upset he’d declined so quickly.

Eris’s amber eyes slid to Feyre, waiting for her to give the final say.

“I think it’s best if we keep moving,” she told him, her tone far softer than Rhys’s had been. Fine. If she wanted to be the good guy to the Faeries even after everything they’d done to her, far be it from Rhys to stop her. It certainly made things easier, not that he wanted to admit that. Eris handed over the cloaks, hesitating ever so slightly when Feyre took hers.

“I’ll talk to him,” she finally said, reaching for Eris’s hand. “I don’t know where he is.”

A muscle jumped viciously in Eris’s jaw, leashing all the things the Fae so clearly wanted to say. Rhys nearly pitied him for it, though he’d never admit that aloud.

“He’ll come when he can,” she added, dropping Eris’s hand. It was clear Eris did not believe this mysterious he would be coming, and frankly, Rhys wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t. Eris didn’t seem the sort that anyone cared about.

Eris exhaled a noisy breath. “Good luck in Winter,” he told the pair of them before lunging. There was no gentle, strawberry scented winnow. Once again, Eris ripped them from their place in the doorway, depositing them in a heap just outside another. In the distance, snow capped mountains rose high into the moody gray clouds overhead, dragging an icy wind with them. Rhys clasped the cloak around his throat, throwing his hood up over his head.

Eris looked like there was more he wanted to say, words he couldn’t quite manage. Feyre pulled at the icy handle, hissing against the cold. She had enough manners to say, “Thank you, Eris.”

Rhys had no manners at all. “Drop dead,” he added, following after Feyre.

“When this is all over, maybe she’ll let me put you on a leash,” Eris retorted with a sneer. “I doubt I’ll be half as–”

Rhys slammed the door in his smarmy face, grinning with pleasure. “Ass.”

“You shouldn’t goad him,” Feyre chided, standing just at his elbow. “He likes getting a reaction.”

“Oh? And how do you know him so well?”

“I knew his brother,”

“Are you going to tell me how?” Rhys replied. Feyre, it seemed, knew everybody in Prythian.

“He was friends with that lord I was telling you about,” Feyre whispered, arms wrapped around her body. Whether it was from the chill or the memory, Rhys didn’t ask. “He was my friend, too.”

“Is he dead?”

“No,” Feyre said, her voice heavy with regret. “And I think, when we find him, he’s going to be very angry with me.”

Rhys couldn’t explain why that made him so angry. Not at her, for once, but the Fae male that would be angry with Feyre for…for what, exactly? For being fooled by his friend? A friend who, as far as Rhys could tell, had no business spending time around a human woman to start?

Clearing his throat, Rhys said, “Well…fuck him, if he’s mad at you.”

He swore he heard her smile.

“And you?” she asked him, fingertips brushing the back of his hand. Rhys nearly stumbled over the air in front of him.

“You’re welcome to fuck me anytime you like, darling,” he forced himself to say. Forced himself to sound nothing but amused though in truth, Rhys’s heart was pounding. Was she asking him to? Winter seemed an odd place, but—

“You idiot,” she hissed, withdrawing the feather soft touch. “Are you still mad at me, too?”

Right. Of course that’s what she meant. Rhys opened his mouth to assure her he wasn’t, but what came tumbling out instead was, “The sooner we’re finished, the sooner you never have to see me again.”

It was the wrong thing to say to her. “Right.”

But Feyre offered no emotional vulnerability herself all the while demanding he offer up too much. If she wanted to know how he truly felt, maybe she could start by being generous with her own feelings for once. All the scowling, the snapping…it was wearing on him, too. After all, he’d done everything she’d asked, hadn’t he? When was it enough for her? Rhys wasn’t after gratitude, not really? But fuck, maybe some kindness? Or appreciation that he was still with her, when he could have forced her to drag him along like dead weight.

Or worse. Rhys could have killed her any number of times by now and freed himself, a fact she seemed determined to ignore. Maybe he still would. Maybe he—

Feyre yanked open the door to winter, dragging in a screaming blast of cold air and a roar of fury from something just outside.

“Get back!” Rhys snarled, reaching for Feyre’s shoulder, but he was seconds too late. The creature outside swiped a paw the size of a house against Feyre, sending the two of them flying through the air. Rhys scrunched his face, scrambling wildly for anything that might break his fall.

He couldn’t keep Feyre’s delicate body from crashing against the solid trunk of a nearby pine tree. Collapsing in a heap in the knee deep snow, Rhys wasn’t given even a second to see if she was alive.

Not her, not her, not her—

He withdrew his sword a breath later, forced to face the massive, white furred beast from where he stood. It galloped toward him on four legs, rising onto two as it approached the treeline.

“Feyre,” Rhys hissed over the howling wind. “Feyre, please get up.”She remained where she was, unmoving. For all he knew, not breathing. Rhys slung a leg over her body, protecting her as best he could against a creature he was fairly certain would kill him, too.

What a joke, to come so far only to die here in the snow. At least they’d paved the way for the next group, assuming anyone else was stupid enough to try. Rhys drew a frigid breath, sidestepping the beast when it crashed artlessly into the forest. The snow broke his fall, allowing him to gather up Feyre’s lifeless body in his arms, if only for a second.

A line of blood trickled from her pale pink lips but cauldron bless them, she was still breathing.

“Good girl,” he whispered into her hair before setting her back in the snow. It seemed sacrilegious to leave her like that, but he couldn’t fight this thing and hold her. She’d understand, he told himself.

Forgive him, even.

But from now on, Rhys would be going through the doors first.

The only advantage Rhys had was how much smaller he was. The creature, for its size, was clumsy and artless, relying on little more than its seemingly endless rage and brute strength. More than once, it swiped one of those giant, talon tipped paws hoping to end him quickly. Rhys didn’t know where to begin. The beast was as big as the one in Summer, with no High Lord to explain how he might pacify it.

“Death it is,” he grumbled. Despite the cold, sweat clung to his forehead, dripping down his back. It was miserable dodging that beast while trying to keep it from trampling Feyre. And his own fear that she was slowly suffocating in the snow was making him too rash, too foolish in return.

“End this, you miserable prick,” he snapped, swearing he could hear Feyre yelling it at him. Rhys got lucky. When one of those paws came sailing toward him, he’d thought to raise his sword just at the right second. Truly, it was a lucky stroke that severed that paw—and a miserable stroke of luck at that, given he was immediately showered with stinking red blood.

“Cauldron fuck me!” Rhys snarled, advancing on the beast. Yellow eyes stared back at him with hatred, cradling the stump it had once used to incapacitate Feyre. The roar of fury it offered filled the air with the stench of rotting meat. Putrid and far too hot for the snow crunching under his boots.

Rhys had the advantage now. Down a hand, the beast both didn’t want to go too far and leave the pair of them, given what an easy meal they must have seemed, but didn’t want to get too close, either. Rhys was able to plunge his sword into the beast's gut and rip, pulling out innards like candy from a children’s party.

The beast moaned, spilling forward hard enough to rain pine needles against Rhys’s face. He roared his fury, raising his sword with aching muscles, and just for good measure, brought it down on the beast's neck. He had to chop a couple times to sever it, but Rhys didn’t care. Anything to ensure they weren’t attacked again.

In the aftermath, as Rhys went to Feyre, it occurred to him that this might have been just another Fae animal that wandered the wilds of Prythian. He might still need to battle a High Lord, still.

He didn’t care. Sinking to his knees, Rhys pulled Feyre back into his arms. Her fair skin was a near match for the snow beneath them, blue veined and stark against his own golden skin.

Without the urgency of imminent death, Rhys was able to examine her better. Her cloak was torn and her leathers ripped wide enough snow had been pressed against her bare skin for the duration of the fight. He knew he wasn’t much better, given the beasts once warm blood was now freezing against him.

“We need to find shelter,” he said, lifting her gingerly.

Obviously, he heard her sneer in his head. At least she was still with him that way—apparently she’d become the voice in his head. Deciding that was better than utter silence, Rhys stumbled forward, readjusting his posture now that she was cradled to his chest.

It was misery. No matter which way he turned, the wind seemed to blow against him, while in some places the snow was so deep it came to his chest. More than once, Rhys stumbled into a drift and Feyre tumbled from his arms, unaware of what was happening. He’d dig her out frantically, whispering apologies into her hair, for all she noticed or cared.

“Just don’t die,” he whispered.

Over and over, like a mantra. Just don’t die.

Not her.

Just don’t die.

There was nothing but snow and trees. In every direction, Rhys either found that forest he’d killed the snow monster in, or an endless desert of snow and wind. Wandering aimlessly was going to kill them both. Night had begun to descend upon them, and he didn’t think they’d survive once the temperatures fell further. He turned for the forest, deciding the trees might provide a small amount of cover from the constant biting wind. Rhys’s bones seemed to ache from the cold, his steps sluggish as he began to traverse uphill.

The snow was less dense beneath the cone shaped pines and he’d been right about protection—his face was still raw, but at least he could see again without the wind blurring and freezing tears against his lashes.

They were going to die. With each miserable, crunching step, Rhys became more and more convinced there was no surviving this place. How did anyone manage to live here? Maybe that creature was the only living one, and all the other occupants had fled before the borders were sealed.

He couldn’t breathe as the realization crashed around him. Lost in that wintry hell, Rhys had to stop moving, body braced against the rough bark of a nearby tree. He held Feyre’s trembling body against him, shrugging off his cloak to try and keep her warm. Maybe she’d survive, he thought wildly. She’d wake in the morning aching and sore but mostly fine. He’d be dead, of course, but…that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

Closing his eyes, Rhys thought of home. What would his father say when Feyre returned and told the village the lords son had died in Prythian. She wouldn’t be able to bring his body back, which meant no true burial. No gravestone, no one to mourn him. If anyone even would, to start. His mother and sister were already gone—they’d left him, first.

Everyone he loved left him.

Moments from collapsing to the ground, Rhys remained on his feet by the grace of the cauldron—and Feyre, who moaned softly in his arms. “Rhys,” she rasped.

Not Rhysand.

Rhys.

“You’re fine,” he lied, unsure what else to tell her. “Just stay with me. Feyre, stay with me.”She moaned again, prying open her eyes to blink up at him.

“I’m with you,” she whispered, reaching her hand up. He didn’t know what she’d meant to touch, though in his frozen brain, he swore she’d been about to touch his face. She was alive, even if she went limp in his arms again. Alive enough to tell him she was with him—that he wasn’t alone.

Not yet.

And that was enough to propel him forward. To convince him to keep his eyes open, to keep walking up that miserable, snow crusted hill. Rhys ignored his screaming lungs and his protesting limbs, holding Feyre tighter. He knew he was addled when he thought he should have listened to Eris Vanserra about the warmer clothing. He was miserable by the time he reached the top of the hill.

“Feyre,” he said, blinking against the icy wind blowing around him. The trees had parted, giving way to mountains in the distance, and nestled just at the base—a cabin. Rhys’s knees wobbled with relief at the sight. Four walls were better than none. Rhys stumbled toward it, half laughing, half crying at the sight. It was undamaged by the elements, sturdy with its brick face, a solid wood door, and a chimney rising against the steepled roof. To the side, Rhys saw a shed and prayed there was dry kindling just inside.

He could light a fire. They could sleep off the horrors of the monster, could rest and heal before trying to figure out their next move. Surely the borders were open, now? Which meant three more courts, three more beasts or curses or whatever hell was waiting for them.

He had to break in. Of course whoever owned it had locked it, and it hadn’t occurred to Rhys the cabin might be occupied until he’d busted in using brute force. Thankfully, it was empty, and from the dustmotes floating in the air, he’d guess it had been so for a long time.

It was small. One bed, wedged against a windowed wall, that seemed barely big enough to hold them both. A small bathing chamber, close enough he was pretty sure he could bundle Feyre beneath the blankets and make it to the bath without having to drag her along with him.

A stove, with an oven for cooking—not that he had anything but the rations in their pack—and a small fireplace that, once lit, was likely to warm the entire cabin nicely.

Still holding Feyre, Rhys went back outside into the screaming wind to examine the shed. He kicked it in, splintering the rotting wood doors beneath his boot.

“Oh, thank the mother,” he whispered when he saw all those neatly stacked logs of wood. It took far longer than it should have, dragging in enough to keep them warm for the night, all while holding Feyre. He assumed she’d forgive him for placing them against her body, given she was unconscious and couldn’t exactly help him.

And even if she didn’t, well—Rhys had fire, now. He could have kissed her when he saw those orange flames lick against the brick, smoke curling toward a star filled sky.

Rhys turned the tap on in the bathroom, ignoring the slight smell of sulfur as the tub began to fill with tepid water. He couldn’t get into bed reeking of blood and guts.

“Don’t kill me for this,” he whispered, as he set Feyre into bed. She was still so, so pale. Bloodless, blue lips were cracked from the wind, slightly parted as she drew in shaky breaths. Rhys very gently peeled the clothes from her body, determined not to look at her with anything but clinical interest.

Anything else felt like a betrayal.

He was so afraid he’d find an oozing gash, a wound so deep he’d have no choice but to watch her slowly succumb to death. He found bruises—dotted along her collarbone, blooming purple and green over her ribs, her spine. Rhys was hardly a healer, though he knew well enough what a broken bone felt like. Probing her, he was satisfied that somehow Feyre had managed to avoid a life-threatening injury.

The Cauldron must truly love her, then. Blessed, he decided. Feyre was blessed, by the mother herself given this was the worst of things. Running a finger over her cheek, Rhys let himself exhale with relief before bundling her tight beneath the still cold sheets.

The water never warmed. He supposed decades of frozen pipes would keep the water just a shade warmer than the snow outside. Still, water was water and he was desperate. Arm taut from the leash around his wrist, Rhys had to fill the tub, scrub himself of the blood, drain it, and wash himself again.

Through gritted teeth and shaking muscles, but in the end, he was himself again. Himself, with a tattoo that now swirled over his hand, up his elbow, and against his shoulder. Stretching out the limb, he traced the strange, swirling marks with interest. What did they mean? He wished he’d asked Tarquin to translate for him before they left. He doubted Feyre knew.

Feyre.

Wrapping a moth eaten towel around his waist, Rhys padded back to the bed where Feyre remained, her teeth chattering hard enough he could hear them from where he stood. The room was warming, defrosting the ice from the glass windows.

He didn’t hesitate. There were a million things for her to yell at him about in the morning—undressing her, to start. He fully expected her to rake her nails down his face in the morning. Maybe she’d gouge out his eyes, too. She could try, he supposed, slipping beneath the heavy, furlined blankets beside her. But he’d kept her alive, which was more than he thought Feyre ever would have done for him.

Swallowing how that wounded him, Rhys wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his body. Feyre whimpered, twisting with a pained expression.

“I’m dying,” she chattered, pressing a frigid cheek to his chest. Rhys yanked the blankets over them both, blotting out the orange firelight and bathing them in darkness.

“You’re not,” he responded fiercely, holding her tight. He was stupid—so, so stupid—and still Rhys refused to let her go. “Sleep, Feyre.”

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. Rhys buried his face in her hair.

“Never.”

Rhys woke to the most peculiar sensation. Someone was rubbing his cock— “Feyre!” he gasped, angling his hips backward before he remembered where he was. Light flooded into the frankly over hot cabin, revealing a cheerful, wintry morning. Rhys was soaked with sweat, his cheek pressed to the top of Feyre’s head.

And Feyre was flushed, her cheeks bright red. They’d adjusted sometime in the night, leaving him on his back and Feyre sprawled over the top of him. Her thigh—it had been her leg rubbing against him and Rhys was painfully and embarrassingly hard.

She was going to kill him.

Feyre was thankfully still asleep, unaware of what she’d done. Gingerly, Rhys pushed her leg from between his own, trying to ignore how heat radiated from between them or how acutely aware of it he was when she’d been plastered to his hip. Nor did he allow himself to think about the smear she’d left against his skin. She was hurt and he was—well, he was a fucking bastard for reacting at all. Rhys forced himself to relive the day before, thinking of her broken, bleeding body and the way the monster's innards had spilled hot against the snow.

It was enough to cool his erection. By the time Feyre blinked open a bleary eye, Rhys had one hand behind his head, and while he might have been flexing his biceps just a little, his cock was politely flaccid against his thigh, which was the best she could hope for, given the circumstances.

“I’m not dead,” she whispered, eyes sliding to his face. There was a beat in which she looked down his naked chest, her gaze snagging on the tattoos curled against his shoulder.

Any other day Rhys might have asked her if she liked what she saw. He didn’t, though he caught how her lips parted ever so slightly.

Ever brazen, Feyre lifted the blanket to look, perhaps truly not believing they were both naked. That made him laugh, turning his head when she jerked back and yanked the edge over her chest.

“Did you undress me?” she demanded, outrage and embarrassment coloring her words.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice rough from sleep. “How are you feeling?”

“I—” she took a breath and Rhys braced himself for her condemning fury, her cruel, cutting words. “Thank you.”

“Thank you?” Maybe she’d hit her head harder than he’d thought. But Feyre merely turned, so she was laying on her stomach, and brushed a piece of hair from his face.

“Yes. I—you could have freed yourself.”

Why didn’t you? Seemed to be her unspoken question. Rhys was too distracted by the way she’d so casually touched him and how her breasts were squished against the mattress to offer her anything but the truth.

“No, I couldn’t have.”

Feyre’s eyes seemed brighter in the sunlight, her freckles warm against her flushed face. What would she do, he wondered, if he just kissed her? Would she stop him?

As if in response, Feyre’s gaze slid to his mouth. They were closer than he thought, her leaning over him just enough that the tips of her unbound hair grazed his naked chest. All he had to do was reach for her, to pull her three inches closer and he’d know what she tasted like. Hell, maybe she’d let him do more than just kiss.

Maybe he’d get to explore the wetness between her legs with his fingers, his mouth, his—

“Hello?!” A muffled voice, punctuated by a pounding at the door, pulled the two of them apart. Feyre twisted, pulling the blanket up to her neck while Rhys leaned forward on his elbows. “Did you survive the night?”

“Where is your sword?” Feyre mouthed. Rhys could see it, propped just beside her own right by the door. Stupid, not to have it within grabbing distance.

As if he wasn’t naked, to start. Was he supposed to run into the snow, cock swinging, and fell this new intruder?

The handle turned and Rhys rose up, one arm shielding Feyre’s naked body as the male entered. More Faeries, though this one seemed…friendly enough. Unarmed, as far as Rhys could tell, and just as icy as the world around them. Pale, silver hair was cropped close to his equally fair skin, while moonbright blue eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement as he looked at them.

“Eris Vanserra sent me,” he said, his voice light and easy.

“Kallias,” Feyre said with a mix of reverence and what he swore was irritation. “High Lord of Winter.”

“At your service. You did me a favor yesterday,” he told them, flashing a gleaming, sharp smile. “I figured you two would need some things. I saw what you did to the beast. Who disemboweled him?”

Neither of them moved, though Feyre glanced to Rhys with an equal mix of surprise and admiration. Rhys could do little more than glower, frustrated that she was finally looking at him like he’d always imagined and he couldn’t do anything about it.

“I brought clothes,” Kallias continued, closing the door behind him to toss them both heavy, fur-lined pants and tunic. Kallias’s own clothing was perhaps the finest he’d seen so far in Prythian.

Gleaming black boots and a navy set of pants and tunic embroidered and buttoned in silver. He looked like a High Lord, though without being as showy about it. “Once you're dressed, I’d be honored to host the pair of you.”

“Maybe for breakfast?” Feyre suggested, not moving from her place beside him.

“Whatever you need,” Kallias agreed. “I’ll be waiting just outside.”

“You ah—” Fuck, Rhys was so dumb for offering to let this Faerie stay with them, but… “You don’t want to be out of the cold?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he said with another pleasant, easy smile. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

“Great,” Feyre grumbled, sighing heavily. Whatever he heard was the cause of Kallias’s laughter, trailing behind him as he left them to change. Rhys pulled back, suddenly unsure how to navigate. He was used to their back and forth, they’re bickering and open dislike. Now, though…

“I uh,” Feyre began as Rhys pointedly looked up at the ceiling. “I’ll get dressed first.”

Gods, he wanted to look. Though he didn’t, Rhys did let himself imagine a scenario in which she invited him to. Where he wasn’t undressing her with trembling fingers, certain he was about to confront her death.

When she shuffled toward him, dressed in form-fitting, hunter green and silver, Rhys had to keep himself neutral. Was there anything that looked bad on her? Anything that might dampen the lust he couldn’t shake?

Rhys looked at her, waiting for her to speak. She looked as though she needed to, swallowing as those starlit eyes bounced from his own eyes to his mouth, over and over until he was dizzy and desperate.

“Feyre—”

“I should use the facilities,” she said, her words tumbling from her lips in a rush.

Skittish, he thought with no amusement. She vanished, leaving him to dress himself, pulled taut by the chain between them. He was going to ask her to take it off once they were alone again. Surely she could trust him now, given she still had her wrist, her life, and her dignity? Hadn’t he proven himself to her by now? He was going to finish this, chain or not and the least she could do was offer him a modicum of privacy during the last three courts.

He was tired of waking up erect beside her.

Feyre returned with freshly braided hair, a clean face, a smile that made his heart stop. Had she ever smiled at him before? Not like that, he decided. Not like…not like she was happy to see him. Rhys could only stare, fingers halting on the button of his tunic.

“Here,” she said, coming toward him. Rhys was certain he wasn’t breathing when her hands gently pushed his own away. “Let me.”

Rhys could only watch Feyre finish buttoning his black tunic, making quick work of things. He hadn’t needed her help and yet now Rhys was certain he never wanted to dress without her assistance. Would she help him take it off later that night, too? Feyre ran her hands over his chest, cheeks still bright red and warm.

“There,” she said, letting them drop to her side with what he swore was reluctance. “Ready to go.”

“Ferye—”

“Ready?” Kallias, interrupting again, drew the softest groan from Rhys’s throat. The world was conspiring against him. All he wanted was to kiss her, and at every godsdamned turn he was thwarted. From the gleam in the High Lords eye, Rhys was certain the male knew, too.

“Ready,” Feyre said brightly.

Belatedly, Rhys realized he hadn’t had a chance to ask her how she was feeling. He didn’t want to draw attention to her injuries, fearing the Faeries might take advantage knowing they were wounded. And what, he wondered, would they do with him and Feyre when this was all over? Would they let two humans live knowing the threat they posed? That Rhys and Feyre could presumably come back to Prythian any time they liked and dispose of any High Lord who displeased them?

He’d need to talk to her about that, too. Not here, and not in front of the High Lord, but when they were alone and ideally after he’d finished kissing her and she was perched in his lap. Feyre glanced up at Rhys, amusement sparkling in those eyes.

“What?” he asked, realizing someone must have been speaking.

“Ready?” she repeated. Ah, yes. He’d heard her say that and had immediately forgotten.

“After you,” he practically purred, placing a hand on her back. Feyre didn’t stop him which only served to delight Rhys. Kallias, too, for reasons Rhys wasn’t interested in untangling. He held out a ringed hand,

It was a gentle winnow, colder than Rhys might have preferred and far better than the ripping of time that Eris was constantly subjecting them too. Eris, who had to begrudgingly admit, had probably spared them starving to death in the middle of Winter. If Eris wanted a thank you for it, he’d be waiting an eternity. Rhys had nothing to offer Eris but his fist in the Faerie’s smug, stupid face.

So lost in thought, Rhys didn’t wholly realize they’d landed inside a grand, sweeping palace until a bellowing, “FEYRE!” drew his attention toward the grand hall. There, beneath a chandelier, stood two hulking, winged creatures were stalking toward them. Rhys lunged for Feyre, one arm thrown out as he reached for the sword at his back.

“Cassian,” Feyre breathed, slipping around him before Rhys could stop her. She knew them. Of course she did. Feyre, it seemed, knew everyone in Prythian. Rhys swallowed his jealousy as

Feyre flung herself into the warrior named Cassian’s arms, weeping softly at the sight of him. The man, in turn, sank to his knees rather than tower over her.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, holding her face in his large hands. “We thought—gods, Feyre, for so long—”

“We just heard,” the other man added, eyes flicking to Rhys.

“Did you really kill Tamlin?” Cassian asked, laughter coloring his words.

“Good riddance,” the other added cooly. Blue gems flared from the back of his hands, as though in agreement. Beside Rhys, Kallias watched for a moment.

“Consider this my thank you for ridding my territory of that creature,” the High Lord told Feyre. She didn’t pull her face from Cassian’s shoulder, body shaking beneath her soft sobs.

“Where were you?” she asked, hitting Cassian roughly in his armored chest.

“The Middle,” he replied with a grunt. “Completing a task on behalf of Night. I…”

Cassian’s hazel eyes shone with unshed tears. “I haven’t seen her. Have you…is she…?”

Feyre disentangled herself from Cassian’s arms as Kallias discreetly turned for the hall behind them, giving Feyre privacy. Rhys wasn’t about to, though. He wanted answers, and it seemed

Cassian, by virtue of how casually he spoke, might offer some up. Who was she?

“No,” Feyre finally said, eyes cast downward. It was shame that colored her expression and disappointment that was etched over Cassians. “But Autumn is open.”

“Open?” that second, blue gemmed man asked. “And the High Lord—”

“Dead,” Feyre whispered. “Eris Vanserra has— Azriel, wait—”

But Azriel had turned on his heel, those massive wings flaring ever so slightly.

“Let him go,” Cassian dismissed, not bothering to look behind him. “I’d do the same, if I were him.”

“I have questions,” Feyre said, allowing Cassian to help her to her feet. Cassian looked over his shoulder to Rhys, grinning wolfishly.

“So do I, Fey. Who’s the guy on the leash?”

Feyre spun, her cheek splotchy from her tears. Quickly dashing them on her shoulder, Feyre came to Rhys without any of the anger or revulsion he might have expected.

“This is Rhysand…from my village. He killed Tamlin.”

There was an edge to her words, a look in her eye practically pleading him not to ask what she must have known he wanted to know.

“Who is Tamlin?” he asked, eyes sliding from Feyre to Cassian.

Cassian hesitated. “The High Lord of Spring.”

And of course, Rhys had known they’d slaughtered that male. He looked to Feyre, again, and asked, “Who was Tamlin?”

She closed her eyes. He knew. Fuck, but he should have guessed when she’d told him of loving the Faerie who’d ended up betraying him that it wasn’t just any Faerie. How else did she know all these High Lords? How else did she have friends like Cassian, who was obviously no common grunt?

“Rhys—”

“You,” he breathed, ignoring how taut Cassian went behind Feyre. How the red gems, a match for the ones Azriel wore, flashed in warning. Rhys counted seven in total, laid against the winged warriors armor. “You lied to me.”

“I know,” she gulped, reaching for the chain between them. Rhys jerked back, but Feyre was quicker, holding the silver in her fingers. She unclasped the manacle around his wrist and for the first time in days, Rhys was free of her.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“So you could look at me like that?!” she demanded, her eyes sparkling again. “You, who hates Faeries—”

“You knew that when I met you!” Rhys snarled. “I’ve kept no secrets from you! I’ve told you no lies and yet at every turn you…you chain me to your body physically and you keep secrets and you talk to me like I’m worse than trash and the whole time you knew I’d slaughtered your former lover?!”

“Rhys—”

“I wouldn’t have cared,” he breathed, the truth of the matter. Because he still would have killed that beast simply for daring to touch her when he shouldn’t have. For his willingness to damn the entire world over a woman who didn’t want him, even. And it was a lie, at the same time because Rhys was so jealous he was drowning in it. Jealous of that dead male, jealous of Cassian, hell, jealous of Eris fucking Vanserra who had a better claim to her than he, a miserable human, did.

Maybe for daring to want Feyre, who Rhys wanted so badly he couldn’t even hate her properly. She’d freed him of the chain between them, and he was still standing in front of her, begging her to tell him the truth rather than driving his sword through her chest.

“Rhys,” she pleaded, reaching for his hand. Rhys pulled back, shaking his head.

“What would it take?” he asked, looking down at the woman he’d spent every waking moment with. Rhys struggled to remember a time before Feyre. “For you to trust me? What would it take, Feyre?”

“Rhys, I—”

“Do you drink?” Cassian cut in smoothly, arms crossed casually over his chest. “Winter has a brew that once fucked me up for a week.”

“I could use a drink,” Rhys said curtly. Cassian had saved him from saying something he would have regretted. He’d been so close to telling her to go fuck herself, to accusing her of letting him die in the snow, had their positions been reversed. That, he thought, hurt worse than any lie.

Not that he’d admit it.

“Couldn’t we all,” Cassian half laughed. He was doing Feyre a favor and they both knew it, but Rhys still went with him. He let Cassian clap one of those big hands on his shoulders and lead him the way Kallias had gone. Let him leave Feyre standing beneath that crystal chandelier, holding the silver chain she’d used to bind him.

Freedom, if he was courageous enough to take it.

Was it freedom without her anymore? Rhys had thought so, once. Had believed he could be free so fiercely he’d been willing to defy even the gods to have it. And now…and now he caught himself looking over his shoulder, just to see if she was looking back.

She was.

“How do you know Feyre?” Rhys asked the moment she was out of ear shot.

“Would you believe me if I said her sister?” Cassian replied, a wolfish grin on his face. That, Rhys thought, explained the her.

“How old are you?” Rhys asked, thinking this man—this male—likely had no business around another human woman. He remembered Nesta, vaguely. Rhys tried to recall her exact face, but he couldn’t. All he remembered was her name, and the general outline of her. Tall, severe—sharp, much like her younger sister.

“Old enough,” Cassian said with a laugh. “How old are you?”

Probably too old for Feyre, if he was being perfectly honest. She was, what? Twenty? Twenty one? Rhys grunted, a non-committal sound that Cassian read all the same.

“No judgment on my end,” Cassian assured him, rounding a moonstone corner for, mercifully, a small nook that held two cups and a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. “About any of it. I know the Archeron sisters can be…difficult.”

“An understatement,” Rhys muttered under his breath as he dropped gracelessly into his chair. Cassian joined him, elbows on the white wood. He was grinning and though Rhys desperately didn’t want to, he liked Cassian as much as he could like any of the Fae. Cassian lacked the pointed ears and their general aura of smug dumbassery, besides. Without the wings, Cassian could have been human.

Maybe that was what Feyre liked about him, too.

“To answer your question, though, Feyre and I met while she was with Tamlin. She needed help out—I was all too happy to oblige. That guy…fuck him,” Cassian swore softly, his gaze darkening. “What you did was probably a mercy.”

“Did she love him?” Fuck Rhys for asking that question and double fuck him for being afraid of the answer.

Cassian only shrugged. “You’d have to ask her—and I wouldn’t, if I were you. There are things that happened…” Cassian drew a heavy breath. “Leaving him cost her. It cost us all.”

“I’m a fool,” Rhys told him, if only because he needed to tell someone. Since he’d agreed to help Feyre, his life had been reduced to just her, scowling at him and snapping and sniping. There were High Lords who didn’t care if he lived or died so long as he freed them.

And then there was Cassian, passing him a drink of Faerie wine with a grimace. Like he knew all too well how Rhys felt. Maybe the elder Archeron had put him through the ringer, too. At least Rhys didn’t have to worry about Feyre outliving him—though she still might, based on nothing but her own tenacity.

“Tell me,” Cassian said.

And Rhys did. It all came tumbling from his lips before he could stop himself. Everything he could remember and everything that had happened since he’d walked from his bedroom. He left out his attraction to her, just in case Cassian turned around and told Feyre what he was thinking. Let her guess—let her find out when he told her, and not because of anyone else.

Cassian and Rhys were on their second cup by the time Rhys finished. Whistling softly, Cassian reclined back in his chair.

“Four courts,” he said with a mixture of admiration and awe. “You liberated four Fae courts.”

“With help—” “You’re human. You might be Enalius reborn,” Cassian said thoughtfully, those hazel eyes glazed. Reaching for a leather strap on his wrist, he pulled his dark, shoulder length hair from his face. “I don’t know that I could have done that.”

“What’s waiting for us? What happens when this is all over? Will the freed High Lords turn on us, will—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Cassian said with an easy smile. “Worry about getting through Dawn and Day before you start worrying about High Lords trying to kill you.”

“And Night?”

Cassian bit his bottom lip. “That’s my home. A creature of nightmare has taken over the throne of Night. It’s selfish, but I hope you take it back. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m coming with you.”

Rhys didn’t, truth be told. A buffer between him and Feyre might be nice. “For Nesta?”

“Partly,” Cassian agreed with a lopsided smile. “I am looking forward to seeing her face when you and Feyre break the curse. Truthfully, though, I think it might be fun watching you and Feyre trample through Dawn and Day. And I have a score to settle with the prince of Day Court—he owes me a lot of money.”

Rhys took a breath, unwilling to admit he was relieved. Cassian sensed it, though.

“Let her stew a bit, but…you shouldn’t hold it against her for not telling you. I’d have kept it a secret, too.”

Of course she would. Rhys famously hated Faeries…would he have helped her if she’d told him the very first Fae they needed to kill was a former lover? He might have turned around and killed her, too.

“How many secrets do you think she has?” Rhys asked glumly, swallowing the last of his drink.

“Feyre? Thousands, if I had to guess. And a thousand more, by virtue of being an Archeron. They make up for it with that beautiful face though, don’t you think?”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Knowing she’d never truly be honest with him was made easier by how much he liked her. How beautiful he thought she was, how badly he wanted…wanted more than she’d ever give him. He was asking all the wrong questions, wasn’t he?

What was Feyre going to do when this was all over? Because it certainly wasn’t going to be coming home with him. Not if she and her sisters were entangled in this place, in love with males who weren’t human. For all Rhys knew, there was someone else already, someone she was trying desperately to get back to.

He found her that night, waiting outside the room Kallias had provided for Rhys. She shouldn’t have known where it was and yet she did, the snoop. Rhys intended to ignore her and try again in the morning, but she caught his wrist and before he could say a word, surged up on her tiptoes to press a kiss along his cheek.

“I didn’t get to say thank you,” she said, another lie. He was pretty sure she had. Rhys didn’t dare turn his head, watching her from the corner of his eye. If he faced her, he’d grab her by her slim shoulders and slam her up against the smooth green and silver papered walls and kiss her until he forgot how angry he was. “You could have let me die.”

“No, I couldn’t,” he replied honestly. “Don’t you know that by now?”

“I’m starting to,” she admitted, looking up at him with eyes he swore cut straight to the heart of him. It was as though he and Feyre didn’t need words to speak to the other—like somehow, Feyre just knew.

“And you?”

He heard her swallow. “Don’t you know by now, Rhys?”

She slipped off before he could make good on those words. Before he could kiss her like he’d wanted to all day.

And for once, he missed that Cauldron cursed leash.

#tosota #feysand #thelonelyapology #acotar #feysand fic #slow burn from hell #LB MAKE THEM KISS ALREADY

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