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starfall-spirit · 2 years ago

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I have been waiting for this glorious work and you did not disappoint!

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:

WELCOME TO THE FIRST EVER COLLAB BETWEEN MB AND @the-lonelybarricade. How to describe this? Folie a deux? That seems right. This is all Rhys POV. We're trading chapter (guess who wrote which one! Just for fun), and I'd ask that you give us a every other week posting schedule. We have ten planned chapters.

Read More AO3

Chapter 1/10: I Just Want To Be Invited

Rhysand Moreno could not die.

At least, that was how he felt as he took down the winged creature just at the border. Broad sword in his sweaty, bloodied hand, Rhys drove the blade deep into its scaled chest with a guttural snarl that barely seemed human. All at once, the beast fell to the forest floor amid a bed of emerald leaves.

It should have killed him. Gods, but Rhys should be dead. Heart thudding wildly in his throat, he stared at the scaled black body before him. It was only in the aftermath did his hands begin to shake. Reality had caught up with him and though he still stood with his minor injuries, Rhys was reminded that he was still human.

And yet, as he wiped his blade on those same leaves before tilting his head upward, he felt unkillable. He felt like one of the gods, the heroes of old. A legend, the sort of man who might one day be immortalized into song. That thought alone was enough to steady him, to convince him to sheathe his blade along his spine before hauling up the foul creature that had been plaguing the edge of the forest and feasting on human children for the past two years.

More faerie filth—if such beings even existed.

Rhys grunted beneath the weight of the foul creature, adjusting the weight over his aching shoulders. It would take constant walking to make it home before darkness settled over him. He offered the wall just in the distance a speculative glance. Rough stone crumbled away, falling in chunks so large he could have climbed through if he wished, and Rhys was hardly a small man.

He’d never dared so far, despite his yearning for adventure. Such was the life of a nobleman’s son—he was destined for ruling, not killing, and certainly not becoming ensnared in some faerie plot. Not that he could even prove the fae existed. No one had actually seen one since the war a near five centuries before. He’d heard the fae bartered for territory on the promise they would stay out of human affairs, and the wall had been erected to force them to keep their promise.

But every story Rhys had ever heard of the fae spoke of their deviousness. Manipulative to the bitter end, and creatures who twisted words to suit themselves, Rhys didn’t believe they’d just go silent. Something must have happened. Some great massacres that weakened their numbers, something that made them vulnerable enough to hide away.

Rhys was starting to believe his own mythologization, even if most of it existed in his own head. Perhaps, given how handy he was with a blade, it was him destined to put an end to their polluted and terrible race. He thought about that the entire trek back to his village. One last feat of heroics before he gave into his fathers urgings and took a bride from the upcoming season. Given the warmth of summer had already settled over them, Rhys had managed to avoid the current gaggle of giggling, insipid ladies, but next year he would not be so lucky.

One last, grand adventure, he told himself as the treeline began to thin. Surely his father couldn’t begrudge him that. His parents had hardly been the picture of a happy marriage, and his father had allowed Rhys to put off securing the future of their family far longer than he himself had ever been allowed after disease swept through their village, killing both his mother and sister. Rhysand was already past twenty-five and the constant ticking of the clock weighed on him.

He pushed that dreadful thought aside. He’d worry about a wife another day. For now, he was a hero and had chosen his path through the village purposefully to ensure everyone who needed to would see him carry that beast in. He meant to have it skinned and turned into a pair of boots, or perhaps a new belt he’d hang his daggers from.

Rhys thought he knew who to expect. He didn’t know their names, but he knew the dirty faces of most of the villagers. Her, though. His steps faltered for a moment when he drank in the pair of watchful, silvery blue eyes set in a freckled, heart-shaped face. She was thin, like everyone else and yet her hair seemed better washed as it tumbled around hunching shoulders draped in a heavy black cloak.

He didn’t know why he looked at her for as long as he did. She reminded him of shining moonlight cast upon still waters. Like starlight beaming against a cloudless sky. He was certain, at least in that moment, he’d never seen her in his life.

She looked at him with the same interest, her gaze falling on the beast dripping blood onto the dark flagstone beneath his feet. A frenzy of memories pulled him out of his exhaustion.

Feyre Archeron. He remembered her, then. The daughter of a once great merchant before he’d lost it all on some lost ships. She lived at the edge of town, he’d heard, and her father had resorted to carving. She’d once been part of his social circle, though he couldn’t recall having ever spoken to her. Still, it felt rude not to incline his head, even if he wouldn’t deign to talk to her.

She didn’t return the gesture, though her lips quirked into what was almost a smile.

Prick, he swore those eyes said. Rhys looked away, uninterested in her assessment of him. The fascination was gone and as he made his way through the winding, hilly roads, Rhys’s own thoughts returned to the fae. By the time he reached the well-trimmed hedges that lined the smooth drive of his sprawling, ancestral home, Rhys had amassed a small following of wide-eyed devotees. It did little to impress his father, who stood at the very end wearing a rich tunic of blue and a disapproving scowl.

“Foolish,” the Moreno patriarch scolded when Rhys dropped that cold carcass at his father’s feet. Dusk had begun to settle around them in hues of sparkling pink and orange, casting a warm light against his father's golden skin. A few shades lighter than his own brown skin, thanks to his mother and the time he spent basking in the sun.

It was his only inheritance from the once lively lady. He had his father's shade of blue-black hair and peculiar violet eyes: the same strong jaw, the same straight nose, and full mouth. Rhys was pleased as he straightened his spine, marking himself a good three inches taller and, most importantly, at the height of his own bodily power.

Handsome, though it seemed cocky to say out loud.

“I succeeded, just as I always do,” Rhys informed his father with an easy smile. His father turned his nose up and Rhys, eyes sweeping toward the drive where the villagers were still amassed.

With a huff of irritation, he turned without acknowledgment. Or, so Rhys thought until his father barked, “Clean that up!”

By the time Rhys had corralled enough servants to scrub the blood from the drive and haul his body off to be de-boned and turned into something useful, night had thoroughly settled overhead. The air smelled of warm summer rain, and in the distance, he swore he heard thunder rumbling. It was a good omen, he decided as he headed in. Rhys was quick to bathe and change, well aware his father would have no audience in which he was crusted with blood and reeked of decay. Never mind that Rhys never felt more like himself when he was hidden in the dark, battling death itself. His father expected proof he’d raised his son well—that Rhys would make him proud when he was gone and Rhys became the lord of the family.

He stepped into the dining room in a crisp black tunic. Nervously, he picked at a thread on his sleeve before taking his chair. His father held a goblet of what Rhys assumed was wine in his hand, gazing at one of the many portraits of his mother hanging in the house. She’d been little more than a maid, the woman who’d washed laundry for his father.

Rhys had been told she was so beautiful his father had broken every social convention to marry her. Whether that was true or just one of his mother's tales, Rhys never knew for sure. His father had never said and Rhys wasn’t stupid enough to ask.

What he did know was his father missed his mother terribly, despite the tense, often angry marriage between them. Rhys missed her too. Missed the sound of his sister's loud steps on the stairs and his mother's laughter, and how his father had used to smile when he saw either of them. It was as if his mother had taken his father’s heart into that grave and Rhys was left with the icy shell she’d left behind.

“You are entirely too reckless,” his father finally said, just as Rhys had been about to cut apart his sizzling chicken.

“No different than you when you were my age,” Rhys replied, though that wasn’t entirely true. His father had been married at twenty-five, though Rhys decided it wasn’t worth quibbling over trivial details.

“I knew when to leave well enough alone. So you’ve slayed a dragon. Are you done, or should I expect some new, grand adventure in which I hope my only son returns intact?”

Rhys ignored that little jab. It was meant to make him feel guilty, to shame him into putting his head down, and finally involving himself in the family business.

His silence condemned him. He heard the sound of the thunking of the glass on the rich, oak table and the frustrated sigh of his father.

“What is it to be this time?”

Lie.

He didn’t know where that thought came from, or why he felt it so strongly. Rhys scrambled for something that would make his father happy.

“I—” he didn’t know why Feyre Archeron’s disdainful face popped into his head. “I wish to go to the continent.”

His father’s eyes threatened to burn straight through him. “For what reason?”

Lie. The urging was stronger.

“A wife,” he said, the words metallic in his mouth. A sea voyage would take weeks, and securing a bride even longer. If he returned empty handed, well, he could say none of the women were up to his standards. That the women of Prythian were far more beautiful, more cultured and talented, and better suited to his tastes, which would make him as popular with the ladies as he currently was.

And if word got back to his father of the lie, well—Rhys would deal with that when it came time. He’d return, hat in hand, hopefully so victorious his father had no choice but to forgive him, just as he was doing right then.

“A wife,” his father repeated tonelessly, his eyes drifting back to the portrait of his late wife. Rhys didn’t dare look—he didn’t want to see those smiling, hazel eyes or her pretty smile gazing back at him. She’d be disappointed in how terrible her husband and son got along, and more disappointed still with how cavalier Rhys was with his own life.

“I said one last adventure,” Rhys lied smoothly. “I think it’s time I get serious about my future.” His father reached for his goblet, tapping his nails against the gold filigree.

“I’ll give you until the beginning of the season,” he relented, eyes snapping back to Rhys’s too eager face. “I’ll arrange for you to stay with relatives where they will chaperone you. I expect you to court the young women in earnest, and if none strike your fancy, to return so you are here in time for the start of our own season. I will see you married this time next year or so help me god, you will do military service again.”

Empty threat, he thought, even as he nodded. “I understand you, father.”

“I very much doubt you do,” his father snapped, pushing from his chair despite his untouched plate. “I am sure this is another of your schemes. Come home a married man and free me from the burden of housing my adult son.”

Rhys forced himself to pretend those words did not sting. Rhys found he, too, had no appetite despite days hunting on thin rations and the grueling tracking he’d been doing—not to mention the battle itself. Once his father excused himself, Rhys tossed his fork to his plate with a clatter and pushed from the table so hard it wobbled. Up he went to his bedroom, where he put himself to bed.

And dreamt of starlight twinkling over water.

Rhys woke to gloom. By the time he dressed and made his way out into the world, his father was already holed up in his study, no doubt making arrangements for Rhys’s departure. That was fine by him–he had no intention of getting on that ship, which meant he’d have to hire someone to do it for him.

He also needed new clothing, new weapons, and anything else he could find that might assist him once he crossed the wall. Rhys set out in a rich, midnight black cape pinned to his shoulders and his nicest pair of boots. He wanted people to know exactly who he was and what kind of coins he kept in his pockets to ensure he received good quality and whatever information he required without having to resort to violence.

His leathered armor had vanished from the chair in his bedroom, likely by a helpful servant looking to repair the rips, the tears, and the punctures from the beast's teeth and talons. He’d taken inventory of himself that morning, cataloging the dotting bruises over his ribs, the gouges in his shoulder and the long gash down his stomach that was likely to scar. Rhys hadn’t noticed it the day before, but as he made his way back into the bustling village center, he realized just how sore he was. His calves ached and his thighs throbbed. Drawing breath pained him, making him think the bruising was more profound than he’d first realized.

He didn’t turn back. He wanted everything organized early while his father was too busy planning to notice how his son plotted. Even a whiff of the lie would likely see his father make good on a long standing threat—an arranged marriage.

Rhys shuddered at the very thought.

In the village, Rhys accepted the praise due to him with an easy smile. This was how his father should have reacted, and it irked him that he was forced to receive validation from strangers. Shopkeepers tripped all over themselves to begin a new set of well made pants and tunics, hardy enough to withstand whatever hiking he might do and yet fashionable enough he wouldn’t be out of place in the famously bejeweled fae courts.

He purchased a new pair of boots, too, before he saw her again. Leaning between two of the brick built buildings, Feyre’s face was half hidden in shadow. Rhys intended to walk right past her without a word. He didn’t owe her anything, after all.

“I heard you’re looking for a well-made blade,” she said. Rhys had just asked who made the finest blades. There were three blacksmiths, after all.

“Jacks is a novice,” she added, those eyes all but devouring his face. She was a good head and shoulders shorter than him, and slight enough he could have lifted her with one hand, and yet

Rhys felt like she was looking him straight in the eye.

“What do you know about weapons, Lady Archeron?” It was meant to be cutting—to remind her of her place.

Her smile was practically feline, as though he amused her. She reached into her own dark cloak and pulled out a curved blade with a heavy, onyx handle etched in symbols he’d never seen before. Without a word, Feyre tossed it to him. Rhys caught it with one hand, surprised by how light it was. Running his fingers over the cool handle, Rhys recognized the language, even if he couldn’t read or speak it.

His eyes flicked back to her even as his hands pulled the blade from the sheath, seemingly outside his own operation.

“Illyrian steel,” she told him before he could even ask.

Rhys went back to studying the blade. It seemed to catch against the light overhead, sucking up all the available light in some vortex he couldn’t see. The curve was edged with a material far sharper than anything he owned—a mere gentle tap of his finger drew a well of blood.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded. Though no one had seen a faerie in centuries, any contact with one—real or imagined—was enough to have someone sent to prison. He could take it from her and report her to the magistrate.

Rhys slid the blade back into its sheath. Feyre shrugged her delicate shoulders, a sly smile on a face that was incredibly pretty, despite the hunger just beneath. She was edged in desperation, an emotion Rhys recognized well enough, even if he wasn’t particularly well-versed in the feeling.

“I spend time in the woods too, you know.”

“Doing what?”

More of that amused smile. “This and that. Hunting, mainly.”

Had things gotten that bad? Rhys opened his mouth to offer her a little charity before snapping them shut again. He had the sense she wouldn’t take kindly to that. Instead, he reached into his cape for his leather pouch of coins.

“How much?”

“I don’t want your money,” she said, her words baffling. Rhys’s fingers curled tighter around the blade, which seemed to practically hum against his greedy fingers.

“What do you want?”

“Your help,” Feyre replied, edging a little closer. The shadows that seemed to curl around her vanished in the gloom, leaving only an impoverished woman in their wake. Perhaps she did want his charity. “I want to get over the wall.”

Rhys was momentarily too stunned to speak. “You—why?”

Feyre tilted her head, her blue eyes drifting to the direction of the forest neither could see. “There is something in Faerie that belongs to me, and I want it back.”

“What?”

She scoffed. “So nosy. Is that a yes, then? You’ll accompany me?”

“It’s suicide,” he told her, as if he, too, didn’t want to do the exact same thing.

Feyre scowled. “I’m more capable than I seem. You can keep the blade if you agree to return me safely to the wall.”

“Deal,” he said, extending his hand. Feyre stared for a moment, as though the idea of touching him was revolting.

“When is the soonest we can depart?” she questioned, her own hands firmly at her side. Rhys considered how long it would take his father to secure him passage and lodging without seeming too eager to depart.

“Two weeks,” he finally offered. Feyre winced, but Rhys needed to give his own battered body time to heal before he went traipsing off after monsters again. “No sooner.”

Feyre winced, but nodded all the same. “Two weeks from today, at the edge of the village. You help me get through the wall, and you can keep my blade.”

Rhys assessed her for a moment. “And you won’t tell me why you need to be in Faerie so badly?”

“Show up, first,” she said dismissively, holding out her hand for her blade. Rhys dropped it into her palm without touching her, though his fingers itched to trace the life line along her palm. No good would come from an urge like that, and so he buried it deep, deep down.

“I will,” he replied, eyeing the blade in her hand again. Oh, how he wanted it. It was far nicer than anything he owned. Beyond that, Rhys found himself intrigued. How has she come across something so fine? So obviously fae. Feyre didn’t look capable enough to take on even a magical child in her impoverished, hungry state. There were secrets to the once courtier and Rhys wanted to unravel them, if only to satisfy his own curiosity.

He left her with nothing more than his word. He turned back once to study her, but Feyre had vanished into the crowd, slipping like shadows among the gathered villagers moving through the open stalls. He wondered if that was her true talent and he was risking his own adventures on what amounted to little more than a thief.

Still, Rhys thought the plan was better than nothing. He’d have at least one thing made from Faerie and whatever knowledge the wily Feyre Archeron had accumulated. Two weeks dragged, and Rhys slept poorly. His dreams were tainted by vivid colors and swirling darkness that threatened to suffocate him. Despite the summer around them, the gloom had become an ever present friend and it rained often enough Rhys often felt as though he were trapped in spring. The weather kept him indoors under the watchful eye of his suspicious father.

Rhys did manage to secure a doppelgänger, paying the man handsomely to take his place aboard the ship. Whether his father believed he slipped away at port once he arrived or had never gone to begin with, Rhys could only speculate. What he did know was once they arrived by carriage, his father offered a stiff goodbye devoid of any feeling and Rhys was left to make his way to the ship. He’d have to abandon his trunk of things and had taken care not to pack anything her cherished.

He did fish out his sack containing provisions and spare clothing, his fighting leathers, and his sword, which he promptly strapped along his back. Rhys had to pay someone to take him back and hope that the man didn’t decide to rob him of the coins he carried on him.

By the time he made it to their meeting place, Rhys was running late.

Feyre was dressed in a form-fitting black shirt tucked into tight black pants embroidered in silver. Her long, golden brown hair was plaited against her skull and draped her shoulder. She had no bag like he did—only a bow and a quiver of arrows. Rhys didn’t comment on that.

“You’re late,” she informed him with those big, reproachful eyes. Rhys felt his heart quicken.

“I had to hire a carriage,” he began to explain, annoyed that she couldn’t offer him any grace at all. “Let’s just go.”

Her gaze lingered and once again, Rhys found he didn’t like being pinned beneath her weighty assessment. “Fine,” she agreed, taking that first step. Rhys exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. They’d have to move quickly if they wanted to get to the wall before nightfall.

“So,” he began by way of conversation. “Tell me, darling. How did you become so well acquainted with Faerie?”

“I spend a lot of time in the forest,” she said easily, matching his pace despite the difference in their stature. He believed that, given the bow slung expertly over her shoulder. Rhys didn’t have any expertise with that weapon. There were so many questions he wanted to ask.

He was a fool for blurting, “Your father allows that?”

She rolled those pretty eyes. “How could he stop me?”

“I suppose it’s different now,” he agreed, feeling like an ass. Feyre shot him a sideways glance, her amusement plain.

“Very different,” she agreed without malice. “Though, he couldn’t have kept me from these woods regardless of how many pretty skirts I was laced into. It calls me.”

Rhys understood that feeling well. The pair lapsed into silence borne from mutual distrust, even if they’d shaky common ground. Feyre clearly wasn’t looking to make a friend, though as they progressed through the dense trees, Rhys found himself growing more curious.

“So,” he began, noting the way her expression flattened. “Faerie?”

“Prythian,” she replied softly.

“Hm?”

“It’s not Faerie, it’s Prythian.”

A new, more terrible thought occurred to Rhys. “You aren’t…” he began, wondering if he ought to just abandon her if she was. “Children of the Blessed, are you?”

Feyre burst out laughing, her eyes sparkling with genuine, unguarded mirth. “Those fools? Unlikely. I told you—Prythian has something of mine, and I want it back. It’s no more complicated than that.”

Rhys very much doubted that, though he was relieved all the same. Children of the Blessed were notoriously fanatical, believing themselves to be chosen among faeries as lovers or companions. Pets was more like it, if the stories told were true, though Rhys kept that to himself. The idea he might have been walking Feyre to her death, right into the open maw of the fae, made him uncomfortable.

“How do you intend to get it back?”

She sighed. “The same way you get anything back from the fae.”

Rhys didn’t know that, and so he waited with a pointed stare until she elaborated.

“Sacrifice, Rhysand,” she replied blithely.

“Better you than me,” he retorted, wondering what she might have to give up in order to give it back. He’d heard stories of fools who had bargained away their very souls for a taste of immortality, only for the whole thing to go terribly wrong. He had no intention of bargaining with a faerie—nor would he be giving them his name, eating their food, or making any deal at all.

He’d merely come to weaken them so unforgivably that humans could creep in and take back what they’d once lost. She didn’t need to know that, either. Feyre’s smile of amusement told Rhys she found the whole thing trivial—and that made him think she was foolish, too.

Maybe they both were.

“How did you kill that wyvern?” Feyre asked as the sun began to dip over the horizon. They had to be close if the sweat sliding down his back was any indication. His legs were screaming for rest, and still Rhys pushed on. He would sleep in Prythian that night, far from the huntress beside him. He had the sense Feyre would continue on without him, which served him perfectly.

“The way you kill anything,” he dismissed.

“They’re supposed to be difficult to track and almost impossible for humans to kill. And you did it barely scratched,” she prodded.

“Would you believe me if I said I’m very talented with my hands?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’d be more inclined to believe you’re very lucky. You could have been ripped apart.”

Rhys grinned. “A tragedy for women everywhere, I know.”

Another eye roll accompanied a mostly amused smile. Rhys’s own faltered a bit as something metallic lodged itself against his senses, bringing with it the first crumbling rock of the wall. It stretched across the landscape like a gaping wound, so tall he wouldn’t have reached the top even if he stood on his own shoulders. Places sagged, while others had crumbled away and yet it stood, glued together by whatever magic the fae was in possession of.

“Well,” he said, nodding toward the man-sized hole just before Feyre. “Ladies first.”

She looked at him, pulling the Illryian dagger from her belt. “I don’t suppose you’d consider accompanying me the rest of the way?”

Rhys shook his head. “Nope.”

She nodded, running her hand over the wall before ducking through the hole. Rhys went just behind, tugged by an insistent pull in his gut.

Join me, something whispered in his mind. Rhys followed behind Feyre, steeling himself for the worst nightmares he could imagine.

A lilac-scented breeze ruffled his hair. The air was cooler, the ground wetter. It was as if he’d stepped straight into spring. He’d heard of this–magic that kept the seasons stagnant. Rhys looked around at the budding treetops in wonder. In retrospect, that was his first mistake.

He hadn’t been paying attention.

A snap in his chest was dulled only by a stabbing of his wrist. Rhys grunted, ripping his arm back only to find a leather band cuffed against him. Feyre looked up at him with near wild eyes, as though she couldn’t believe it had worked.

“You—” she said, breathless with a smile.

“What is this?” he growled, prowling toward her. Feyre held up a hand.

“I need your help,” she told him, eyes bouncing from that black leather band and his face. “This binds us.”

“You put me on a leash?” he demanded, crowding her personal space hoping it might intimidate her. Feyre’s eyes went wide, though she held her ground.

“Yeah,” she agreed, still grinning like a fiend.

“Take it off,” he ordered, shoving his hand in her face. Feyre pushed him away with cool fingers.

“It’s bound by faerie magic,” she said, clearly delighted it had worked. Rhys wanted to ask her if she was stupid—what if it had backfired, turned him into a toad or worse? “I can’t release you until we fulfill our bargain.”

“We did,” he growled. “I took you to the wall.”

“You agreed to return me safely to the wall,” she pointed out. Rhys curled his fingers to keep himself from strangling her.

“You’ve been keeping secrets. What else did the fae teach you?”

“Not enough,” she admitted. “But I’ve spent enough time with them to know how to word a bargain carefully. This is just extra assurance you don’t leave me stranded in the middle of the night.”

“You hardly need me, with so many trinkets at your disposal.”

Once again, Rhys found himself under her assessment. He realized, too late to do anything about it, that she’d marked him the day he’d dragged that wyvern into the village, hoping to show off. She’d seen his skill and decided right then and there how she’d trap him into assisting her.

“I need you,” she said, her voice almost contrite.

“For what?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. Feyre pressed her lips together in a thin line, determined to keep every secret, it seemed. He was, what, then? Her meat shield? Rhys dropped to the ground petulantly, well aware that despite her nimble fingers, she could not drag him through the forest.

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing you safely to the wall,” he replied, lounging against the cool stone. Everything felt different, and as he sat there, resting his aching legs, Rhys took a moment to drink it all in. The vibrance, the cacophony of smells and sounds that threatened to overwhelm his human senses. He thought it would be quite easy to get lost in it.

“Get up,” she demanded, reaching for his hand. Rhys dodged out of her grasp.

“Tell me why. If I’m going to march into enemy territory, I want to know what I’m risking my life for.”

Feyre hesitated. Rhys started to close his eyes as though he might sleep, eliciting a soft scream of frustration from Feyre.

“My sister!” she finally blurted out. “They have my sisters.”

Rhys looked up at her, trying to recall who her sisters were. It was fuzzy to him—vague memories of women with her shade of golden brown hair—of two elder sisters in fine clothes moving about a ballroom, though he didn’t think he’d ever seen them.

“Was that so hard?” he asked, holding her stare.

“You’re going to help me get them back,” she declared.

Rhys only sighed.

“As if I have any other choice.”

#Feysand #acotar #human feyre #human rhys #collab fic

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illyrian-dreamer · 9 months ago

Text

And Then There Were None – Part 1

Azriel/fem!reader

Synopsis: In the lead up to the war, Hybern releases a catastrophic spell that wipes out all humans, sparing just one.

Abandoned in the desolate human lands, you scavenge to survive long enough to find your family.

Reluctantly, you are found by the Shadowsinger as fate intervenes to guide you under his watchful eye.

Part 2>>>

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Death, blood, suggestions of miscarriage

Twigs snapped beneath your boots, your steps heavy with exhaustion as you stumbled through yet another town, as barren and deserted as the last one.

Exhaustion and dehydration weighed heavy, wisps of dust caking your skirts, your boots the only thing to disturb the rubble in days.

There was no concern for a carriage that might pull up behind, or a bossy merchant to yell at you to clear the path. While the ghosts of the life that once flourished echoed in closed shops and abandoned stalls, you stopped looking over your back days ago.

There were no plumes of smoke from chimneys, no distant chatter or laughter or cries. Safe from the occasional grunts or mews of abandoned cattle - there was not a single sign of life, and no human in sight for the past ten days.

A jarring cramp ripped from your abdomen, pulling you from delirium with urgency.

Water, food, bathe and sleep. That was why you were here.

You tried not to think about how quickly resources were depleting, even though you were sure you were the only one using them. Without people to treat water, the stagnant liquid became increasingly dangerous. And you couldn’t farm a vegetable to save your life, and had spent too long journeying to have tended to any crops.

You’d have to go further into the woods soon, find a fresh stream, perhaps hunt too. But you'd need strength for that, and you had just about run out.

At least it was spring, and at least the trees bloomed with fruit as you travelled from town to town, feet blistered and chapped. You cursed you parents for not teaching you formidable survival skills - fighting, hunting, even the ability to ride a gods damned horse would have been an incomparable luxury these past hellish days.

A clang of guilt, and frustration quickly churned to longing. Gods, you hoped they were alive. You would do anything to have them here, to journey this devastating isolation together, the little ones too. You prayed to the Mother for the umpteenth time that day that they were safe and well.

It was not a concern when you woke to an empty house almost a fortnight earlier. Your father was likely at the market, your mother hard at work at the tailor in town. Your siblings were hard to catch at this time of year, with school out of term and the warm spring air, they would spend each waking moment by the river if your parents let them.

It wasn't until you spotted your fathers wheelbarrow through the speckled glass of your kitchen window, held by rotting wood. Empty and unmoved, his tools lay flat on the ground, untouched since the day before. You could have sworn he told you he’d be at the market by dawn.

Scanning the room, your eyes flicked to the doorway where your mothers workbag lay untouched. Needles sat poked in balls of yarn as stray thread sprawled over leather - but an eery stillness sang to you at your parent’s tools.

Names and calls went unanswered, and after a quick search of the home you ran outside, urgent to ask your neighbours where they had gone, your heart fastening with every step.

Too frantic to observe the lack of movement and noise from your own street, you rapped on the door, waiting only a few seconds to push the rattling screen and forcing your way in.

Names went unanswered again, and it was instinct that steered you straight for the nursery. You halted at the sight of new born's empty crib, blankets rippled as if the babe was taken straight from it’s sleep.

Your calls turned frantic as you scoured each room, an upsetting, looming sensation creeping over your skin.

Bursting from the home, you shielded your eyes from the bright sun as you scanned the street with urgency. Your only greeting was a quiet breeze and snort of a horse left abandoned by a cart - as if it had stopped it's journey halfway through.

In a panicked haze, you searched the next home, and the next, and the next. The dizziness found you then.

Clearly there was an emergency of some kind. But you had been abandoned, left to sleep until midday amongst the quiet. The thought pained you.

More calls to anyone who might have stayed behind, yet still no answer. Your heart was a thunder in your ears.

Had the war finally reached you? Had your family fled in the dead of the night? You shook the thought from your head – they would have woken you, would have needed your help to escape with the youngens.

And then you were running – yelling, sprinting through the dusty streets, voice breaking as you dashed from home to home, shop to shop, calling, crying, pleading.

You were utterly alone. You had been left there, alone.

In a swarm of panic, you pressed a palm at your heart, willing yourself to calm. It was a dream, surely. You were not abandoned, only stuck in a nightmare, the kind that often found you as murmurs of Hybern’s army reaching human lands became louder.

In that dizzying thought, you willed yourself awake, forcing your eyes open to the walls of your dark and cramped room, to the noises as your siblings shouting and playing from downstairs, to the whistle of the kettle and the creak of the wood as your father came to wake you.

But the light was blinding, the sun as true as the your abandonment.

Beads of sweat that ran down your neck, a gnawing anxiousness building in your stomach as it heaved and cramped, nausea and panic churning to one.

Something truly terrible had happened.

And in that moment of utter disbelief, a stabbing pain ripped from your stomach, so great it forced a whimper from your throat.

As silent trickles of blood ran from your thighs to your knees, tracing your calves beneath the fabric of your skirt, you found a numbing sort of courage. Pushing your legs forward, you mindlessly heeded the road out of your home town, and on to the next.

People. You needed to find people.

————

Ten days, and still not a single sole in sight. Each home, each tavern, each market and farm left eerily untouched.

The silence was enough to drive you mad, if not besides the aide you so desperately sought. This was not your cycle - although the pains were familiar. You had known what you were, what this was.

Almost a fortnight, yet the blood still came. Slower now, spotting instead of trickles. You had stolen clothing from abandoned shops, food and water too. But you were distraught, moments away from folding into utter madness. And you were weak – very, very weak.

Water, food, a bath and rest. A list you repeated to yourself, your body begging to prioritise sleep with every step as you approached a farm at the town’s edge.

With a weak hand, you pushed past the gate to the yard, large rusty barrels sat open where a cow and her calf now drank. The water was murky with a distinct smell, but it would have to do. Tomorrow, you’d find fresh water tomorrow.

The trembling hand that dipped to the cool water hardly looked like your own. Dirt lay thick under your nails, your skin littered with cuts from the countless times you had shattered windows of stores and traders homes, scouring the stock for preserved goods and weapons.

Bringing the cool liquid to your lips, you ignored the taste of iron as you willed it to soothe your throat - hoarse from the endless calls that went unanswered.

Ears pricking at sudden growl behind you, you jerked at the site of a pack of dogs who approached on stealthy paws. Their eyes were hungry - flicking between you and the calf. Once loyal farming dogs you were sure, now abandoned by owners and left to fend for themselves. They had formed packs - clever things. While you were sure they couldn't kill you, you didn't have the strength to fight an infection if they got close enough to sink their teeth.

From your side, you unsheathed the hunting knife you had looted from a previous town. Swinging it with unpracticed skill, you shouted at the pack, your heart thundering as you waited for them to recline on hindered paws and leap.

They pack seemed to weigh you up, deciding the calf was an easier target. You fled inside the house before you could see it meet it’s end.

The home was neat, and you almost cried at the sight of a loaf of bread sitting atop the kitchen counters. Mould had attacked it’s edges, but you tore at it, fisting mouthfuls of the centre, dry crumbs coating your throat it was an effort not to choke.

Your stomach lurched, unhappy with the quality of the food and water, but you didn't care. You were on step closer to rest.

Another jarring cramp from your stomach, and you faltered, gripping at the wooden table as you trembled to keep yourself upright. This ailment, how much longer would you last? Sleep begged at you, your body moments from giving out. You’d have to forgo the bath, and prayed to the mother you’d find the strength for it in the morning.

Forcing yourself to the bedroom, swaying with each stumbled step, consciousness was already slipping as you collapsed on the bed, clothes and boots in tact.

————

It was a feverish sleep, your body doused in sweat as you stirred often, jolting awake in panics, phantom calls of your family mixed with the flap of wings, and the crunch of stone and rock under heavy boots.

Then a voice, voices – ones you were sure they were part of your slumber.

But as those footsteps got closer, you woke in a startle, your heart fastened as you blinked furiously.

Voices. Humans. People. Alive, well enough to talk.

You leapt from the bed, ignoring the spin of your head as you clambered to the window, peering behind sheer drapes to the street in front.

Your stomach sank. Lurched. Then sank again.

A large, demonic figure stalked for the home. Wings arched behind it’s head, it’s figure blackened by the leathers it bore, sword and knives strapped around.

And, wisps of some kind. Deadly, reaping magic.

Fae.

Fae had come.

Knees buckling, you stumbled back a few steps.

The world around you reeled as adrenaline coursed through. You would have just moments to prepare if you wanted a chance to survive.

Knife. Your hunting knife. Still strewn at your hip.

Grasping it’s hilt tightly with a trembling hand, you scanned the room for the best place to hide.

The cupboard was too obvious, and there was room under the bed - but there’d be not enough to swing your knife, only enough for them to drag you by the ankle…

The gentle click of the front door opening, and it took all you had not to whimper in panic.

Scrambling for the door as quietly as possible, you pressed your palm to your mouth, begging yourself not to cry as you pressed yourself behind the wood.

From what you could hear over the thunder of your heart, the steps of the fae were quiet despite it’s size.

“Anything in there?” a deep voice boomed from the street. You jolted at the volume. More than one, then.

There was no reply from the creature in the home, only the creak of the wood as it made it’s way through.

“Really, Azriel? Are we to check every home?” Female this time, impatience and ignorance laced in the somehow ancient voice.

No response again, instead a footstep, right by the door.

Something tickled your ankles then, and it was beyond you to stifle your compulsive scream.

Black furling wisps coated your boots.

And then the door opened.

The creature made it one step inside before you had aimed your knife for it’s heart.

A prepared, cool hand caught your wrist inches from it’s chest. Your bones crushing in it’s grasp, and you let out a yelp of pain.

It’s face - his face - was one of shock. “S-sorry,” he stuttered, dropping his grip all together.

You blinked back in shock, ignoring at the throb of your wrist as you snatched it back.

For a dumb moment, you stared at each other with equally wide eyes. The male didn't seem to know what to do.

“You’re human? How are you here, where-?"

The males sentence was clipped short as you drove the knife towards his chest again.

Quick as an asp, he caught you by the forearm this time, more gently too.

Hazel eyes scanned you, his features schooling as he called over his shoulder. “I’ve found someone.”

You were sure you looked mad, grunting with the effort to pull your arm from him, breaths ragged, eyes and hair wild. The male studied you as he might a rabid animal.

Behind him appeared an even taller male, his form more terrifying than the one that gripped you.

“Mother above,” the new one whispered, scanning you in the way the first one had.

“L-let go of me,” you rasped, pulling your arm back, tears stinging at the pain of you surely broken wrist began to swell.

It was a odd detail to note, the scars and ripples of the fae’s hand as he gently unfurled your fingers, prying the hunting knife from you before releasing his grip.

“Let me see,” the female’s voice piped from behind, the males struggling to fold their wings further, cramming into the room to let her through.

You faltered back on instinct, legs hitting the edge of the bed.

As the female broke through the males, harsh silver eyes scanned you up and down. She was half their height, a little shorter than you actually, but the depth of her gaze kept your hands by your side.

“Seems the Mother has spared one after all,” she muttered, nose crumpling at your scent.

Your answered with a scowl.

“What is your name?” it demanded.

“Amren,” the taller male warned, his eyes flicking back to you with softness.

You refused to answer. Couldn’t if you wanted to.

Amren sighed, casting her head sideways to the one with rippled hands. “She bleeds.”

“I know,” he answered, hazel eyes not breaking from you. You blushed, furious and humiliated.

He stepped around her then, the movement graceful and soft despite his size.

“You need aide.”

You gulped, unable to process his words. “L-leave me be,” you demanded, voice hoarse as you tried to create more distance between you and it.

He crouched in front of you then, leathers stretching against ripples of muscle. You noticed them then, jewels, saphires, humming from his body as if they were alive.

He followed your eyes curiously, before answering you with a soft smile.

“These are siphons,” he said plainly, giving one a friendly tap.

You snapped your eyes back to him, disgust forming your features. “You are here on behalf of Hybern?”

The female snorted from behind, earning a shove from the larger male beside her, his siphons glowing red.

The one in front of you studied you. “No, absolutely not.”

You scowled, not inclined to believe them.

“We come one behalf of our High Lord Rhysand, and High Lady Feyre. Rulers of the Night Court. Do you know of them?”

Feyre - the human women who had freed the fae from the grasp of their enemy. You knew the story, the heroic tale of a human women who gave her life for the male she loved. Had heard of her triumphs Under the Mountain, that she had been made into fae herself in exchange for her sacrifice.

“The-the curse breaker?”

A small smile cocked on both of the males faces.

“That’s right,” the one crouched in front answered. “She sent us to retrieve you.”

A panic surged within you. “Me?” you spat. Oh the ignorance of the fae, as if you were some pawn to pluck and place elsewhere.

Azriel frowned, eyes dancing as he realised the mistake in his words. “To help you, of course. There has been-"

"No-n-no. My family, they will seek for me-"

Azriel's brow pulled with softness, his tone falling flat. "We will search for them. Meanwhile, you must see a-"

“Where are the others?” Your voice was louder now, eyes dancing in panic, chest rising with fastening breaths. Had they taken them too? “The people, they've left, I don't know-"

“We are searching for others. You are… the first we have found.”

Your mind reeled. How could that be? You had searched by foot - but with those wings, and the strength and power of fae…

“WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE OTHER HUMANS?” the volume of your voice shocked even yourself, that strength, that demand from deep within your chest.

Azriel gave you a pained look, before standing to turn to his counterparts. “Amren, can you heal-?”

“I’m spent,” she cut off the male with a flick of her fingers. “Those canines out back were hardly enough to keep me going until sundown, so forget about healing. Unless you suggest I drink her blood, though I doubt she’d survive.”

Mother above.

You were too hazed to see the glare both of the males cut her.

“Then she will need to see a healer before we can continue.”

“She might refuse,” the larger one countered.

“If she’s smart, she won’t. She won't survive out here on her own,” Amren muttered, cleaning her nails as she leaned one on leg, checking her cat-like claws for flecks of blood.

They continued their mutter without once turning to you.

“There is no option here. I’ll take her to Velaris, and return once she’s safe.”

A shaking, blubbering anger grew within you, the creatures in front of you as ignorant and obnoxious as you had always been told fae are – to discuss your own fate as if you weren't in the room.

A killer instinct flared in you then, and you remembered the second knife you bore, hidden within your corsette. A pocket knife, a tool from your father to help pit and peel the fruit from his farm.

The oak handle was cool in your left hand, the right throbbing and limp. With the last remains of energy, you pushed up from the bed, swinging with all your strength - aiming for the blue-siphoned back.

In a graceful turn, the male caught your arm for the third time. You had to blink at the speed with which he stopped you.

Bracing for cruel, unforgiving anger, you were instead met with sympathetic eyes.

Loathing coiled within you.

“Release me,” you spat.

“I’m sorry to do this,” was all he said, and then pads of those rippled fingers were grasping your jaw, pressing to the pressure points of your neck with precision.

Grunting to fight his grasp, you didn’t struggle long before a ringing in your ear grew to defeating silence and the world tipped to black.

Part 2 >>> AN: HELLLOOO! And welcome to ATTWN - massive shout out to @kindasleepywriter for finding the perfect name for this series! I so so hoped you liked part 1. I edited it like a million times, still not 100% happy with it, but I think I just needed to get it out. Fair warning - this fic won't be light hearted, our reader is going to go through some really heavy stuff. I'll of course put my warnings ahead of each part, but please know I plan to explore some darker themes surrounding mental health etc. If you'd like to join the tag list for this fic, let me know in the comments! Always love hearing your feedback, and thank you so much for reading! <3 Nic

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