Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rhysand stumbled to a stop, nearly falling on the slick floor of the moonstone palace as he winnowed, his heart hammering, Feyre’s confused expression still imprinted on his eyes. 

He stared, not seeing anything, not hearing anything, the echoes of that sudden flash thundering in his mind.

Mate. My mate. She’s my mate.

The world was spinning, as Rhys stood, hands shaking in the foyer of the palace—his palace—the Night Court—above the Hewn City—here—he was here—Feyre was his mate and he was here—Feyre was his mate and he was out.

Not Under the Mountain.

Not with Her. 

He was here, and Feyre was his mate and she was gone.

Rhys felt sick, his vision blurring as he stood teetering, the world spinning.

He hardly heard someone say his name, or the clack of shoes on the polished floor, and he hardly saw the red shape running towards him, or the blonde hair that framed her eyes as she gripped his face and said his name, over and over.

Rhys was sinking, sinking in his soul, and sinking to the floor of the Moonstone Palace. He couldn’t breathe, even as his cousin’s eyes sought his, gleaming with tears, a disbelieving smile.

“Rhys?” She said, “Oh I knew it—it had to be—I knew, I felt the break–th–the curse—oh Rhys—”

She grasped him into a fierce hug, her relieved sobs shuddering against Rhys’ chest.

But Rhys couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t understand that he was here, in the Night Court, hugging Mor the first time in forty-nine years.

Forty-nine years.

It’s a dream, it’s a trick, she’s tricking you… Rhys’ mind told him, sure that what he’d just witnessed—the bond he’d just felt snap into place between himself and Feyre could not be real. 

It was Amarantha. It was some trick she’d come up with, to toy with him. To torture him. A new game. She loved to play games.

But no. He felt it in his soul, in the tether that now burned between him and Feyre, so far away; the undeniable, painful chain he now felt tying them together.

“Thank the Cauldron, Rhys—” Mor gasped into his shoulder.

“She’s my mate…” Rhys murmured, his mind fractured, between the Now and the Then. The Here and the There. It was Mor holding him, no it was Feyre, no it was Amarantha. 

“She’s my mate…Feyre…”

“What? Love, what?” Mor pulled back, holding his face, searching his wild eyes.

“She’s m—it’s—it’s her…”

“I don’t know what you’re saying, Rhys,” Mor gulped, her voice sharp, “I don’t—”

“She’s gone, oh gods.”

Rhys groaned, curling inward on himself, even as Mor tried to hold him upright. 

Mor, his cousin, his family, whom he loved, she was here. He was done. It was done.

“Rhys—”

“She’s gone…” 

Rhys felt it crack then, the tension he’d been holding for forty-nine years, the fear, the utter despair that he’d been pushing and pushing and pushing away. 

Feyre was his mate.

Feyre was gone.

Rhysand vomited onto the polished floor of the Moonstone Palace, barely missing Mor’s sharp shoes as his gut clenched, trying to empty out what wasn’t there. Trying to expel all the sickness inside him.

“Okay, okay it’s alright. It’s alright, Rhys,” Mor panted, her own confusion plain as the world spun around Rhys and he felt everything giving way—everything he’d been forcing himself not to feel for the past half century.

He sobbed and gripped to Mor like she would fade away into mist, his fingers digging into the strength of her arms, feeling her sturdy heartbeats, smelling the fresh, salty scent of her hair. That familiar scent. His family. Home. 

Not yet, though. Not yet.

“T—take me, I want to go…” Rhys croaked through breathless sobs, “Please…”

He didn’t have the strength to winnow, he couldn’t find the magic, couldn’t touch that power in his veins. He was utterly drained. She had taken everything from him. She had taken all of it, and when he’d gotten it back, then he’d lost it again…

Feyre. My mate. Gone.

“Please…”

He didn’t want to be here anymore, this tomb-like palace, above the Hewn City—-the disgusting hall that Amarantha had fashioned her Court after. 

He could feel the darkness pulling him from below; not the beautiful black firmament that hung above during starlit nights, but the darkness of pits, of caves, of evil things and evil deeds. It was rising up from the Hewn City beneath them and threatening to suffocate him as he gasped for air.

“Please go,” Rhysand croaked, and he felt Mor grip him tightly, before the power ruffled through them both, and they winnowed, landing on the elegant rug that lay in the foyer of the Townhouse.

Rhys puked again. Onto that elegant rug. He never puked—not since he’d become High Lord and had the power to stop that sort of thing, but he was powerless now. 

In the silence that followed their sudden winnowing, Rhys heard his own shuddering breaths, felt the warmth around them, saw the soft lights of the townhouse—his home. 

“It’s alright,” Mor whispered, stroking his neck in soft, even movements, like his mother used to do when he was running a fever.

“It’s alright, Rhys, we’re here. We’re home.”

His heart was still beating hard, but he was catching his breath, like transporting through Mor’s magic had put a wall between him and the flood of emotion that had been threatening to overwhelm him.

They knelt together on the carpet for a few silent seconds, Mor’s hand now on his back, moving in comforting circles, as the world came back into focus, and the screaming in his head shrank to a dull roar.

He felt Mor above him, waiting for him to move, waiting for him to speak.

He couldn’t bear to look at her.

But he had to.

Reluctantly, Rhys pulled his eyes upward until he found his cousin’s, and she offered him a pained smile.

“I knew you’d make it,” She whispered, gripping his hand now, her own cheeks wet with tears “I knew you’d come back. You’re alright now. You’re home.”

Rhys just stared, feeling hollow, after the sudden flood of anguish. 

It was echoing inside him still, like his chest was a great empty chamber, but he let those words settle in.

Home. 

He felt the fibers of the rug against his hands, trying to ground himself in this once-familiar place, which appeared just the same as it had the day he’d left—the day he’d bid farewell to Mor and Cas and all of them, leaving them behind while he did what he had to do.

He’d been a fool.

“I n…” He began, panting, “I need a bath.”

Mor’s brow only crinkled once, but she quickly nodded.

“Okay,” She murmured, “Yes, alright let’s get you upstairs.”

She gripped Rhys’ arm and helped him stand, as the world kept trying to spin away from him. 

“Can you… make it up the stairs?” She questioned, and he saw it—the worry in her gaze, the flicker of pity, of fear. 

He’d come back, yes. But he’d come back broken. He’d come back like this . 

He had to get it together, he had to fix this, he couldn’t let the others, let Cas and Azriel and Amren see him like this. Not after all of it, after all this time, after they’d waited so long. He had to fix himself.

Rhys nodded, not trusting himself to speak, calling upon the centuries of practice he’d had in controlling his emotion, forcing his body to move, his hands to stop shaking, his mind to remain clear.

You’re scaring her, He told himself, You have to stop.

Feyre…

You have to stop.

Rhys straightened and reached for the bannister, forcing himself up the stairs one at a time, not looking at Mor, not allowing her to see the way his legs trembled, the way he wanted to sink to the floor again.

He’d held it together—even after Amarantha, after Feyre had died and come back, after those terrifying moments in the throne room, he’d still held it together. He’d kept up that cool, indifferent facade, sitting through the terse meetings, waiting until he could escape, watching the remaining members of the Court of Nightmares appraise him—perhaps wondering what sort of High Lord he would be now, after all the humiliation they’d seen. 

He’d held it together even as he said goodbye to Feyre, somehow knowing even before he knew, that this woman who had haunted his dreams was not just the savior of Prythian, but his savior, his mate, the person his soul had been calling out to.

He’d held it together for forty-nine years, and he had to keep going now. For all of them. 

“I’ll be alright,” He said, flashing Mor the best smile he could manage when they’d reached his room— his room; in his home; it was still here, She hadn’t taken it from him.

He could see Mor appraising him, but his cousin nodded tightly.

“I’ll go… get the boys, get Amren,” She breathed, a smile tilting her lips despite her worried stare, “They’ll be so…”

She just shook her head, then hugged him again, fierce and strong, like she’d never let go.

But she did, and forced herself to step back with a curt nod. 

“Let me know if you need anything,” She said, and Rhys ducked his head, still not meeting her eyes. As she turned to go, he said,

“Mor—”

She stopped, and turned just slightly.

“D–don’t… don’t tell them.”

Don’t tell them about Feyre. 

Don’t tell them about my mate.

Don’t tell them how broken I am.

Mor just nodded tersely, hiding the disappointment in her gaze, as she turned for the stairs and left him alone. Alone in a room that now felt foreign. A room that belonged to someone else—some other High Lord who lived in comfort and enjoyed life and felt joy and didn’t know what it was like to wish for death.

Rhys stood and listened as Mor’s steps descended, and the front door opened and closed. Then he turned for the bathing room, needing to wash himself clean, scrub his skin until it bled to get rid of the feeling of Her that somehow still smothered him.

He walked with heavy footfalls through the room of a stranger, and he couldn’t bear to look at the bed.

***

Rhysand wasn’t sure if he sat in the bath for five minutes or an hour. He’d fought with himself just to step into the steaming water that Mor had heated with her magic. He’d had to close his eyes just to remove his shirt. 

From the frantic explosion of thought while he’d collapsed in Mor’s arms, he felt now a terrible sinking emptiness, like his mind couldn’t hold a single thought for more than a moment. 

He was blank, and hollow, and he sat there thinking nothing as the sunlight tilted through the window.

But when the water had grown tepid, he heard footsteps and restrained voices. His chest tightened. He had to move. He had to get up. They couldn’t find him like this.

Rhys forced himself to get out of the bath, feeling no cleaner than when he’d gone in, and he reached to the pocket between worlds, throwing on the sort of clean-cut black jacket he always wore Under the Mountain. 

It was wrong. This outfit wasn’t him, it was the mask. These clothes didn’t belong to him, they belonged to the Lord of Night. The cruel male who’d thrived Under the Mountain. Amarantha’s Whore. 

But he couldn’t rummage through the dust-covered drawers, the clothes that hadn’t been touched for forty-nine years, the ghostly artifacts of a person who didn’t exist anymore. The mask was all he knew. So he smoothed down the black cloth, and tried to stop shaking.

“—can reach her first—”

Cassian had just gained the top step when Rhysand opened the bedroom door and stepped out. His brother stopped in his tracks, staring with wide, disbelieving eyes. Azriel was on the step just behind him, gazing over the bannister.

They all stared at each other for a long heartbeat. Then Cassian rushed forward, and Rhys fought the urge to throw up a shield of air between them. But Cas was hugging him, his broad shoulders and wings enveloping Rhys almost entirely, and Rhys was trying not to break again.

“Mother’s blood, Rhys,” Cassian gasped, his voice thick with hurt, “It’s damn good to see you.”

Cassian pulled back and didn’t try to hide the mist in his eyes as he gripped Rhysand’s face, searching him for something, searching for the person he knew. 

Rhys knew he wouldn’t find it.

He felt like he might throw up, but he forced a quick grin. 

“Haven’t burned the city down in my absence?”

Cassian shook his head, his eyes shining, and he pressed his forehead against Rhys’.

“You bloody bastard.”

He laughed in relief, and finally stepped back to allow Azriel through.

Azriel’s hollow gaze saw through the false smile that Rhys tried to put on. There was something there that made Rhys want to shrink away—a knowing. Rhysand had always appreciated Azriel’s ability to see through people, never been scared of his friend’s understanding of the shadows. But he didn’t like that gaze turned on him now. Like he was exposed.

Azriel’s eyes dropped, his shoulders tight and heavy. He did not embrace Rhys as Cassian had. There was a hesitancy, a weight.

“I’m sorry,” Azriel whispered, but Rhys was already shaking his head.

“I should’ve seen it, I’m sorry I should’ve warned you before she—”

“No–Azriel—”

“—-it was my job, to kn—”

“Az, stop it—”

“–I failed y—”

“Stop it.” Rhys barely restrained his shout, gripping Azriel’s scarred hands. 

He shook his head.

“It was me. It was my fault. I didn’t want you to come, I di–I didn’t want you to know. It was my mistake.”

Fool. Monster. Whore.

Azriel swallowed tightly, grimacing, but keeping silent as his shadows wisped behind him.

Mor waited at the edge of the stairs, her cheeks wet.

“He’s back now,” Cassian said hoarsely, placing a firm hand on Az and Rhys’ shoulders, and looking over at Mor.

“That’s what matters.”

Mor rushed up to them and filled in the third side of their small huddle around Rhysand, as Cassian’s wings enveloped them all.

“Amren’s coming,” She whispered through a tight throat, “Sh–she’ll be here soon.”

Rhys just nodded, the heat behind his eyes threatening to break him apart again as he embraced his family. He knew he couldn’t start weeping. He couldn’t let himself fracture again, or he might not be able to put it back in—all that darkness, all that sick.

So he forced the pain in his throat down, and he turned off his feelings, turning them silent, making himself feel nothing, even as he embraced his family for the first time in fifty years

Home.

Why didn’t the word bring him comfort? Why didn’t it sound true?

Chapter Text

Dinner that night, in the House of Wind, was like a funeral.

The forks clanked sharply against plates, the candles shuddered and whispered in their holds, and Cassian’s wings ruffled every now and then. But none of them had enough words to fill the terrible quiet.

An hour before, Amren had found them in the Atrium, Azriel flying her onto the balcony as the sun was falling over Velaris.

Rhysand had wanted to gaze out at the sparkling city spread beneath him, wanted to breath in the salt air and feel the sea breeze on his face, but he couldn’t. Every time he’d tried, he felt like he might topple over the edge of the balcony and keep falling. He didn’t have his wings out. He couldn’t have his wings out. She might see. She might take them.

Amren had stormed into the room, her cloth slippers slapping against the floor as she marched right up to Rhys with fire in her ancient eyes. Rhys had fought down the acid in his throat, the urge to run, and steadied himself, as the short woman stood before him, staring and staring and staring. And saying nothing as the others watched.

Then Amren slapped him.

It didn’t hurt—hardly a sting, nowhere near what she could do, but Cassian still lurched forward, until Azriel placed a quick hand out to stop him.

Rhys returned his gaze to Amren, who—amazingly—had tears in her eyes.

She held a hand up against his cheek, her touch now as soft as her slap had been sharp.

“I see you, boy,” She murmured as she searched his eyes, and he was afraid that she was right.

Then Amren had embraced him, her tiny arms reaching up and squeezing him almost as firmly as Cassian had. 

“I see you,” She whispered again. 

After that they had found their seats, found their old places, sat before a dinner that Rhys couldn’t fail to notice consisted of all his favorites. He filled his plate, but it tasted like ash. And the one thing they couldn’t quite manage to find was that old rhythm between them, the casual back-and-forth: Cassian and Mor picking at each other while Azriel shot in the occasional dry remark and Amren pretended to be grumpy but really ate it up. 

Their conversation was stunted, halting, unsure, like strangers meeting for the first time. Rhys was trying to make it okay for them—-force his laughter and force that casual familiarity. But every time he opened his mouth he felt like he might puke. 

So he gave up his attempts at casual, and tried to pour himself instead into business. He had always been good at that. Business. Productivity. Running the Court.

“The c—the city,” He breathed, “Are th–wards secure? Are the borders secure?”

He didn’t know what was coming, in the carnage of Amarantha’s fall. He didn’t know what the fallout would be. He’d kept his people safe for fifty years, and he had to guard them now, couldn’t fall apart when Velaris needed him.

“They’re safe,” Mor assured, “Everything’s alright. No word from—from the courts yet.”

Azriel shifted his seat, and spoke in a controlled tone, like he was trying to hide his emotion. Rhys had managed to prevent him from apologizing anymore; but he could feel it on the tip of his brother’s tongue, in the way his shadows snapped and shuddered—-he was holding the guilt for it all on himself. Unable to let go of the thought that it was his fault. That he could’ve prevented Amarantha; if only he’d been smarter, better, faster.

“I’ve made contact with my old spies. They’re watching for danger. The other Lords are returning to their Courts, no sign of trouble yet. Nothing from the continent or Hybern either. If news has reached them yet…”

“It has,” Rhysand said hoarsely, moving food around his plate, trying not to be sick.

“There were s–survivors,” He breathed, “The Attor got away. Others.”

He blinked, suddenly seeing the monster’s snarling faces, watching them tear High Fae limb from limb, cackling at the screams that echoed up to the mountain. Watching the Attor beat Feyre into the ground.

“Don’t let’s worry about it just now,” Mor interrupted, stopping Rhys just as he felt the ground crack beneath him, as Amarantha screamed at Feyre. As he tried to crawl back to her, choking on his own blood.

He felt Mor’s hand over his.

“Everything’s secure for now, Rhys. Cassian has made contact with the Illyrians, and the governors’ guards are on watch around the city. You can give yourself a few days.”

A few days to do what? To sit with this terrible, empty feeling in his gut, to try and keep his eyes open long enough that he didn’t wake up screaming? 

Throughout that first, uncertain dinner, Rhys felt like he was floating outside himself, as his friends managed to carry what conversation they could. Mor reached over to pat his hand every now and then, as Cassian gave reports on the Illyrian camps he’d visited, trying to keep Rhysand’s mind busy.

Because of Rhys’ wards, it was the first time they’d had contact with some of the Ilyrians in nearly fifty years. Rhys’ gut churned at the thought of what sort of mess they would have to clean up. What allegiances had they lost since the Court of Dreams had been confined to Velaris? How many Illyrians had turned on them? He knew there were camps that had joined up with Amarantha’s cause almost gleefully, happy to revel in the bloodshed. A shame to the Night Court.

“They’ll have to be dealt with,” Cassian had acknowledged with a darkness in his voice.

“That can wait,” Mor cut in sharply, once again placing a hand on Rhys. She was guarding him, batting away anything that could upset him, anything dark, anything hard, anything real.

“I’m fine, Mor,” He grumbled, pulling his hand away, “Let him talk.”

Cassian glanced between Mor and Rhys, and Rhys gave the most stern, unaffected look he could manage, nodding—commanding Cassian to continue. 

He managed to get through the meal without throwing up, repeating to himself over and over that he was thankful, that he was here, that this was home, that She was dead and all was well.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he could feel it—-that tie to Feyre, that tether of energy. The other lords had gone back to their courts—Tamlin had gone back to his court. With Feyre. Safe. 

Away from you.

He resisted the urge to reach out to her, pressed the pads of his fingers into the tines of his fork, just to stop himself from sliding his way along this strange, tenuous thread, to find Feyre on the other side. 

He wanted to touch her, to feel her, just to know she was okay. But he couldn’t invade her like that. She was at peace, with Tamlin, where she wanted to be. And he’d hurt her enough. She deserved to be left alone. To be away from him. From the stench of that place.

“You sure you don’t want to go down to the townhouse?” Mor said as they cleaned up dinner that evening, and Rhys avoided looking through the windows at the stretch of lights that lined the river.

“We could all bunk up, like old times,” Cassian declared, slinging his arm around Rhys with a little too much forced warmth. 

“No, I—” Rhys shifted and tried not to shrug away from Cassian’s weight.

“I’d prefer it up here for now. Better views.”

He managed a smile, but he knew it wasn’t very convincing. 

In truth, he couldn’t stand to be in the townhouse because it was supposed to be home, and he felt like a stranger in it. Because he felt like the walls were going to cave in on him. Because every moment in it would be a reminder of just how much he’d missed, just how much had been lost.

The House of Wind had always been more of a meeting-place, a sort of hotel, a place to visit. And it was open wide, with high ceilings and spacious rooms and long windows. It didn’t feel tight and cramped, like the once-cozy townhouse. Like it had been Under the Mountain.

He didn’t miss the look that Mor and Cas exchanged, but neither of them pushed the issue, and they said goodnight, hugging a little more tightly than usual as he retreated to the hall.

Rhysand entered his own room—stately curtains, and plush carpet and the scent of fresh linens. He let out a breath, swaying with exhaustion but dreading sleep.

He startled when he saw movement, but then recognized the shadowy forms that materialized from the bathing room and over by the curtains.

Rhysand breathed in relief.

“Nuala, Cerridwen,” He murmured, as both the wraith-faeries bowed to him, their shadows sparkling in a way only he could see.

He had sent them away from Under the Mountain the moment the dust had settled after Amarantha, had instructed them to return to Velaris carefully but quickly, and was relieved to see them here—safe. 

Mor and Azriel and all of them, they hadn’t been there; they didn’t know what it was like—what She was like. They didn’t know what he had done to survive, to shield Velaris. But with his two faithful handmaidens, he didn’t have to explain. He felt his shoulders sag with relief.

“We are glad to welcome you home, Rhysand,” Nuala said, bowing again. It had taken him a few centuries, but the wraiths no longer insisted on calling him High Lord all the time.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” He breathed, coming forward and kissing Nuala on her cheek.

“And you?” Cerridwen said, becoming immaterial as she floated through the bed towards them. Rhysand kissed her cheek as well, and gave them both a fragile smile.

But the two females would not be fooled. And they couldn’t pretend they didn’t know—like Mor and Azriel—pretend to take the pained smiles as truth, to comfort themselves in their ignorance. Nuala and her sister had been there, through everything. His only friends for forty-nine years. 

He gripped both their wispy hands and looked in their honest eyes.

“I’m here,” He said—what truth he could muster— “I’m home. We’re home. It’s over.”

He knew that last part was a lie. Their fight was anything but over, the terror of Amarantha’s reign only the first chapter in what was coming. But Nuala and Cerridwen were kind, and they allowed him this half-truth, and they gave him the understanding looks—the looks that knew everything—and remained quiet. 

“We will be here,” Cerridwen promised with a curtsy, “As always. If you have need of anything.”

Rhys could only nod, the sting behind his eyes too much for him to deal with right now. He was exhausted, in more ways than one.

“Thank you,” Was all he could manage, looking at the floorboards, the moonlight drifting through the wide windows.

Nuala and Cerridwen curtsied and left his room then, and the faelights blinked out, and he stood for a while silhouetted by the gray light. 

Then he shuffled over to the curtains and drew them closed, unable to summon the energy to do it with magic.

In the dark, Rhysand stared down at the bed—silken sheets and fluffed pillows. Nuala and Cerridwen had made it fresh just for him, so he could have a chance at a good night’s sleep.

He grimaced, shifting his wingless shoulders. Suddenly he blinked away a barrage of images—the feeling of being pressed into silk sheets, of Her weight on top of him, of the suffocating kisses and the sand-paper touches that seemed to scrape his skin raw. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, and for just a moment he lost control, his thoughts lancing down the thread, just to escape his own thoughts for a second, to be anywhere but in his own mind. In the next moment the images cleared, and he felt her.

Feyre. My mate.

She was sitting on a cold tiled floor, leaning her head against a cabinet, breathing in heavily, her arm hung over the rim of a toilet bowl. 

Feyre, Feyre, Feyre. Mate.

On instinct, Rhysand reached his hand out, and he felt Feyre look up, her eyes searching the dark, like she saw him, like she sensed him. 

His heart hammered. 

He couldn’t breathe.

For a moment she seemed to meet his eyes, like she could see right down the thread back to where he stood in the House of Wind. She let out a breath, and Rhysand blinked, jerking backward suddenly, realizing where he was, what he’d done.

I’m sorry, He gasped, tripping as he pulled away from the thread, his eyes snapping open to his own room. 

He held a hand against the nightstand to keep from falling as his legs shook and his chest tightened.

Rhys groaned, panic threatening to overwhelm him. That look in Feyre’s eyes—she was afraid…

Afraid of you. She’s afraid of you, He gritted his teeth and held his hands against his temples.

Afraid of you. Afraid. Hurt. You hurt her. Paint on skin. Silk sheets. Red hair. Sandpaper touches. Feyre’s screams. Choking on blood. Crawl to her. Get to her. Save her. Save them all. Shut them out. Keep them safe. Hide your wings. Hide everything. You hurt her. Get it off. Suffocating. Ropes chafing. Silk sheets. Cruel hands. Amarantha’s whore. Amarantha’s whore. Whore. Whore. Whore.

Rhys smacked himself in the face, the sting of pain rippling on his skin, grounding him. 

Here. Home. He was home. In Velaris. Feyre was safe. She was with Tamlin. Her love, Tamlin. He would keep her safe. He would protect her. Tamlin would protect her.

And she hates you, Rhysand reminded himself. 

He was Feyre’s enemy. He’d made sure of that. And even if he wasn’t… what sort of female would ever look at someone like him? She knew what he was. Used. Dirty. He’d sullied himself, unlike Tamlin. Tamlin hadn’t stooped to being a whore. Tamlin had his dignity. His pride. His station as High Lord. He was the kind of male that Feyre deserved. He was the kind of mate that people would respect her for. 

But she was alone…

Part of him pleaded.

There she had been… kneeling on the tile of his bathroom, leaning over the toilet like she’d been sick. Alone. Where was Tamlin? Why was she alone? She shouldn’t have been alone.

Better alone than with you, A cruel voice said, and it wasn’t his voice. He knew that voice. It had taunted him for fifty years.

Defeated, Rhysand took hold of the comforter that sat atop his bed, and he dragged it to the ground.

He lay down, fully dressed with shoes still on, on the cold bare floor at the end of the bed, pulling the comforter tight around his shoulder. And he let the shadows take him, giving way to the only thing he could rely on to tell him who he was—-his darkness.

His darkness was the only thing he could trust.

Even if it drowned him.

***

Mor had kept up her soft smile as she watched Rhysand disappear down the darkened hallway towards his room in the House of Wind, straining her muscles so that if he were to glance back, he would see her looking encouraging.

But as soon as he turned the corner, her face fell, unable to keep up that positive facade. 

She felt it in the others, too. 

The way Cassian let out a breath, the way Amren’s fists tightened, the way Azriel’s shadows seemed to skitter suddenly out from him, like he’d been holding them in.

“He looks like a ghost,” Cassian murmured, and Mor quickly put up a shield of magic to prevent Rhys hearing them. She shot Cassian a scolding look, but he didn’t see—he was still gazing down the hall, at where Rhys had disappeared.

“Pale as one,” Amren agreed from her seat.

“He just needs some sunlight,” Morrigan tried to say firmly, as she grabbed her wine glass from the table and took a healthy draft, “I’ll… get him out in the city tomorrow. Walk around a bit.”

The effort at being positive fell flat, as all four friends hunched under the weight of it all.

“What about his wings?” Cassian murmured, almost reluctantly, “Why isn’t he…”

Cassian drifted off, but they all knew. Rhys had not displayed his wings once that day, had winnowed up to the House of Wind and dropped down on the terrace rather than soar in. 

It was concerning, but Mor wouldn’t let herself panic.

It’s only been one day.

One day, after fifty years underground. 

“Did he say anything to you?” Azriel said to Mor in a low voice, “When he arrived? Did he tell you what happened?”

They hadn’t asked, at dinner, hadn’t inquired beyond what he gave them. They’d kept their conversation about Velaris, and how it was faring, and what changes had come to the city in his absence. Trying to stick to the positive, for now. There would be time for all the rest.

But Mor could see it in the way Rhys’ eyes drifted, the way he held his fork like he would break it, the way his body seemed about to slump over in death.

They all could. 

“Not really,” Mor shook her head, selling the lie. Because the one thing Rhys had been coherent enough to say— she’s my mate— he had asked her not to tell. 

Two days before, they had all felt it—the moment that the wards had lifted off the city, that the curse had been broken. It was like taking a full breath for the first time in fifty years. 

Cassian had wanted to race straight to the mountain to get Rhys out, but Amren and Azriel had convinced them to stay. Rhys’ orders—-frantic as they had been fifty years ago while he’d felt his power draining from him—-had been to wait, and if they gave away their position too early, then all he had sacrificed for him would be for nothing.

So Mor had winnowed to the Moonstone Palace, and watched as the survivors of the Court of Nightmares had trickled back in, all with angry, haunted looks on their faces. She almost pitied them.

She got what news she could from them—about the curse and Amarantha’s deal with Tamlin and the deadline and the torture, and some girl who was in love with Tamlin coming to save them. Less than half of the Night Court had returned, though much to Mor’s disappointment, Keir had not met his end by Amarantha’s hand.

She had waited for long hours before she felt Rhys winnow into the Moonstone Palace—felt the sudden echoes of his power where none had been for fifty years. 

And when she saw him standing there like a wraith, wingless, pale and seeming near-death, it had taken everything in her not to break. Even as he broke against her, shattering in a way she’d not seen since his mother and sister’s death. 

She knew there would be more breaking, before all was said and done. She had seen the walls he’d put up, when he’d re-emerged from his room and greeted his brothers. She knew what his mask looked like.

“What happened? How did it end, how did they kill her?” Cassian wondered, looking between Azriel and Mor.

Mor just shrugged, too tired to explain the mutterings she’d heard from the Court of Nightmares.

“What I’m hearing is that there was a girl,” Azriel said, his voice dull and matter-of-fact, though Mor knew he was fighting grief and guilt, “A human girl, who’d fallen in love with Tamlin. Amarantha made some kind of deal with him that if he could get a human to love him then he’d be freed. And he did, but it was too late. He’d sent her away, and Amarantha took them—the Spring Court—Under the Mountain.”

Azriel shook his head.

“But the girl came back for him.”

“Came back? A human girl?” Amren said, “A human girl willingly brought herself to The Middle?”

Azriel nodded, and Mor started feeling a bit queasy again. She took another gulp of wine.

“She convinced Amarantha to give her some sort of bargain,” Azriel explained, “That if she passed a certain test, Tamlin would be free. And she did it.”

“A human girl,” Cassian repeated dubiously. 

Azriel nodded.

“From Below the Wall. Called ‘Feyre’, my spies say.”

Mor felt something like electricity shudder down her spine.

Feyre. A human girl.

That was the name Rhysand had said, when he’d collapsed on the floor, repeating those words over and over.

My mate. My mate. She’s my mate.

Azriel went on to inform them of what he knew—namely that the human girl named Feyre had been killed by Amarantha’s rage even as Hybern’s commander had lost her little game. Mor’s heart plunged, but then Azriel continued—she had been brought back. The seven High Lords had brought her back as a High Fae. Returned her to life. Together. 

Mor’s head spun.

If Rhysand was correct—if his mind hadn’t just been addled by whatever terror had left him a shaking, vomiting mess—then Feyre was the savior of Prythian, and his mate, and…

“—she’s with Tamlin now. In the Spring Court,” Azriel finished saying. 

Mor had to fight not to shudder. That’s what Rhysand had meant. 

She’s gone.

Rhysand’s mate had gone Under the Mountain for Tamlin’s sake, to save Tamlin, she loved Tamlin, and she had returned to the Spring Court with Tamlin. Of all people. 

Mor closed her eyes.

“What is it?” Cassian said darkly, as she failed to hide the sinking expression.

She just shook her head.

“Just…” She swallowed and looked up at her friends, all their expressions echoing her own worry. 

Rhysand had asked her not to tell them.

She shook her head, hoping that her friends would see it as being too overcome with emotion to speak, and not that she was hiding something from them.

They didn’t question it, though, because the same heavy thoughts were sitting with all of them. 

Mor had dreamed so many times of what it would be like, when Rhysand returned, when the curse was broken, when she would be free to wander Prythian again, see Viviane and visit the courts and feel the excitement of a new horizon. 

They had dreamed about it, and now it was here. But they hadn’t calculated the cost—or the question of whether the Rhys they lost fifty years ago would be the same one that returned to them.

She could hear them all thinking the same thing, in the silence that followed.

What had happened to their friend—their brother—these fifty years? What had he endured, alone, for their sakes? What horrors had he survived, only for his mate to be snatched out from under him the moment they found each other?

The girl probably didn’t even know what she was to him.

“We have to help him,” Cassian whispered, and Mor had never heard him sound so scared.

“We will,” Amren said firmly, the determination bolstering, “We have already begun.”

She looked around at each of their faces in turn.

“We have waited decades for this day,” She said unflinchingly, “And it is now here. He is back with his family. Where he belongs. Everything else can be dealt with.”

Mor met Azriel’s knowing gaze from across the table, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing.

But is it really him?

Cassian nodded, though, and squared his shoulders.

“He’ll get through this. We’ll get through this. Like we always do.”

He met all of their eyes.

“Together.”

Chapter Text

50 YEARS EARLIER

In the choking smoke, Rhysand screamed, the heat from the brand sending sharp waves of pain up his legs as the Attor laughed gleefully and the smell of sizzling flesh rose to his nostrils.

He’d lost track of the hours or days that had passed since that terrible moment, since he’d put that cup to his lips and drank Amarantha’s toast, not realizing until it was too late, until he’d felt his power ebbing away, until he realized what she’d done.

After that, it was pain. 

The minions that she had kept hidden in the tunnels beneath her lair had come crawling out, swarming the banquet hall, which Rhysand had realized all too late was made up like a throne room. 

In a state of powerless panic, the seven High Lords—greatest of all Fae in Prythian—-had been overwhelmed and brought to their knees. Nostrus had tried to rally his people to fight, even as his magic left him, but they’d been quickly subdued by the brutality of the lesser fae that Amarantha commanded. The Winter Court had come prepared for a party, not a battle.

Rhysand, in those frantic few moments, had poured all his power and thought into shielding Velaris, erasing the knowledge of it from the minds of every Night Court fae in attendance. He had known the moment his power left him that there would be no defeating her with brute strength, that their only chance was to outlast her or outsmart her, as she had outsmarted them. 

As the hordes descended, Rhysand had fought against them, but it was futile, and soon he and the other six High Lords had been brought to their knees, Amarantha’s cruel laughter filling the hall. 

After that, slaughter had begun, with Amarantha killing wantonly, just to prove she could.

Half of the Court of Nightmares in attendance were immediately executed before Rhys’ eyes—-and while he thanked the Cauldron that he had made his family stay at home, he still felt sick at the sight of the writhing bodies on the floor, the blood and flesh and screams. 

There were plenty of his courtiers whom he would kill himself, given a reason, but some of those in attendance had been young fae women looking for husbands, young men following their father’s instruction. They had not all been wholly corrupt, wholly deserving of death. And Rhysand could see in the eyes of the survivors, that desperate accusation, that haunted question:

Why didn’t you stop it?

With death doled out, the torture then began. And Amarantha had ordered the High Lords dragged to the tunnels below, while the screams began from the people they had been meant to protect.

Rhysand was cursing himself for his foolishness, his utter stupidity, the fact that he had been so focused on taking Amarantha down, that he’d missed her carefully constructed ruse.

He hadn’t had long to dwell on his mistakes, though, because Amarantha’s soldiers—High Fae and Lesser alike, had restrained him in iron shackles—-plain iron, a thing that would’ve been no more that a feather to him with his power, but which held him fast as they set gleefully to their terrible work.

The Attor was in charge of their torment, taunting Rhysand and spitting on him, as they first beat him, then stripped off his shirt and whipped him, and then cruelly sheared off his hair with a rusty pair of scissors. 

The Attor’s rancid breath was a thick cloud as the creature pulled hard enough on Rhysand’s dark locks to tear them out, sneering and mocking and calling him High Lord.  

Rhys had gritted his teeth when it started, and tried not to scream, knowing that it was his reaction they sought. But he couldn’t help the groans of pain escaping through clenched teeth. And when they strapped him against a rough wooden board with his hands above his head, and began pressing flat burning irons against his feet, he couldn’t stop the screams from tearing from his throat. 

He didn’t beg—he would never beg—but he wept as the fae continued their torment. Hours or days or weeks he didn’t know. It was just pain.

The pain was loud and overwhelming and all-consuming, and his consciousness flickered, but he clung to the knowledge that she didn’t know—that she wasn’t going after Velaris, that Mor and Cas and Azriel and Amren and all of them would be safe. 

They would hate him, but they would be safe. 

He had failed them, but they would be safe.

They are safe. They are safe. They are safe.

It was then that Amarantha had come to the dark stone chamber where the Attor was heating up another brand, and tutted in mock sympathy.

“My poor dear, what’ve they done to your pretty face,” She pouted, strolling close as her dress brushed against the cold stone floor and the Attor grinned.

Rhysand snarled and struggled to pull away when she gripped his chin with her hand, but his arms and legs were restrained, and he hardly had any strength left in his quivering muscles.

“We can’t be damaging pretty Rhysand’s looks,” She scolded the Attor mockingly, twisting Rhysand’s bruised face this way and that.

“He so much takes after his daddy.”

Amarantha smiled wickedly, as Rhysand’s chest heaved for breath, shaking in the reprieve from the torture, but also shaking at what was coming. 

His mental energy was focused on keeping his wings hidden and all thoughts of Velaris out of his mind, so he was caught off guard when Amarantha waved her hand and he felt the scalp that had been damaged by the Attor’s cruel cutting knit itself together, his hair instantly growing out again to its usual length.

He sagged with relief at the slight abatement of the pain.

Amarantha smiled.

“There,” She murmured, close enough that he could smell the wine on her breath, “That’s better.”

Her eyes scanned his bloodied lips and sweat-drenched face.

“Here we are again—you at my mercy. I missed this old game. Didn’t get a chance to finish our playing last time, before your daddy swooped in and saved you. Lucky us.”

She ran a hand through Rhysand’s hair, carding it with tender strokes like a lover, and he snarled, jerking his head away again. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of answering back. He knew she wanted a reaction—that was all.

She was baiting him. Reminding him of the War. Riling him up. 

He set his face in a flat glare at the wall and didn’t meet her eyes.

“Now don’t be a sore loser, Rhysand,” She scolded with a playful smack, “Fair is fair. I tricked you—when you would’ve liked to be the one to trick me. Or did you think I didn’t know why you came to my court?”

Her eyes danced with malice, seeing his fear. She had known—she had known that he wasn’t there to make some overture of peace. That he had come to kill her.

“You’ll have to do better than that, love.” 

Amarantha’s hands were still running through his hair in soft strokes, her body leaned close to him as he pulled away uselessly at the shackles. She lazily traced the lines of his Illyrian tattoos with her free hand, sending shivers through his feverish flesh. He hated the touch, but he’d endured days of only pain, and the soft gentleness of her strokes was causing gooseflesh to run down his body.

“I would’ve liked to have your father as my guest here, to show him just what I think of him—after what he did to my good friend,” Amarantha sighed, “But, seeing as he went and got himself killed by dear Tamlin… I guess I’ll have to settle for you.”

Amarantha’s tilted her head.

“It’s nothing personal.”

Her smile belied the fact. 

Amarantha stepped back with a contented sigh.

“I think we’re gonna have a lot of fun together, Rhysand,” She said with a smirk, her eyes roving up and down his form in a way that made his anger spark.

“I’m going to kill you,” He finally growled—-his voice haggard through cracked lips and a bloodied mouth. 

The space where his power ought to have been was pulling at him, calling for him to throttle her, to turn her to mist, to strangle her with threads of magic. But when he reached for the power there was only empty space—-hollow and foggy. 

Something dangerous sparked in Amarantha’s eyes, but she only gave him a bemused smile, and stepped close again. Rhysand kept his glare stern and unflinching, unwilling to show any fear to her. 

She was a snake, and he would crush her. 

He had braced for a blow, expecting her to strike him or brand him or send a lance of pain at him with magic. 

It caught him off guard, then, when he suddenly felt her touch him between his legs, firm and possessive. He inhaled sharply and pulled away as much as his shackles would allow, but he was strapped to the board behind him, immobile.

Amarantha chuckled as Rhysand grunted and snarled at her, a flaring mix of confusing sensations running up and down his body.

“I like this game,” Amarantha murmured, tilting nearer, “Say it again.”

Rhysand twisted and pulled at his shackles to try and get her hand off of him, but she held it there with a smirk.

“Go on, say you’ll kill me,” She encouraged, “I like it when you threaten me.”

Rhys growled with helpless rage, his muscles straining to get away from her touch as his heart beat out rapid, fearful beats. 

When he refused to comply, Amarantha flicked her free hand with magic and brought the hot brand up to Rhysand’s feet again.

He screamed through clenched teeth as the red iron burned his skin, but still she touched him, now sliding her hand under the waistband of his trousers. 

Rhys panted as pain flared up from his feet and a terrible pleasure shuddered from where Amarantha touched him. 

He didn’t want it, he didn’t want her, he would’ve chopped her hand off if he could, he would’ve killed her, he hated her touch. But his body and his mind were at odds.

“I think you like pain, little Night Lord,” Amarantha crooned with a wicked smile, as the Attor and other minions chuckled behind her and she continued to stroke him. 

“I think you get excited when I hurt you.”

Rhysand was panicking now, straining until the metal restraints drew blood from his wrist, but unable to escape the sensations that Amarantha was forcing him to feel—-pain and pleasure, twisting into a wild and confusing knot. 

“You want me to hurt you again?” She whispered seductively.

He didn’t want this, felt bile rising in his throat at the knowledge of what she was doing to him, but his traitorous body reacted, and Amarantha laughed as the iron touched him again and shocked him with pain.

Rhys squeezed his eyes shut and strained his head away from her, tears escaping down his cheeks as he tried to disappear into his own mind, rather than face this horror. 

It was a dream, he told himself—-a nightmare that he was having, while he slept in the Townhouse, safe in Velaris. 

He had decided not to go to the court that day, chosen to stay home, to trust Azriel when he said that nothing could be done about Amarantha right now, to take Cassian’s advice. He hadn’t come to Amarantha’s court at all, really, and he was safe, and he was with his family, and he would wake up soon with the morning light streaming through the sheer curtains.

But when Amarantha’s touches ceased suddenly—leaving him panting and uncompleted—-he felt the pain return, along with the terrible sounds of the dungeons surrounding him. 

A nightmare, yes. 

But not a dream.

He flinched when Amarantha swiped her hand across his chest, and smirked up at him with dancing eyes.

“Yes, I think I’ll have quite a lot of fun with you.”

She patted his cheek and he flinched again, shaking uncontrollably against his shackles.

“We’ll see each other again soon, I’m sure of it.”

With that, Amarantha turned, and strode from the darkened dungeon, leaving Rhysand sagging against his shackles, shuddering and fighting back vomit. 

How quickly she had broken him—turned him into this shaking, pitiful mess. High Lord indeed. Pathetic. Shameful. How could Velaris trust him to keep them safe when he couldn't even control his own body?

Rhysand groaned, heedless of the minions who still lingered in the dungeon. He knew he’d never forget what had just happened to him. That it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

And he also knew it was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Rhys startled awake suddenly, sitting up abruptly as a shout ripped from his throat. 

He felt his power flare, a web of black shadows bursting out from him for a brief moment, before his nightmare skittered away back to the dark recesses of his unconscious mind.

He sat for a long stretch of heartbeats, placing back together the knowledge of where he was and what had happened, and why there was crisp golden sunlight falling on his face, instead of the cold darkness of Under the Mountain.

He squinted at the sunlight, lifting his hand in the beam that fell from the high arching windows. He let his fingers dance through the strange glow, looking at it in confusion, mesmerized by the touch of warmth. 

He’d forgotten that—the way the beams refracted through the glass. He’d forgotten the way the morning sun looked so different from the evening, the way it had its personalities, its moods. 

How had he forgotten it? 

How had he forgotten the sun?

Rhysand forced himself to rise, forced himself to bathe, even though he couldn’t ever feel clean. He forced himself to change clothes, knowing that Mor would see that he had slept in them, and worry. He couldn’t let her worry.

When he stepped into the dining room, the others were already eating, and from the false brightness in their tone he could tell that they had heard him coming. 

Mor rose smoothly and gave him a hug, a bit of an usual way for her to say ‘Good Morning’ but he knew why. 

“Did you sleep alright?” She asked softly, “I asked Nuala and Cerridwen to—”

“—yeah,” Rhysand gave a flicker of a smile, “Yes, it was… good.”

He managed to look at the others in a pretense of calm. 

He had slept well, really, until waking from the sharp nightmare. But that was merely because his body had been so exhausted that it shut down. He knew there would be other nights. Worse nights.

“—visiting Windhaven, but Mor said she’d steal you from us.”

Cassian was speaking, and Rhys blinked awake long enough to catch the end of what he was saying, as Mor looped her elbow through his and led him to the breakfast table.

“I want to show Rhys all the new shops,” She proclaimed with false brightness, “Get a nice stroll in, and some sunshine. Windhaven will still be there tomorrow.”

Mor gave Cassian a playful look, and then glanced at Rhys as if to say,

It’s up to you, though.

Rhys nodded as Azriel spooned food onto his plate for him, shadows skittering over his scarred hands as if they were curious to see Rhys for themselves. 

He wasn’t ready for Windhaven—wasn’t prepared to face whatever the Illyrians would bring down, to be around that harsh climate, and all those memories. And if he visited the Illyrians, he’d be expected to look like an Illyrian. He’d be expected to have his wings…

“...in the artist’s quarter, and a new place called Rita’s that we’ve been going to.”

Mor was speaking, and Rhys had blanked out for a moment.

“Not new, really,” Cassian put in, “About sixty years old, but…”

He drifted off, realizing where that put them. Rhys nodded.

“Sounds fun.”

It didn’t.

Amren was watching him with that steely gaze of hers, even as they all ate and the others continued the charade of pretending they weren’t worrying. He didn’t like the way Amren stared, like she knew, like she could see what was crawling beneath his skin.

He agreed to go with Mor into the city because he had to, because he couldn’t slink back to the room and hide there all day, because that would worry his family and he couldn’t do that. Not after what he’d done, not after fifty years of nothing.

He managed to convince Mor to meet him by the townhouse, though, since she had an earlier meeting with one of the Governors. He did this to avoid the expectation of flying, and instead walked himself down the first thousand steps, until he was outside the house’s wards and could winnow away. 

He knew he should try—bring out his wings and test them after fifty long years—but he was too scared. There was some unconscious lock on his mind, a fearful chant that told him that She would find out, She would tear them from him, laugh as she sliced through the membrane and crushed the bone. He had to keep them hidden. 

Or perhaps he was merely afraid that he wouldn’t be able to do it anymore—-that decades of pretending not to be Illyrian had left him without his most precious ability, the thing that connected him to his brothers.

He tried not to think about it, and hurried his way down the steps so no one would notice.

Winter had begun its first overtures in the city, turning the air crisp and blowing against the last of the orange and brown leaves. 

It would be Winter Solstice in a few weeks—-the longest night of the year, a day for reunions and family and joy and warmth. All things that felt foreign to Rhysand. 

How would he have a snowball fight with his brothers like nothing had happened? How would he sit around the fire and sip cocoa and tell stories without remembering the forty-nine years when he’d been gone? The Winter Solstice’s that had passed with terrible celebrations of cruelty, marking the day as a day of darkness and coldness. 

Amarantha had loved her parties, and Winter Solstice was a way to spit in the faces of Helion, Kallias and Rhysand all at once—desecrating their holy holiday with her tortures and revelries. 

How would it ever be the same? How would anything be the same?

Rhys made sure to fix his face into neutral when he joined Mor on the cobblestone street, and he breathed in the cool air, trying to focus on the smell of the city, the salty wind, the sounds drifting up from the artist’s quarter—all these things that he had fought for. All these things that he had saved.

Mor gave him a soft smile that said she understood, as she looped her arm through his and lead him down towards the Sidra. 

She quietly pointed out any changes that had occurred in the buildings as they passed—new shops that had opened, festivals that they’d celebrated, events that had been put on, all in an attempt to keep life in Velaris from growing stagnant, as they were all trapped together in a giant fishbowl of Rhysand’s making. 

He was forced to remember, as they toured the city, that though they had remained safe and untouched, his people had certainly not been free. 

Many of them would’ve had relatives in the countryside, in the steppes; friends in the Hewn City, even, or in other courts that they could not visit. Their suffering had been lessened, but they certainly had not gone untouched by Amarantha.

Rhys felt the guilt of it as he walked with his cousin down the narrow thoroughfares. What did they think of their High Lord? Their jailer? How could they look at him, after what he’d done?

But when the citizens of Velaris began to spot them—-began to notice who it was that strolled by—there was no glare of resentment or bitterness. Their eyes began to light up, and several walked up to him to bow, the more bold ones taking a hold of his hand and shaking it, pressing their foreheads against his knuckles and proclaiming their thanks.

“Cauldron bless this day, High Lord; long have we waited for your return.”

“Thank the Mother. We are in your debt forever.”

“It is an honor to finally meet you, sir.”

“Savior of Velaris!”

“We never doubted; we knew you would return to us.”

As soon as one had noticed him, the others came by, and Rhysand could hardly go a few steps without some well-wisher waving at him or bowing to him. Shopkeepers hurried out to greet him, or else offered him some of their wares—free of charge, of course.

Children stared wide-eyed as their mothers pointed his way and said,

“That is your High Lord, who defeated the wicked Amarantha.”

And everywhere there were eyes on him, smiling eyes, surprised eyes, tear-filled eyes, all staring his way, making him quaver under their gaze.

Rhys felt Mor’s presence close by, her hand occasionally squeezing his, as he tried to find the words for all this thankfulness. He realized that this had been part of her plan—-to bring him in public, to let the people see him, to let him hear their thanks. 

And while he was overwhelmed with gratitude to see the place and the people he loved untouched by the ravages that Amarantha had caused, he also began to feel overwhelmed by the noise and the faces and constant barrage of praise. 

Didn’t they know what he was? Didn’t they know what he’d done?

He forced his hands to stop shaking, though, and offered a warm, lordly smile to any who came his way. This was his duty. He could not break in front of them—the people who had trusted him for fifty years, who had waited in a prison of his making for the day that he would set them free.

The day Feyre set them free.

Mor could see when he had reached his breaking point, because there came a time when she hooked her arm through his and told a gathered group of families that they had to be going—-they had a meeting. All the citizens were gracious and understanding, bowing away with another round of thanks and well-wishes that Rhys tried to stomach.

Mor took them through roundabout ways then, not stopping in any of the major thoroughfares and generally avoiding crowded streets. It took Rhys a while, but eventually he figured out where she was headed.

Sure enough, as evening was falling, the twinkling lights and potted plants of Sevenda’s restaurant came into view along with the Sidra, and Rhys could see two pairs of wings silhouetted by the setting sun, as Cas and Azriel leaned over the railing.

“I thought you might want somewhere quiet,” Mor explained as the restaurant came into view. It was just as he remembered, with the worn wooden chairs and soft lights, and the crackling stone oven in the corner that Sevenda baked her flatbreads on.

The place was empty, which worried Rhysand for a moment, but then Mor said,

“She agreed to close it down for us, just to give you some privacy.”

Rhys swallowed, his throat feeling hot. 

This place was full of so many special memories—warm nights of laughter and togetherness that blended together through the centuries, hard moments where they’d gathered to mourn losses or overcome griefs. Like the Townhouse, like the House of Wind, it was a part of his home. And that made him afraid.

When the short, dark-haired woman emerged from the back of the restaurant and placed a pitcher on their table, she turned to face him with a smile of such melancholy thanks, that he feared he would start crying again there.

“My lord,” Sevenda said with a curtsy. Then she gave him a kiss on the cheek, like she always did—as if no time had passed.

“It is my honor to welcome you back. You have been missed.”

Rhysand nodded in thanks, forcing a smile.

“Well…” He swallowed, “I knew I had to make it back—-thinking of your cooking got me through even the worst times.”

He executed a perfect, humorous sparkle in his eye, letting Sevenda see only the joy, and not the crushing ache of grief beneath it.

The fae woman curtsied again.

“Well I shall try to live up to the expectation. Fifty years of new recipes is a lot to catch up on!”

“I’ll do my best,” Rhys agreed.

“And we’ll help him,” Cassian offered, slinging an arm around Rhys as Sevenda disappeared into the back again.

They sat around their old table—Amren joining them, and Mor and Cassian seemed determined to keep up a light-hearted atmosphere. Between the two of them they managed to banter back and forth, as though they had planned out stories to tell and memories to share that were safe and untouched by grief. 

Azriel chimed in more than usual, and Mor would frequently place her hand on Rhys’ or wink at him, or direct the conversation his way, like she was trying to drag him along with her into this new normal, this comfortable old conversation.

It worked for most of the dinner; there were even moments when Rhysand forgot what was weighing on him, the dreadful sinking feeling in his stomach. He could’ve been sitting in Sevenda’s restaurant on a cold winter day two hundred years previous, when Amarantha had not touched Prythian, touched him. Velaris had a way of soothing your aches and freeing your mind. 

He found himself talking, and smiling without faking it, and laughing when Cassian recounted a foible or Amren made a sly remark. 

He could do this, couldn’t he? He could make it. He could pretend until it became real. Fake normalcy until it felt normal. Push all thoughts of Feyre and the ache she caused from his mind. Focus on what was here, now, in front of him. He would do it, for them. He had to. He couldn’t worry them. They’d been through enough.

He’d almost made it through the whole day without panicking or crying or throwing up, when—as they rose to leave and Mor paid the tab—Sevenda came over to them with a small box of leftovers, trailed by a High Fae man with her same warm skin and bright eyes.

“My lord, I hope you’ll take these to enjoy later,” She passed the box to him, “Though I expect you to return very soon—we’ve too many recipes to get through to waste any time. And with the ports opening up again, I expect we’ll get our hands on some spices soon…”

Her eyes sparkled, and Rhysand nodded.

“I expect we can arrange that,” He agreed, reveling in this moment of calm, this feeling that perhaps he would be alright. Perhaps Amarantha hadn’t stolen everything from him. Here he was, with his favorite people, in his favorite restaurant, after spending a day in the city he loved. There was life outside the Mountain. Life that she had not sullied with her touch.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I knew you were coming this evening and I wanted you to meet my son, Chaemus,” Sevenda gestured to the man behind her, drawing him forward with a proud smile.

“You’ll not recall, of course, but I was with child, when… well, when everything happened…” She gave a sad smile, as Chaemus gave a bow, “And well, he’s always wanted to meet you.”

“An honor, sir,” He said.

Rhysand blinked then, reaching for the hand that the man extended, shaking it, feeling like sound had started to muffle and the lights had suddenly gone fuzzy around him. 

Chaemus was a handsome High Fae man, with his mother’s pleasant demeanor and strong, broad shoulders. He was a full-grown male of fifty years. Young by fae standards, but not adolescent by any means. An adult, with decades of life lived, while Rhys had been under the mountain.

It almost made him faint.

Of course this had happened, of course the children who’d run through Velaris’ streets when Rhys was last here were not the same children who graced it now. Of course people had grown up and lived their lives and had children and become mated and started businesses and lived and died… but for some reason, staring at Sevenda’s son was like a slap in the face.

He did remember that the restaurant-owner had been with child. 

In fact, he had gotten a gift for her, to present to her when the babe was born. Where had that gift gone? Had Mor given it to her in his stead? Had the restaurant been closed for a few weeks while Sevenda weaned Chaemus? Had she and her mate held a celebration for the boy? Perhaps Mor and the others had attended his coming-of-age party. Perhaps they’d doted on the little boy as grew up, gave him Solstice presents, taught him to read, taken him flying. Perhaps Cassian had even offered to let him join the city-guard when he was old enough.

Rhys felt like he couldn’t breathe. A whole life had been lived, and he had been trapped. Chaemus—a grown male of fifty years—had never even met him. Had never even left Velaris.

“Likewise,” Rhysand managed, dropping Chaemus’ hand, and feeling like he wanted to flee.

“We’ll be heading out in a few days, to visit with my sister down the coast,” Sevenda continued gleefully, “He’s never had the chance to meet her.”

She gazed at her son proudly, then back to Rhys.

“We’re just so grateful for everything you’ve done.”

Everything you’ve done. 

The killing.

The torture.

The depravity.

Would they be grateful if they knew? What sort of disgrace he was? Knew about the human girl Clare? Knew about the Winter Court children—whom he’d been helpless to save? Knew about the three High Lords who’d been put to death while he stood by? They could never know. They could never have that blood on their hands. 

Chaemus had lived his life in sheltered safety, and that was enough—to see the proud way his mother looked at him, the knowledge that no war or strife had yet touched them. 

But Rhysand could never let them see that terrible part of him, the blood on his hands.

He was crushed by the wave of fear that hit him then, and barely managed a few strangled words of thanks, while Mor and the others got up and began their slow walk back through the city.

“I was thinking we could swing by to show you Rita’s, if you’re up for it,” Mor suggested, sliding her arm through Rhys’, even as he fought back the heat on his skin and the panicked fluttering of his heart.

You can’t let her see. She’ll worry. You’ll hurt her. Like you hurt Feyre. They’ll hate you like she does. She hates you, she lived her whole life while you were stuck in that mountain and she’d’ve been better off if she never met you.

He dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from shaking.

“I’m pretty tired,” He managed with a swallow, “But you go ahead.”

“Oh, no, we won’t leave you behind,” She said quickly, “Another night. We can all go up to the house.”

Rhys felt sick. He had to get away from them, he felt like he was going to explode, his darkness flaring behind him dangerously.

Don’t let them see.

“I actually…” He began through the roaring in his head, “I think I’d like to be alone for a bit, just… go for a walk.”

Fifty years of practice in lying helped his voice to come out calm and unaffected, and helped him to put a soft smile on his face, willing Mor to agree, willing them all to believe his lie.

“See the city at night.”

Mor looked hesitant, glancing back at Azriel in concern, but Cassian said,

“Yeah, sure,” He clamped a steadying hand on Rhys’ shoulders, “Take your time, we’ll meet you at the house.”

Amren was again watching him with that knowing, cautious look, but she said nothing as Rhys nodded and backed out of Mor’s grasp, his hands casually in his pockets, so they wouldn’t see how badly he was shaking.

A whole life. They had lived a whole life without him. And after all, did it really matter? They had been just fine without him. Feyre had been just fine without him. She was just fine now—safe with Tamlin, away from him. Everyone would be better off away from him.

“See you,” He said finally, before turning heel and walking briskly up the cobblestone, trying to put space between him and these feelings.  

He could feel Mor and Azriel’s gaze on him from behind, but he didn’t turn to look, or slow his stride. He pushed his feet forward even as his legs burned from the incline of the street. He was so out of shape, so weak, hadn’t trained in so long….

The moment his friends were out of sight, Rhysand cast a glamour around himself, hiding him from the other passing Velarians. He didn’t think he could stand if one more well-wisher came up and bowed to him and told him how great he was.

Don’t let them see, can’t let them see. They don’t know what I’ve done.

Rhys tossed the extra food from Sevenda into a dustbin as soon as he could, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as he tried to escape the feeling that he was being chased by something.

A child’s shriek of laughter startled him and he found himself frozen in the middle of a quiet thoroughfare, his legs threatening to give out. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he see straight?

Here he was, in Velaris, surrounded by the beautiful place he called home, the people he’d fought for fifty years to protect, and yet he felt as though he was drowning.

Rhys groaned, and clutched his chest, fearing that his heart might be dying.

He forced his feet to move, because that was the only way he could outrun this terrible panic.

Fifty years this city had gone on without him, fifty years they’d lived and thrived and grown while he was locked in that mountain. Fifty years he would never get back. 

He wished he was in a tiny room with no light where no one could see him or stare or point or say ‘that’s the High Lord, savior of Velaris’. 

He wished he was made of shadows like Azriel. 

He wished he was immaterial like Nuala and Cerridwen. 

He wished Amarantha had killed him in that throne room when he’d lunged for Feyre. He knew no one would’ve bothered bringing him back. 

Eventually Rhysand found himself at the door that led to the ten thousand steps, and—fearful of his friends spotting him from above—he wrenched it open, his breaths echoing in the tall corridor as he raced up the spiraling stairs, trying to outrun his feelings.

He would do anything to escape this awful clenching in his gut.

Up he climbed, foot after foot, trying to focus on the pain in his legs and the strain of his lungs, when the chorus of his mind threatened to overwhelm him.

Failure. Monster. Amarantha’s whore. You killed those Winter children, it’s your fault they’re dead. You gave that human girl’s name away, like a fool, and let her be tortured. You should’ve just killed yourself and saved everyone the trouble. No wonder Feyre loves Tamlin and not you—she’d be disgusted if she knew you were her mate. The Cauldron made a mistake. You don’t belong with her, you don’t belong with anyone. You’re broken and pathetic and you deserved what Amarantha did to you. You must have wanted it—deep down you must have wanted it. You belong to her. Forever. 

Rhys’s legs gave out a hundred steps from the top of the spiral, and he crumpled suddenly against the hard stone, clipping his chin on the sharp edge as he tried to stop himself from sliding backwards.

He lay there panting, drenched in sweat, his chin bleeding as his heart started to slow. 

The frantic charge up the steps had filtered out the noise in his mind, and now he was left with an echoing emptiness, as exhaustion took over.

His cheek was pressed against the cold stone, as his breath and the world came back to him and he realized what he’d done. 

He couldn’t make it to the top, didn’t have one more ounce of strength to push himself forward. His friends would soon find him here and they would see how broken he was and they would worry, they would know it was all for nothing, that he wasn’t fit to be their leader anymore. Wasn’t fit to be anything. 

Rhysand didn’t know how long he lay on the stairs, just breathing, feeling a strange apathy after his frantic fear. He felt drunk, like he was in a stupor of wine, but he’d hardly touched any at dinner.

Rhys figured he might lay there for a hundred years and no one would notice, and that would be okay. He would become a part of the House itself and he’d watch over his friends and give them warm meals and tuck them in at night. He’d be gone, and that would be alright. That would be better than whatever this was—this half-life. This ghost of an existence. 

Had he ever even made it out? Or was this all a dream, and he would wake up in Amarantha’s bed? 

He didn’t have the energy to hope it wasn’t.

Rhysand had just resigned himself to lying on that staircase until he died, when a beam of light creaked open from the hundred steps above, and he saw in it a silhouette stretching down towards him.

There was silence, except for his soft breaths, until a voice said,

“Rhysand?”

It was quiet, and unassuming. But Rhysand could not answer.

Then he heard shuffling, and soft footsteps coming down—soft footsteps from someone who knew how to make no noise, but was choosing to signal his approach.

“Rhys?” Azriel’s voice whispered in the dark. 

Then Rhysand remembered that he’d put a glamour over himself, and Azriel couldn’t see him, despite the fact that he stood only ten steps above. 

His brother knew he was there, though; Rhys could feel the shadows whispering around him, finding him on the floor, pressing against his wards.

Rhys weakly twitched his hand, willing the glamour to fall away., and Azriel took a few more steps down.

“Are you hurt?” He said matter-of-factly as Rhys pushed himself into sitting up, his body shrieking in protest.

Don’t let him see. You can’t let him see.

“I…” Rhys’ voice came out haggard, like he’d been screaming; had he been screaming? He didn’t think so.

He touched a hand to his chin, and it came away with flakes of drying blood.

“It’s nothing,” He said, as his brother stood above him. 

Then Azriel crouched, and reached a hand down, and Rhys felt his brother’s shadows writhing around them, pressing against Rhys as if they would pull him up from the ground.

Rhys winced at every movement, but took his brother’s outstretched hand and let Azriel hoist him to his feet. It was either this, or be carried, and Rhys wouldn’t be able to stand that.

Azriel looped Rhys’s arm around his broad shoulders and turned up the last hundred steps.

“Not too far,” Azriel offered as Rhys grunted in pain on the first step. His body had reacted to the sudden, unexpected ten-thousand-step climb, and his strength was gone. But in a way it felt good, to be so exhausted that he didn’t have the energy to think.

“I’m sorry,” He croaked to Azriel as they made their slow way upwards, and he stumbled like a drunk.

“For what?”

For everything. For nothing.

“...I don’t know.”

He was afraid that Azriel would ask—that his brother would wonder why he’d been climbing up the impossible staircase, why he’d left them to go to Rita’s just to run himself ragged, why he was so pathetic he couldn’t even get back to his own house. 

But Azriel was used to silence, and he knew what it was to carry hurts that could not be voiced.

He didn’t ask, he just helped. 

“They’re in the library,” Azriel said before Rhys could wonder, like he knew Rhys would be afraid of the others seeing him like this. 

Again, He reminded himself dourly, Mor’s already seen you like this. She knows what a mess you are…  

“I’ll take you to your room.”

Rhys knew he didn’t have to ask Azriel not to say anything. If there was one thing Az was good at, it was keeping secrets. And he trusted his brother to understand that he couldn’t bear to let the others know what he’d done. He didn’t want Azriel to know, but it was too late. The shadows must’ve told him where Rhys was. He was a fool for letting himself slip like this. Now Azriel would pile the guilt on himself, since he seemed to think he was somehow responsible for Amarantha. 

Once again, Rhys was hurting his family.

He was exhausted to the point of dropping by the time he pushed open the door to his bedroom, but Az followed him in and turned the faelights on, while Rhys squinted painfully. He’d forgotten how bright the world was—-sun and fire and sparkling lights—things Under the Mountain had always seemed dim. 

Rhys’ comforter had been removed from the floor and put back neatly in place—evidence of Nuala and Cerridwen’s faithful work—-and he shuffled towards the bed while pulling his shoes off. 

“I’m alright,” He muttered to Azriel with a vague wave, “You can go back to… them…”

He went to fall into the bed, but Azriel followed him over.

“I’m not letting you sleep in your clothes again, Rhys,” He said, picking up Rhys’s dropped shoes and placing them neatly by the bed.

“Come on. Off,” He ordered, and Rhys unbuttoned his shirt dutifully, shrugging out of it, hoping that Azriel didn’t look too closely at the scars that had lingered—the ones Amarantha had made sure didn’t disappear. 

Azriel said nothing, and just took his shirt to the clothes bin, turning around long enough for Rhys to take his pants off—though it wasn’t anything Az hadn’t seen before. They’d passed enough centuries together to be comfortable with each other’s bodies. Still, Rhys felt like a stranger in this room, this place, with his family. 

He knew he looked different—pale and sickly and not filled-out. He knew he’d lost muscle, he knew he must have dark circles under his eyes and a hunch to his shoulders that wasn’t there before. 

But his brother didn’t comment on any of this, and simply took his pants to place in the clothes bin as well.

“Drink,” Azriel beckoned, as the House had provided a glass of water on the nightstand. Rhys obeyed, living for a moment outside his mind, and letting Azriel’s orders become his only guide. He couldn’t think for himself, didn’t want to think, or else the panic would return. 

Feyre hates you, she wants nothing to do with you, you’re alone and you deserve to be—

Azriel pulled back the blankets and let Rhysand lift his aching legs into place, before covering him up again and dousing in the faelights.

For a moment Rhysand breathed in the darkness, feeling his brother standing over him like a guardian in the shadows. 

Don’t let him see, you’ll hurt him. He thinks it’s his fault that you’re like this. He thinks he could’ve stopped it. He doesn’t understand…

“Az?” Rhysand said in a haggard voice.

“Yeah.”

“How do you do it…” Rhysand swallowed, unsure why his thoughts had gone this way. “How do you… I mean with Mor…”

Rhys squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Feyre’s face, that disgusted, hateful expression that she reserved for him. The way she looked so longingly at Tamlin…

“How do you live with it?” He whispered. He knew he was being cruel, bringing up this pain, forcing his brother to think about the one thing he refused to mention. But Rhys couldn’t help it. He felt like he was drowning, and Feyre’s hatred for him was a weight around his ankles.

“I live,” Azriel answered after a long silence. “That’s it.”

Rhysand swallowed. He’d been afraid that would be the answer—-that there was no solution to the breaking in his heart, to the empty ache he felt when he could sense the thread leading to Feyre, but knew that there was only spite for him on the other side. 

“Az?” He said again.

“Yeah.”

Rhysand held his arms around himself against the chill of the night, despite the blanket that sat heavily over him.

“I think I’m going to die alone.”

And wasn’t that what he deserved, after all? After everything he’d done? 

He was close to breaking again, when Azriel’s voice came out of the darkness, his shadows embracing Rhysand where his arms could not.

“We won’t let that happen.”

A pause, and when he spoke again there was the slightest hint of humor.

“Cassian certainly won’t. He’ll bring you back to life just so he can die alongside you.”

Rhysand let out half a laugh, and—as if Azriel’s shadows were pressing against his eyelids—he felt himself drifting into sleep, the ache of his limbs and the clenching pain in his chest dissipating into blissful nothingness.

Just before he lost consciousness, he could’ve sworn he heard a voice in his ear whisper,

“We love you, Rhysand. No matter what. You’re not alone.”

…but maybe that was just the shadows talking.

Chapter Text

The Attor’s claws dug into Rhysand’s arm as he dragged him down the hallway; Rhys couldn’t move his own feet after the fae had seared the skin with their branding. Every movement was agony, and he slipped in and out of consciousness, his vision clouded, too weary to wonder where the creatures were taking him.

He heard the clang of iron bars opening, and felt gravity give out as the Attor shoved him forward with a snarl,

“High Fae whore,” The creature sneered, spitting at him. 

Another laughed.

“Don’t you two go and kill each other now, or Queen Amarantha will be most displeased,” It chittered.

“She does love to play her games.”

Rhys snarled at the pair of fae and threw himself towards the opening recklessly, swinging his hand like he might land a punch. 

But the Attor just slammed the door closed and laughed at his fury, its black eyes sparkling.

Rhysand stood gripping the bars and heaving for breath, every wound and burn and cut and scrape making itself known to him now, in the cold cell where they’d tossed him. His power flared—-that empty chasm where once there might’ve been something, where once he could’ve summoned darkness to drown them. 

But nothing happened, and the creatures laughed as they sauntered away.

When the Attor’s ugly shadow had disappeared, Rhys felt the fight drain from him, and he leaned his forehead against the bars.

“...have you seen the others?”

Rhys heard the voice behind him, and something like dread twisted in his already-destroyed chest. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, carefully reconstructing his mask of cruel aloofness, before he turned to see Tamlin, sitting on a bed of straw on the other side of the small cell.

Tamlin didn’t look good.

That is to say, his hair hung limply where it was usually carefully shined; his outer jacket and tunic were filthy and he had a bruise along his jaw. So no, he didn’t look good . But he didn’t look like he’d been tortured either. Unlike Rhysand, he still had a shirt on, and there were no wounds besides the bruise to be seen. 

Rhysand might’ve wondered about that, if he had the energy.

As it was, he just glared flatly at Tamlin—Tamlin, who’d brought about the deaths of his whole family. Tamlin, whom he hated with a constant and abiding hate. Tamlin, whose father and brothers had been the villain in so many of his nightmares. Tamlin, who he’d once considered almost a friend.

No wonder the Attor thought they’d kill each other. Amarantha was indeed playing games.

Rhysand broke off his glare after a moment and slumped over to the other side of the cell, feeling his legs about ready to give out from the pain, but refusing to fall in front of Tamlin.

“Have you seen any of them?” Tamlin repeated, “Nostrus or Beron or—”

“—No,” Rhys returned flatly, sinking down to the floor as his whole body protested the movement. 

He could still feel it, the crack of the whip, the agonizing heat of the brand, Amarantha’s hand on him, like she owned him, like she could do whatever she wanted. He supposed she did. He supposed she could.

“I saw Thesan. He’s still alive. Or he was,” Tamlin offered, his voice a rasp. “And I think I heard Nostrus… screaming.”

Tamlin’s eyes glanced his way.

“...but maybe that was you.”

Rhys’ eyes were closed, and he was just trying to remember how to breathe, a thousand thoughts flickering into his mind now that it was quiet, now that the pain had ebbed away to a dull throb.

“Are you alright—?” 

“The fuck do you think?” Rhysand snapped, almost before the words had left Tamlin’s mouth. 

Tamlin winced, but he didn’t retort, just lowered his head.

“You’re right. Sorry.”

Rhysand spat blood out next to him, his palms pressing against the hard ground as he stretched his bare feet out, trying to keep the burns from scraping on the stone. Amarantha hadn’t finished her torture yet—she knew what she was doing putting him in a cell with Tamlin, of all people.

“She hasn’t killed any of us,” Tamlin continued, “I don’t think. I don’t think she wants to.”

“Good for us,” Rhys muttered.

“We could try and get a message to the others,” He murmured, “Try and… and find some way—”

“Some way to do what, Tamlin?” Rhys growled, “What? Break out of here and go at her with our fists? Or do you think she’ll give us back our power if we just ask nicely?” 

Tamlin’s brow pinched.

“I don’t know. But if the seven of us work together, then we have a shot—”

“—oh sure, the seven of us working together. Because that’s bloody likely to happen,” Rhys snarled, “I bet Beron is already pledging his undying loyalty to her as we speak.”

Tamlin shook his head.

“No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be forced into it. He might have become her ally before this, but now?” Tamlin looked up at Rhys, and shook his head again.

“Beron will let her slaughter the entire Autumn Court before he joins her cause.”

Rhys just stared flatly. Tamlin was right, of course. Beron was a pig-headed fool and a cruel piece of shit, but his pride was both his worst and best feature. Amarantha had offended him beyond repair. He would see her dead. 

“I’m sorry about your Court,” Tamlin offered, and Rhys could’ve sworn he was being sincere. 

Rhy didn’t bother acknowledging the remark. Of course Tamlin didn’t know —that the people who’d been murdered in that throne room meant next to nothing to him. That he was hiding his family behind a shield and desperately clinging to survival so that he could save them from whatever was coming.

“And you? How many of yours did she kill?” Rhysand grumbled, and Tamlin shifted, looking down at his hands—dirty, but not bleeding.

“None,” He murmured.

Rhys squinted, and they were both still.

Tamlin sighed heavily.

“She’s infatuated with me,” He confessed, “Thinks I’m the next iteration of my father. She wants me…”

He swallowed, shifting uneasily.

“...she wants me as her consort.”

Rhys’ brow twitched.

“So she didn’t kill your people because she thinks she can win you to her bed?”

Tamlin shrugged.

“I suppose. She probably knows I’d never forgive such an act.”

Rhys fought the churning jealousy in his gut—not for Amarantha’s affections, no; he despised any notion of her desire. But for the chance to have saved the lives of his court—even the court he despised. 

His eyes looked over Tamlin again, and he could not help but see that the High Lord of the Spring Court had been untouched. No torture. No burns or whips. Nothing. He was jealous of that too.

“So will you?” He said hoarsely, his expression flat.

“Will I what?”

“Take her to bed,” Rhysand waved vaguely, “Become her consort, what have you.”

Tamlin looked revolted.

“Of course not!” He scoffed in disgust, “I’d never let that bitch touch me. I’d sooner die.”

Rhys just stared, clenching his jaw. 

He shrugged, spitting blood out again.

“Your loss,” He said flatly. “Or should I say, Spring Court’s loss.”

Tamlin looked a little sick, but he shook his head.

“She can’t possibly hold us. All seven? Never.”

Rhysand put his hands up as if to point out that she was, at that very moment, holding all seven of them captive.

“I mean forever,” Tamlin determined, “We’ll find a way out of it. She’ll lose control; her minions will turn on her, something, anything…” He gestured bleakly.

“Just so long as you don’t have to get your hands dirty,” Rhysand retorted. 

Tamlin had the bluster and pride of a young High Lord who hadn’t yet met the cruelty of the world. He hadn’t fought in the War, hadn’t seen those bloodbaths and known what it was to lose himself. He’d inherited a Kingdom by default—-given lordship over the Spring Court simply because the people who should’ve inherited it had been too stupid to keep themselves alive.

“I won’t sully myself with her just curry favors,” Tamlin snapped, “But as long as she desires me, then yes, I have leverage to keep my people safe.”

“Unless she decides that killing your people one by one would be the best way to get you to comply.”

Tamlin bristled, and Rhysand could’ve sword he saw a hint of that creature—that beast that Tamlin turned into. But the power wasn’t there, and he remained as he was—dirty and huddled in the corner of straw.

“I wouldn’t expect someone of your disposition to understand,” Tamlin said sourly, “But the Spring Court values honor, and my people will not see me stooping to bow before her, dishonoring them with mewling and begging. If she tries to punish them to force me, then that is on her hands. My court looks to me to be their leader. I will bow to no one.”

Rhysand wondered if Tamlin’s words would be so bold, if it had been half of his court that was slaughtered that first night. If his skin been burned and his back whipped and his hair shorn off.

Young, Rhysand thought, Young and proud and foolish.

But Tamlin would learn—sooner or later this new nightmare they were all sharing would force him to make a choice he couldn’t come back from. 

“Whatever,” Rhysand breathed, his injuries too taxing to keep arguing with someone who was clearly in denial. 

He shivered as the heat from his body was leached away by the stones.

Tamlin shifted, squaring his shoulders again.

“We just have to find her weakness. She can be reasoned with, Rhysand. We just have to figure out what she wants…”

Rhysand could feel Tamiln’s eyes on him, like he was just now noticing Rhysand’s broken body and haggard frame. 

“And we have to stay strong.”

Rhysand glanced up, to find something like pity on Tamlin’s face. He felt a flare of anger.

“There is no we , Tamlin,” He snapped, drawing his aching feet in, hating the way that Tamlin—his enemy—was gazing at him, “You and the Spring Court can rot for all I care.”

Rhysand hugged his arms around himself and turned away, still shivering as he began the arduous task of ignoring Tamlin. Fuck him and his honor —-he’d soon see how reasoning with Amarantha went. The fool still thought he could talk his way out of this; that his charms were so intoxicating that she would do anything just for the chance of having his hand. He didn’t see her for what she was. But he’d learn. And if he didn’t figure it out soon, his court would suffer. 

Rhysand hadn’t meant it, really—he didn’t blame the High and Lesser Fae in Tamlin’s court for what had happened between them. They didn’t deserve to die. But if Tamlin didn’t reckon with reality soon, then people he cared about were going to suffer. He was still thinking this was a diplomatic negotiation, not a bloodbath.

Rhysand was stewing on his anger and shivering in the corner of the cell, when he vaguely heard Tamlin rise to his feet. He figured Tamlin would be taking a piss or something, but then he felt the male standing above him, and Rhysand glared.

“Here,” Tamlin said, holding out his overcoat in offering, “Take it. I don’t need it.”

“Fuck you.”

Tamlin just sighed. Then, instead of biting Rhys’ head off, he silently set the coat down next to his bare, burnt feet, and shuffled his way back to the other side of the cell. 

They sat in silence for a while, and eventually the cold and shivering became too much for Rhys’ bare skin, and he reluctantly snatched up Tamlin’s coat, pulling it over his shoulders and hiding his Illyrian tattoos.

He tried not to sigh in relief as some warmth leeched back into his chilled skin.

“Does she know about your wings?” Tamlin said after a moment, his voice hushed and dull in the stone room.

Rhys glared over at him again, as if challenging him to say something, daring him to tell.

But Tamlin just nodded, understanding the look.

“...she won’t hear it from me.”

Chapter Text

Rhys forced himself to get it the fuck together.

After that night when Azriel had found him on the staircase, he vowed that he wouldn’t let his friends see him break again. He could feel the way Az was watching him that next day, as if looking for cracks. Fifty years they had waited for him to come back, and he wouldn’t let them down now.

So he donned his mask once again—a mask he’d worn for half a century—only altered, so it was not cruel and aloof and delightfully wicked, but calm, and authoritative, and decidedly at-ease. His friends wanted him to be better, so he was better. His people needed him to be a leader, so he was a leader. His Court expected him to move on, so he moved on.

That’s how it was during the day, anyway.

At night, when he drew his curtains and huddled under his covers—on the floor as often as he was on the bed—he could not maintain the mask. His nightmares could see beneath it, knew the lies he was telling himself, and they made him pay for every second he spent holding it in.

Every night for a week Rhysand was plagued with phantoms in his sleep. Some nights he woke screaming, or else he startled awake and felt sick, sometimes making it to the bathing room to vomit, sometimes not. Sometimes he woke up tangled in the bedding and thought he was in chains, or he felt as if some great weight was sitting on his chest, or there were hands around his throat—-strangling him. Sometimes he saw Feyre, sometimes he saw Amarantha, sometimes he saw Mor or Amren being tortured, Cassian or Azriel being degraded by Amarantha like he had been. 

His shadows would lash out in the room, knocking books off their shelves and tearing at hanging tapestries. He couldn’t control them, not when his mind was making him relive a parade of horrors every night. 

It was as if he had been given one night of reprieve, one blessed night of silent sleep before everything came crashing down on him, everything from two weeks ago to two decades ago. Like a tidal wave.

The first night, Cassian heard something and knocked on his door, asking if he was alright. After that, Rhysand put a glamour around the room to make sure that no sound would make it out, and that his shadows would not leach out into the House, and hurt someone. He knew if it was bad enough that his power would overcome his own wards, but he had to try something. 

He couldn’t let them see. 

At night Rhysand was a mess, but as soon as he walked out from his room, he put on the visage of the High Lord of the Night Court—strong and calm and unaffected. He attended meetings with the governors of the city, took messages from the outlying provinces, held audiences for concerned citizens, and began to piece together his Court after Amarantha’s destruction. For all anyone could see, he was well on his way to recovering from his captivity Under the Mountain. 

If his friends saw through the facade, they didn’t say anything. Even Amren—though she didn’t fake nicety—kept her peace, her steely eyes watching his every move, but her lips silent. 

Perhaps they were just as afraid as he was, to face what he’d become.

Some nights he knew the terrors were his own, borne from things he could remember even in waking, memories he tried to wipe out of his conscious mind. But he began to get glimpses of things he’d never seen before, faces and places that were foreign to him, and somehow that was worse. 

Almost a week after returning from the mountain, Rhysand woke in a sheen of sweat, his heart beating frantically, and he realized that it was not his own nightmare that had pulled him from sleep this time—but Feyre’s.

His chest heaved, as he blinked back the memory of driving a knife through a fae male’s chest, his blood seeping into her hands. 

He was horrified to realize that their connection—their mating bond—was causing their feelings to be pushed out to each other. Had she been experiencing his nightmares? Had he been plaguing her with the terrible panic in his stomach? He immediately slammed down the connection to her un-guarded mind, even though all he wanted was to slip through it and comfort her, shield her from those memories that were haunting her.

He knew he couldn’t invade her privacy like that. He knew she wouldn’t want him around. He knew she’d hate him for it. And that knowledge hurt almost as much as the nightmares themselves.

The next night it happened again, only this time Rhys was not awakened by a jolt of fear and crushing guilt, but rather the sensation that someone was touching him, someone was kissing him, peppering his neck with whispers and soft lips. It felt wrong, he wanted it to stop, but at the same time he reveled in it—a moment of escape, a tinge of pleasure.

Confusion twisted his gut. He was trapped in it like a nightmare, like he was looking through someone else’s eyes, and he was torn between wanting to get away, and wanting to lean into it, to feel the hands that were now sliding down his body. 

Escape. This was escape, she thought. Blissful nothingness. A moment to only feel those hands, and to forget everything that was haunting her. 

Suddenly through the strange fog of this dream, Rhys recognized a face he knew—-Tamlin’s face—-and he snapped awake, lurching backwards and slamming his head against his own headboard.

He sat blinking in his own bedroom, realizing what had happened—what was happening even at that moment. Feyre and Tamlin were making love, his mate was making love with another male, she was with him and he was touching her and she liked it.

Rhys felt sick, and threw himself towards the bathing room, vomiting into the toilet as his stomach clenched. He was hunched over the thing, retching into the bowl as he tried to shut out the sensations washing over him from the bond.

The gentle stroke of hands, the soft whispers, the shivers of pleasure…

Rhysand retched again, his breaths rasping in the darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and slammed up his mental walls, forcing Feyre out of them, forcing Tamlin out of them, forcing himself not to crumble to dust.

Feyre loved him. Of course. She’d come to Under the Mountain for him. She’d fought for him. She’d died for him. This is what she wanted. 

But it was like someone was pouring acid into his veins. How could he live with this? This knowledge that felt like it would tear him in half. He belonged to Feyre. He was hers. Irrevocably. And yet she was with another male, and content to be so.

It’s what she deserves. To be happy. To have him. She doesn’t want you. You disgust her.

Rhysand leaned over the toilet and breathed as his body shook with the last of his convulsions. His walls held, and though the memory of what he’d seen made his bile rise again, he was not assaulted by Feyre’s feelings through the bond.

Just as she had sat on the tiled floor in the cold by herself, retching until she was empty, so did Rhysand, waiting for sleep that he knew wouldn’t come.

The next day, Rhys ate his breakfast in silence, unable to put the mask on.

And when Cassian mentioned getting in the training ring—which he had every day since they’d visited Velaris—he immediately accepted, batting away Mor’s protests. She thought it was too soon, she thought Rhysand should rest. But he didn’t want to rest. He wanted to punch something.

They would train at the House of Wind, in the open courtyard. This was Cassian’s decision, but Rhys suspected that it had not been his first choice. He’d have preferred to go to Windhaven, to train in the mountains, as they used to—he’d have preferred to get out of Velaris, as he hadn’t been able to for fifty years. But Mor seemed to know. Seemed to understand that Rhys wasn’t ready for Windhaven. His mask could only go so far.

Cassian performed his stretches—the same warmup he’d been doing for centuries, and Rhys followed along, his body falling into the rhythm like no time had passed. Fifty years was not long enough to erase five hundred years of training. 

He was out of shape, that was sure—he hadn’t exactly kept a strict training regimen while Under the Mountain. Hadn’t had enough willpower left at the end of every day to force himself into it. But his body remembered, and the exertion felt good.

As Rhysand’s body moved and stretched, he tried to breathe through the tight knot that had formed itself in his chest since everything had gone quiet—since the screams had died down and the constant risk of death had disappeared. 

Somehow he had lodged all that terror in his chest and held it there, like the stone that his heart had been turned into for all those decades. A lump of rock. A lump of fear.

With Cassian things were always physical, though, and he liked that about his brother—he could never be too much in his own head when they worked together. It was the same that day, like every other day they had ever sparred together. Normal. 

With every kick and punch and dodge, Rhysand sweated out the panicky feeling in his chest. Cassian saw that he wasn’t holding back, and he took it, and returned it the same. Rhysand was grateful not to be coddled by him—he could always trust Cassian to be brutally honest, with his words and his fists.

By the end of it they were both sweating, and Rhysand found himself smiling, panting for breath but reveling in his strong heartbeat and flushed skin. He had forgotten this feeling—the exhilaration of a good fight. He’d tried his best to beat the shit out of Cassian, and of course hadn’t even gotten close, but the more he’d used his fists the less he’d thought about Feyre, and Tamlin, and Amarantha, and his own crushing despair. He was only his anger, and he let that anger flow through him into Cassian. He knew his brother could take it.

As they finished their sparring, the sun was beating down on them from over the mountain, and Rhysand stood for just a moment, breathing hard, his eyes closed, soaking in the warmth. 

How had he forgotten it?

How had he forgotten the sun?

He was the Lord of Night, after all, and what was Night without Day? 

“Same time tomorrow?” Cassian asked with a smile and wide, bright eyes. Rhysand shrugged with a smile that matched.

“If you’re not too sore,” He said, and Cassian grinned.

***

Rhysand rode the high of his sparring with Cassian, the sense of life it gave him, until that evening, when they came together for dinner and both Mor and Azriel had a dour look about them.

Rhys didn’t have to wonder long to find out why.

“If you’re up for it, Rhys…” Mor started, when Amren had told her to be out with it already, “I think we ought to pay a visit to the Hewn City. Sooner rather than later.”

Rhys felt all that tension return to his chest instantly.

The Hewn City. The Court of Nightmares. Keir and all his cruel ilk. Those High Fae who’d been trapped with him, like starving lions in a cage, to tear each other apart. They knew what he was. They knew what he’d done.

“Keir can wait,” Cassian said firmly, perhaps noticing Rhys’ sudden withdrawal. He might’ve been brutal in the training ring, but Cassian was a gentle hand when it came to Rhys’ feelings. 

“Maybe, but he shouldn’t be left to his own devices for too long,” Azriel put in quietly.

“It’s barely been a week,” Cassian snapped, shifting, like he was ready to throw himself between Rhys and Azriel’s shadows.

“I visited them yesterday,” Mor bit out carefully, “And they are… disorganized. So many–so many didn’t come back from the mountain, there’s a bit of a power vacuum going on as far as the ranking goes. If we don’t step in and take control, then Keir is going to see those that he desires brought to the highest positions. I don’t think we want that, especially with…”

Mor shifted.

“...with what might be coming.”

Rhys was blinking past that initial fear, forcing it into a tiny box and slamming the lid on it, just like he’d done with Feyre and their mental link. Block it out. Shut it down.

He swallowed.

“Mor’s right,” He said, before Cassian could protest. “They’ve been back for days now. They’ll be wondering… what comes next.”

He shifted, trying to keep his voice calm and even.

“We need to make sure they remember who’s in charge.”

They saw you when you were weak. They saw you pathetic. They saw you following after her like a dog in a collar. They’ll never respect you.

“I think that a wise choice.”

Amren’s voice brought Rhys back to the table.

“Come at them with a firm hand, and you’ll have far less trouble down the road.”

Rhys met her unflinching gaze, and nodded slightly. He had to breathe to keep from vomiting.

Cassian looked displeased, but he stopped his protestations when he saw that the rest of the family was in agreement. 

Despite the churning in Rhys’ stomach, he agreed that they would make a visit to the Court of Nightmares the next evening. All day he prepared his mind, silencing any feeling, snuffing out any emotion, leaving only cold, hard, onyx. He sparred with Cassian and once again used his brother as a punching bag, but if Cassian minded, he didn’t say so.

“We’ve all got your back in there,” Cassian assured, when they were both sitting on the bench afterwards, drinking water. 

“I know,” He said, looking out at the city so he didn’t have to see the way Cassian was watching him.

The truth was, Cassian couldn’t have his back. Mor and Amren and Azriel couldn’t be seen supporting him, holding him up, giving him strength. Because the High Lord of the Night Court didn’t need any support. He didn’t need anyone to hold him up. He couldn’t be seen relying on anyone or anything but himself. 

Rhys would be going into the Hewn City with his friends at his side. But he would be sitting on that throne alone, and he had to be ready for it.

In the end, it was Feyre who helped him. 

His anger, his instinctual fury at seeing her with Tamlin, knowing that he was kissing her and touching her, knowing that Tamlin thought he owned her—-it was that internal rage that helped him to focus himself, to become the Lord of Night that Keir and his ilk would expect to see.

When he entered the stretching hallway with the black creatures carved into the wall, Rhysand let go of the leash that he held on his power, and allowed his black shadows to rumble outwards, shaking the earth beneath his feet as Mor strolled ahead of him, her head raised and her red dress trailing after her. 

He didn’t look at his subjects, didn’t deign to glance their way as he strolled by, power radiating from him like a threat. But when he turned on his throne and sat, he sank into the stone luxuriously and glared at them with a bored expression, as if he’d just been there yesterday.

He could spot Keir at the edge of the crowd, seeming to struggle between looking terrified and furious. 

“Well…” Rhys said, not bothering to raise his voice above a disdainful drawl. It still carried throughout the room—-full of High Fae, but less full than it had been fifty years ago. Rhys felt his heart slamming against his ribs, but his face remained a cool mask of indifference.

High Lord. You feel nothing. They are nothing.

“It would seem a celebration is in order,” He proclaimed with a sly smirk. He waved a hand and a goblet of wine appeared on the arm of his throne. 

He raised it.

“To my faithful subjects. The strongest of Prythian,” He dipped his head—acknowledgment to their suffering, lest they feel bitter towards him.

“And to Amarantha’s rotting corpse.”

He forced his voice not to shake at her name.

“She may have tried to bastardize our hallowed hall, but she could never make more than a mocking imitation of this. A poor substitute for my great kingdom. For my people—-the greatest and most feared of High Fae. The Night Court!”

Rhysand lifted the glass.

“The Night Court!” The crowd echoed, raising their own glasses dutifully. Some seemed sincere—proud beaming gazes, exhilarated to be returned to their comforts and home. Some seemed suspicious and resentful, and some had haunted looks on them, like they’d see the ghosts of Under the Mountain right here in this room.

Rhysand himself, even as he downed a swallow of his wine, almost passed out when he glanced up to the opposite wall, and imagined for a moment that he saw a body hanging there—the human girl’s body, the one he’d betrayed. 

Clare.

Heartbeats passed in utter silence, as he stared, and he could feel Mor’s concerned thought pressing against his mental shields,

Say something.

Rhysand snapped his eyes away from the wall—the blank wall, with nothing on it—and gave an unconcerned look.

“Music!” He barked with a commanding echo, “Dance!.”

Immediately the hall kicked into action, and Rhysand slipped into his expected role, leaning back in his throne and looking bored, while Mor and Cassian stood guard either side, and Azriel flitted somewhere in the shadows. Listening.

Rhysand drank his way through the evening, maintaining distance, but occasionally giving appropriate praise to some or another of his subjects, commending them for remaining stalwart while under Amarantha’s thumb. 

Mor had told him who she thought should fill up the higher ranks after the deaths that had left holes in leadership, so he made sure to highlight those people, and make it clear to Keir that any scheming would not be tolerated.

Rhysand downed goblet after goblet, drowning his terrible feelings in wine, and refusing to look up at the opposite wall again, but he kept enough hold of his senses not to slip up or make a mistake, 

Keir gave an appropriately deferent speech that he didn’t mean a word of, and many courtiers presented Rhysand with gifts. These he either accepted or rejected, depending on how he thought it would look to the court. He felt the slightest bit of empathy for his people—-for the suffering he knew they’d endured, just as he had. But he couldn’t let it show; not here, not now. Because for every subject who’d suffered and hurt, there was another who’d pounce the moment they spotted any weakness.

At long last, Azriel materialized from the shadows and gave Rhys a small nod, indicating that he had done enough sleuthing and spying, and felt satisfied that the court had been sufficiently scared into submission by Rhysand’s presence.

He made his exit with the same pomp as he had his entrance, glaring down anyone who dared to meet his eyes, letting that spark of power show through, just to remind them what vermin they were compared to him. Their High Lord. 

When he’d finally heard the doors close behind him and was in the crisp mountain air again, Rhysand let out a palpable breath, his body shuddering with everything he’d been holding in.

“Alright?” Cassian’s voice came behind him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Rhys swallowed, and nodded.

You can’t break. Not yet. Don’t let him see.

“How about we fly home? Get the stench of Hewn City off of us?” Cassian suggested with a smile, his wings flaring a bit. Rhysand recoiled at the idea, but carefully kept his expression neutral.

“I’d like to but I, uh…” He swallowed, looking out over the white-capped mountains, “I’m tired.”

 He gave Cassian a shrug and a lazy smile.

“And I think I drank too much to avoid faceplanting all that way. Meet you at the House?”

Cassian was kind enough not to ask again, and when Rhysand dropped heavily onto the balcony of the House of Wind, his brother did not ask why he hadn’t used his wings to soar in. 

When Rhysand had lingered long enough with the others so they wouldn’t worry, debriefing their visit to the Court of Nightmares, he made his excuses and retreated to his room.

It was the deepest part of night, and Rhysand stood for a long while in the dark, staring into the mirror in the bathing room at his half-obscured shape. He looked to himself like a ghoul that haunted children’s nightmares, a shadowy figure that would come and snatch your baby out of its cradle, leave blood marks on your doorway. A thing you wouldn’t look at, even if you knew it was there, because looking at it would make it Real.

He tried to see past that shadow-person, past the monster from Under the Mountain to whatever was left beneath, but the hours of playing his cruel role that day had made him feel brittle and haggard. Gone was the calm confidence after sparring with Cassian. He was a shell again. Would it always be like this? Swinging from one extreme to another, never able to settle into his own skin and stay there?

That night he woke up screaming from a dream that it was his body nailed to the wall of Amarantha’s court, legs broken and bent in horrific shapes, eyes wide, mouth dripping blood.

But in the echoing dark, as he tried to catch his breath again, Rhysand imagined that he might have felt the smallest pulse of comfort along the thread that tied him to Feyre, like perhaps she knew without knowing, somewhere in the back of her mind. 

Like perhaps she might see him.

Like perhaps she might care.

***

“They’re under control. For now.”

It was the first words anyone had spoken since Rhys shuffled back to his room to hide.

The four of them stood in the dining room again, all drained from the evening of playing their dangerous ruse. 

Mor drank more wine, trying to forget the look on her father’s face when he’d stood before her for the first time in fifty years. Utter indifference.

Azriel was standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, reassuring them of what he’d said before Rhysand had dismissed himself. Mor knew why; because they had taken to a playing a sort of double-game with their words—-walking a line of things they would say in front of Rhys, and things they wouldn’t. Truths they would tell, and truths they wouldn’t. But Azriel had said as much before, and he was saying it again now:

“Keir has no love for him, that much hasn’t changed. But he won’t seek any sort of rebellion. He knows Rhysand is too powerful, and the risk to great if… if the power were to be transferred to someone else. Someone unknown.”

There was silence again, and Mor felt her heart hot in her chest. She nodded. It was as good as could be expected. Mission accomplished. For now, anyway.

 There was silence, and she met Azriel’s eyes, and she knew that he had heard what she had heard—-in the crowd that night, weaving through the chattering nobles and eavesdropping on them. 

She didn’t want to say it, but she knew he wouldn’t, and someone had to.

So she forced herself to speak.

“Did you hear what they were calling him?” She whispered, her finger moving along the rim of her glass. 

Azriel’s eyes fell.

“What do you mean?” Cassian said, his brow furrowing. Cassian had perhaps not heard the murmurings. He had perhaps stuck too close to the throne all night, guarding his brother, like he could fight back the very memories that threatened to drown him.

“At the City,” Mor murmured, even as Azriel seemed to shrink into shadows for a moment, “What they were calling him when they thought he couldn’t— we couldn’t hear.”

Her eyes flicked up to Amren, then back down.

“‘Amarantha’s Whore’,” She whispered, the words catching in her throat. 

Cassian recoiled, scoffing angrily.

“What—who dares?”

“Everyone,” Azriel returned flatly, before Cassian could draw a sword and start hunting them down.

“They were all saying it—or enough of them, anyway.”

Azriel met Mor’s eyes, and Cassian seemed to be processing what that meant.

"It could just be rumors," Mor offered with a pitiful hope, "Just to be cruel..."

"I heard enough," Azriel admitted haggardly, his expression haunted and furious, "It wasn't just rumors."

What had his shadows told him? Could Mor bear to hear it?

“What?” Cassian looked between them, “Well that’s bullshit. That’s…Rhys would never even think about—”

“He absolutely would,” Amren interrupted, firm but calm, and Mor wanted to sink to the floor. She’d heard one of the older women mutter it under her breath, a vicious smirk on her colored lips, like it was a joke to them. Like he was a joke. It had frozen Morrigan’s blood.

“If it meant protecting Velaris, protecting us?” Amren’s burning gaze met Cassian's, “He absolutely would.”

"And even then..." Azriel said hollowly, "He might not have had a choice."

Cassian’s mouth opened and closed, and he looked like he was going to be sick.

“No,” Cassian denied, his voice sounding strangled.

Mor couldn’t help the hot tears that pooled behind her eyes, wishing she could deny it too. She’d known Rhys had suffered, she’d seen the way he’d been broken that first day, collapsing into her arms. But she didn’t think…

“Cassian, don’t—”

Azriel’s voice brought her back. Cassian had turned for the hall, as if to follow after Rhys, as if to get answers. Cassian swiveled harshly at Azriel’s word.

“I just want to talk to him. He’s alone in there and I’m not going to let—”

“He wants to be alone. Let him be.”

One of Azriel’s shadows touched Cassian’s wrist, and he pulled away sharply.

“No!” Cassian said with his fists clenched, his voice strangled, “If that happened, if he... well then h–he’s suffering and I have to help him.”

“You can’t help him right now.”

“I’m going to bloody try—”

“—Cas, he doesn’t want you to know,” Mor interrupted, pleading. “If he–if he wanted us to know he would have told us. He doesn’t want us to know, you can’t go ask him about it.”

“So I’m just supposed to pretend?” Cassian demanded, “J–just pretend like I don’t know? Pretend it’s all normal?”

“Until he brings it up, yes,” Mor said, growing more determined by the second, “He’ll talk when he’s ready, until then…”

“—until then, he’s wasting away! He’s a bloody ghost!” Cassian threw up his hands.

“It’s only been a week,” Azriel murmured.

“Yeah? So we should wait five hundred years for him to talk to us?” Cassian snarled, “Because that worked so well with you ?”

Azriel’s shadows flared, but the angry look he shot Cassian could not mask the hurt at the low blow. 

It was true, Azriel did not really speak of the traumas he’d endured as a child. Nor the many wounds—physical and mental—he’d received since then. It was something none of them were good at—being real, baring their hurts without hiding them under humor. 

But Mor could feel a fight brewing between the brothers and she knew that wouldn’t end well for either of them—or Rhys.

“Think of how it would feel,” Mor murmured, coming close to Cassian, placing herself between him and the Shadowsinger, “Think about how he might feel. He’d be ashamed for us to know.”

“He doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of,” Cassian snapped.

“I know that,” Mor gave a sad smile, placing a flat hand on his chest, “And you know that. But he might not be able to see that right now.”

“He’s doing his best,” Amren’s voice came in, calm and firm, “And now is not the time to push him. Trust me—when he needs a push, I will be the first in line. But for now, Cassian, you must ask yourself whether barging into that bedroom and making him explain himself would be for his sake … or for yours.”

Silence, except for the quiet shifting of Azriel’s shadows. Mor held a steadying hand on Cas’s chest, looking into his big, tear-sheened eyes.

“...I have to help him,” Cassian said, his voice broken.

“I know,” Mor nodded, “You are. You are helping him. You saw him after training the other day, he was so much better; he knows you’re here for him. But Cassian…”

She slid a hand down to hold his.

“...I know about these things,” She whispered, her chest feeling hot with the aching memory. 

“...and you can’t ask him to talk before he’s ready.”

Cassian stared at her for a long time, before he sniffed, and nodded, his wings lowering and shoulders slumping. 

Mor embraced him then, comforting and firm, hugging him tightly as she rarely did, her eyes on Azriel, who met her knowing gaze. 

There would be a time when they would have to push Rhysand, to force him to face his demons and overcome them, holding his hand all the way. He had done it for all of them, in some way or another. And they had done it for him once, too, in the aftermath of his family’s slaughter, when he’d been a mess and a newly-minted High Lord.

But for now? For now they could only wait. 

Wait for him to talk.

Wait for him to work up the courage.

Wait for their brother to come back to them.

Mor held Cassian with reassuring strength, but in her heart she was afraid—afraid that fifty years was too long. That this was a wound that would not heal.

Perhaps their brother had died that day, when his human mate had. Or decades before, when Amarantha had taken his choice from him.

Perhaps that person in the other room wasn’t Rhysand at all.

Perhaps he was still Under the Mountain.

Chapter Text

50 YEARS AGO

The off-kilter music swirled to the top of the cavern like the weaving of terrible spells, and Rhysand stood in the elegant gray suit that had been shoved into his arms by two High Fae from Hybern, who had dragged him from his cell and pushed him into a finely-decorated chamber.

For days, he and Tamlin had sat in that cell, listening to screams and howls and terrible laughter, wondering at what point they would meet their end.

Now he was back in the throne room, and there Amarantha sat, with a sharp, cold, glittering crown upon her red hair, peering down at the assembled crowd. 

Rhysand had been ordered to bathe in the room, and dress in the clothes he’d been handed, and arrive to the throne room for the evening’s festivities.

And festive they were.

It was like a strange dream, the dancing, and wine, and laughter, after days or weeks of torture and death. He’d received little food while in the dungeons, and there were mountains of it here, but he didn’t dare partake—he couldn’t trust anything she gave.

This was the new game Amarantha would play with them. To dance them about like her puppets, for her own amusement. She had conquered them, and now she would enjoy the spoils of her victory. And watch them cower.

Cower they did. For as Rhysand looked more closely at the dancing and chattering fae, he could see the strain in their smiles, the terror in their eyes. This was a charade, for the red-haired demon who sat above them, and they would have to play their parts, or meet her wrath.

“Still alive then?” A voice said next to Rhysand, and he recognized it, relaxing after a moment of tension. 

He turned his head just slightly to find Helion—great nephew of the High Lord of Day, and an occasional emissary on his Uncle’s behalf. Rhysand barely risked moving his lips as he spoke, fearing that Amarantha’s eyes would find him in this crowd.

“And you? Well enough?” He murmured.

“Well enough,” Helion agreed, “My Uncle was tortured. They didn’t touch most of us—not worth the attention, I suppose.”

Helion gave a dark look around at the sneering Hybern fae who wound through the crowd.

“Or perhaps us common courtiers will serve for entertainment later on.”

Rhysand had a terrible inkling that Helion was right. The male was astoundingly intelligent and cunning, and could see through the facade of merriment as easily as Rhysand did, to the tenuous peace they walked.

“Did she harm you?” Helion asked, though the question was likely more out of politeness than anything—Rhysand knew that he looked like death.

“She had her fun,” He answered flatly, “But she’ll have to try harder to break me.”

He glanced Helion’s way, and was met with a look of sympathy that the other man quickly hid. After a moment of silence, as the music swirled around them and Amarantha’s horrible laugh echoed over their heads, Helion spoke again.

“My Uncle wishes me to impart a message to you,” He said, barely a whisper, “That when you should decide to move… the Day Court will be ready.”

Rhysand met Helion’s gaze, as the male tried to convey a hundred words with just a stare.

“Advise your Uncle…” Rhysand spoke, looking at the crowd and not at Helion, “That though we may share a common enemy, I claim no friends in this accursed mountain. If it is rebellion he seeks… I think it ill-advised. He may do what he wishes, but I have my own affairs to attend to.”

He felt his response land hard, felt Helion’s anger bristle, before he wrestled it down.

“Is your court not trapped down here as well?” He murmured, “Did not half of them lose their lives mere weeks ago? Would you not see them free at any cost?”

“I would see them free,” Rhysand murmured after a moment, restraining his emotion, “But not at any cost.”

Not if it meant giving up Velaris. Not if it meant losing my family.

Helion was very still for a long time. 

“I shall send along your response,” He agreed, “Though I can’t help but observing, Rhysand… those that are… missing among the Night Court’s ranks.”

Helion turned those knowing eyes onto Rhys, who glared back, as if daring him.

“Where is your lovely cousin and her attractive Illyrian friend?” He murmured, “Or the sulking one with the shadows.”

Rhysand’s eyes flared.

“Have care of your tone, Helion,” He almost growled, “I may be without my power, but that does not mean I could not end you. Painfully.”

Helion merely smirked.

“Do not mistake my words for threats,” He deflected smoothly, “Only know… that I, too, have people I need to protect. People for whose safety I would do nearly anything.”

Rhysand couldn’t fail to notice the way he refused to look over towards the gathering of Autumn-Court royalty, where Beron stood with glaring eyes and hunched shoulders, his wife at his side.

“You may not seek friends, but in this we may at least be allies. Where our… interests … align.”

“ Your interests?” Rhysand questioned, “Not your Uncle’s?” 

Helion’s face was careful for a moment.

“In many cases they are one and the same,” He murmured, “But in some… they diverge.”

Helion forced his eyes away and gazed at the dancing crowd. They were silent for a moment.

“I like you, Rhysand. I trust you.”

He sipped his wine.

“Trust is a strong word,” Rhysand returned.

“Don’t mistake me—you’re a slippery one, and unpredictable. And you’d just as soon kill me as kiss me, I think.” Helion smirked.

“But I trust… that you will do what you must to survive,” His face became solemn again, glancing back, “And to keep them safe.”

Rhysand remained expressionless as Helion finished:

“You may trust that I will do the same.”

Rhysand was still, but he met Helion’s careful gaze, before the dark-skinned fae wove his way through the crowd and disappeared.

Rhysand’s guard was up, his stomach churning with worry at Helion’s hint—his implication that he knew Mor and Cassian and Azriel had not been among the Night Court that was trapped there Under the Mountain. Helion seemed a decent male, but if he told someone…

Rhysand’s shoulders were hunched, glaring as the sound of screams mixed with laughter echoed from the front of the hall. He could just glimpse the Attor, torturing some poor lesser fae while Amarantha watched, an amused smile on her face.

Rhysand felt his blood boiling, but then her eyes found him in the crowd, and her smile only widened, cruel and knowing. Rhys shifted his feet, and broke her gaze, wishing to disappear again.

He kept replaying Helion’s words in his mind.

People for whose sake I would do nearly anything.

If Helion noticed the absence of his usual right hands, then others might as well. They didn’t know about Velaris, but they had seen Mor and Cassian and Azriel standing by his side. They might remember—-they might start to question. 

Rhysand had to make sure that Amarantha didn’t look too closely at the Night Court—-that she didn’t question who was among the dead or the living. He had to distract her. He had to let her think she was winning. That she had him.

He had had plenty of time to think about it—-too long, sitting in that cell with Tamlin. And he’d been dragged inexorably to the same terrible conclusion: that he had only one thing Amarantha might want. One thing of value to her. One piece of leverage. Tamlin’s words had been the start of it, the question Rhysand had asked:

And will you? Take her to bed?

Tamlin had been revolted by the idea, rightfully so. But Rhysand had thought him a fool, to not see what an opportunity that was. Amarantha’s obsession with Tamlin was something he could exploit, but the High Lord of Spring was too proud to see it. 

Rhysand, however, could not afford to be proud. He had to be cunning. He had to protect Velaris at all costs. And so, the next time he caught Amarantha glancing at him from her throne dais, he forced himself not to look away. He met her gaze with a practiced, dark look—-a look that was fueled by anger but tinged with lust, like he hadn’t quite decided whether to kill her or ravish her.

Amarantha’s lip quirked just a little, and Rhysand turned away.

Without looking back to see if she was watching, Rhysand strolled up casually to a group of Hybern fae who were making merry, and held out his hand to the most stunning of the females among them.

“A dance,” He said, not a question. 

The female looked him up and down with a seductive smirk, no doubt pleased that a High Lord had taken notice of her of all people. She lifted her dainty hand and allowed Rhysand to lead her away from her murmuring, smirking companions.

As the off-kilter music swung into a new, chilling tone, Rhysand pulled the female close to him, placing his hand low on her back, and sweeping her into the crowd of dancers in a sensual swirl. With every turn, he watched Amarantha, his black eyes landing on her like a spell, like he was drawing her to himself, even as he pressed his body against the other female.

He knew it was working when Amarantha’s grip tightened on the arm of her throne, and her expression grew sour. He knew he had her completely when he leaned the female into a low dip and licked his tongue up her exposed neck, his hand sliding to her backside. Amarantha’s furious glint had a hunger to it, and as the music came to a halt, Rhysand stilled, his heart beating hard in his ribs, the Hybern female pressed against him with one leg wrapped around his hip, his hand holding her bare skin.

He slid her down without breaking eye contact, as if he had forgotten Amarantha was even in the room. 

Then he leaned into the female’s ear and whispered,

“Just a taste.”

He felt gooseflesh prickle down her neck, and she ran a finger along his lips, her gaze hooded and lustful. He allowed the touch, hating it, but knowing it would serve his purpose.

“Until next time, then,” She murmured, and slid out of his grasp.

He watched her go purposefully, and when he turned back, Amarantha was still watching him.

She sent for him less than five minutes later.

Rhysand weaved through the crowd of faeries, pushing to the space in front of the throne just as a lesser fae—bloodied and ragged—-was being dragged away from it. There was a dark stain on the floor.

“Pretty Rhysand,” Amarantha crooned mockingly, “You’re looking much better.”

Rhysand inclined his head in a deferent expression. Every instinct was shouting at him to lunge, to throw his power out and strangle her, to spit and curse and rail. But he quashed the rage, and turned it into determination.

Whatever it takes. Keep them safe.

“Many thanks for the clothes, though I will say grey isn’t quite my color,” Rhysand said lazily, appraising the suit she’d given him.

He saw Nostrus out of the corner of his eye, giving him a disdainful look for his preening.

Let him sneer. He doesn’t know.

“We’ll see something more… suitable… brought to you,” Amarantha agreed, eyeing him up and down, “After all, a Queen’s Lords must look their best, in her court.”

Rhysand gave a slight bow with only a hint of mocking humor. 

“And what do you think, Rhysand?” Amarantha gestured to the hall around them, the eye on her hand roaming, “Of my court? I fashioned it after yours, you know. Such a pretty, wicked place you’ve made there. Just like you.”

Rhysand gave her a disdainful look that would rile her up, and glanced lazily at the ceiling, his hands in his pockets.

He shrugged.

“A passable imitation, my lady.”

Amarantha’s nostrils flared, but that hungry look didn’t disappear from her eyes.

“My Queen ,” She corrected icily, “The proper way to address your Monarch, Rhysand, is Your Majesty, or My Queen. ”

Her eyes flicked to the Attor.

“Or do you need more lessons in manners?” She questioned.

Rhysand kept his glare on her, but he bowed so low at the waist that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything but mockery.

“Apologies… my queen. ”

He heard Nostrus scoff in disgust.

Amarantha smirked, her fingers flaring.

“Enjoy the evening, pretty Rhysand,” She said, and Rhysand bowed low again, meeting Helion’s glance as he turned, and wondering if the male knew—if he, too, could see the game being played. 

Rhysand returned to his room that evening tightly wound, breathing in through a sharpness in his chest. The room he had been assigned after being dragged up from the dungeons was a decently-sized set of chambers with a bathing room. No windows—nowhere in this accursed place had windows—but dark red drapes adorned only the bed and tapestries hung from the walls. 

It was elegant enough—clearly the cages of the High Lords were to be gilded ones—but it had none of the warmth of Rhysand’s home, none of the comfort of his room in the Townhouse.

No, Rhysand squeezed his eyes shut, There is no Townhouse. It doesn’t exist. They don’t exist. 

He stood in that room for a few long moments, trying to abate his shaking, to steel himself for what he knew was coming.

He was not surprised by the knock on the door, and he took a steadying breath, fixing his cruel mask in place before he answered it to a nervous-looking lesser fae who held a note out to him.

“S–summons from Her Majesty, Lord Rhysand,” The male squeaked.

Rhysand snatched the paper from his hands and slammed the door.

He did not have to open the note to know what it said.

A summons.

To Amarantha’s chambers.

He closed his eyes and breathed.

Whatever it takes.

***

She was waiting for him. When he arrived, the door opened of its own accord, and her voice said,

“Come in, Rhysand.”

Amarantha’s chambers were large and ornate, disgustingly lavish, with gaudy colors that betrayed an utter lack of taste.

She sat at an equally gaudy dressing table, combing out the tresses of her long red hair, no doubt desiring to appear wild and beautiful. Rhysand was disgusted by her.

“Are you satisfied with your new home?” She crooned, rising smoothly and strolling across the room towards him.

“You’ve seen my court,” He returned, “Do you think anything could live up to it?”

Amarantha smiled.

“So proud,” She murmured, her footsteps slow and even, as she closed the distance between them.

“And yet I could have sworn I saw you bowing before me.”

She began to circle him, a single finger sliding up his arm, over his shoulders, across the back of his neck.

“What is it you want?” Rhysand said, forcing his voice to sound bored. Amarantha came around to his front again.

“Your Majesty,” She corrected.

“What is it you want… Your Majesty ?” He repeated dully.

“Me?” She smirked, “I have everything I want.”

“Then I can be of no service to you.”

She quirked an eyebrow.

“And is that why you’ve come? To be… of service… to your Queen?”

Rhysand kept his expression flat and unfeeling.

Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.

“I came because you summoned me,” He returned, emotionless.

Amarantha smiled even bigger.

“I always heard about that silver tongue of yours, so clever, so witty,” She said, closing the distance between them, forcing him to take small steps back. He let her push him back, let her advance while he retreated, until his back was against the wall.

“What else can that tongue do?” She traced her finger down his chest, eyes on his lips, as he allowed a flare of his anger to slip through—anger that he knew she would interpret as desire.

Amarantha leaned towards his neck, pressing her own tongue against his skin, the heat of her body close. He fought hard not to tremble.

“Tell me to stop,” She whispered. 

He remained silent,  staring at the opposite wall as her free hand slid under his shirt.

“Tell me to stop,” She demanded, her nails digging into his skin sharply.

Rhysand inhaled with a hiss.

“Stop,” He gritted out.

“Hmmm.” She hummed with a smile against his skin. 

She didn’t stop.

“You hate me, Rhysand, don’t you?” She murmured as he felt the stones pressing into his back, her hands roaming everywhere.

Whatever it takes.

“Yes.”

“And you’d kill me if you could?” She breathed, licking his ear.

“Yes,” He gritted out, and he felt her smile.

“You see, that’s why I like you,” She praised, her hand caressing his neck, “You know how to play the game.”

She brought her lips around to the other side, and Rhys could feel chills that had nothing to do with arousal running down his spine.

Whatever it takes, whatever it takes, whatever it takes…

Then Amarantha drew her head back and placed a possessive hand on his chest, her eyes dark with desire, her lips mere centimeters from his.

“Show me how you can play.”

***

When it was over, she made him stay. Made him lie there with her leg draped over him, as though they were a mated couple sharing a bed together, and not a master and slave. A captor and a prisoner.

He lay staring up at the ceiling, listening to her unbothered breathing, and wondering if he might be able to snap her neck before she realized what he was doing. But she would have cast shields to prevent that sort of thing, and he would only have one chance.

Whatever it takes.

Her hands had been like sandpaper to his skin, everywhere they’d touched he was now painfully aware of. But he forced himself to lie still, to disappear into his mind and hide there—not into memory, though. Memories were too dangerous. 

He was no one and had done nothing before Under the Mountain. He had no friends, no family, no court beyond those who were trapped here with him. He was a blank slate, and whatever Amarantha wanted him to be, he would be, so that she would not look more closely into what was in his mind. 

So that he could protect them.

It began that night, his dreadful dance with Amarantha, and though he told himself that it was worth it—-that it had to be done and he could endure it—every time he returned to his own chambers he was a quaking, nauseated mess. 

He had made sure with what little power he had remaining to him that she had been utterly satisfied, and would come back for more. It was part of his plan: she had to keep wanting him. But it made him ill to think of it.

Rumors began to spread, people began to notice—Amarantha wasn’t shy about calling him, ‘pretty Rhysand’ and petting him in public. She meant to humiliate him, privately and openly, and she did. 

He began to receive disdainful glares from his fellow prisoners, looks of disgust when she would beckon him to stand by her throne, or when he bowed to her. But they didn’t know; they didn’t know what he was protecting, what was at stake.

His one comfort in those first days was the presence of his two handmaidens, friends who had served in his household since he was a young man—Nuala and Cerridwen. They showed themselves that first morning after Amarantha, materializing in his chambers with a bow, and he could have cried with relief to see them.

“We have been hiding, sir,” Nuala explained with a curtsy, “Waiting until you were alone, to approach. We hope you did not feel that we had deserted you.”

“No,” Rhysand assured, embracing both the female wraiths, “No, I am only glad you’re safe, and sorry you are trapped here. Stay in the shadows. Stay hidden; don’t let her notice you.”

They both nodded—that was where they excelled.

“We are here for you,” Cerridwen said, “Whatever you need, lord.”

Rhysand took a breath, and nodded tightly. He couldn’t tell them his ruse, what he’d done—he’d shut Velaris out of their minds, and erased all memory of it. They would know what he did with Amarantha, but they couldn’t know why, and that made him sorrowful. They were faithful and honorable, though, and it brought him comfort to have at least one ally.

The others quickly turned against Rhysand, when they started to see that he had become a favorite to their captor, when they got an inkling of just exactly how he had ingratiated himself to her. 

So be it. 

Helion said nothing to him after that first night, but he did not look on so disdainfully as the others, as if he could perhaps see the careful, dangerous game that Rhysand was playing. The male did not speak a word of Rhysand’s missing friends, and in his silence alone he earned Rhysand’s respect. 

The same could not be said for Tamlin, who glared at him in the halls whenever they passed, as if he had been betrayed by Rhysand’s actions, as if their time in a cell together had somehow made them allies, and Rhysand’s trysts with Amarantha were some sort of personal treachery against him. He was clearly disgusted.

Young, proud fool, Rhysand thought.

But he couldn’t blame Tamlin. He was disgusted with himself, too.

The first weeks Under the Mountain were tumultuous and horrifying, with executions and tortures occurring every night, many fae trying to escape or rebel, and being brought to their knees, publicly strung up as an example.

Amarantha’s moods would swing from lazily unconcerned to furious, and Rhysand would subsequently receive whatever treatment she wished to mete out when she summoned him to her chambers.

Sometimes she desired soft touches and gentle love making, and for Rhysand to whisper praises in her ears like she was a goddess that he worshiped. Sometimes she wanted him to be angry with her—rough and demanding, choking her and degrading her, and though he might’ve gotten some satisfaction out of taking his fury out on her, that idea was ruined by the knowledge that she enjoyed it. She enjoyed pain, and she projected that enjoyment on to him—thinking he must be as perverse as her. 

Whatever it takes.

He would let her believe what she wanted. Do what she wanted.

Most of the time what she wanted was to be in control; to prove to him that he was helpless and she had all the power. And the more he resisted, the more excited she got. It was the same in the throne room, where she laughed at the torture she inflicted and grinned with every scream. 

Rhysand began to separate himself from his mind when he entered her chambers, to disappear into a sort of in-between state where he was not fully aware of himself, to endure her in a gray fog until it was over. But she didn’t like that—she wanted him to be awake and feeling.

She would tie him up, or cut him, or choke him, or hit him, and then force him to beg for reprieve. She wanted to hear him beg just for the joy of denying him. But if he refused to play along, if he resisted and did not beg, this only increased her delight. It was impossible to win.

It didn’t end when he left her chambers, either, she liked to control him at all times. She had taken to dictating what he was to wear and restricting what he was allowed to eat, commanding him some days not to touch the food laid out at the nightly banquets or seek out meals from the kitchens. He disobeyed often enough, but somehow she always found out, and it made the nights harder.

Of course she knew he was playing a game, knew he’d kill her if he could, but she seemed to be delusional enough to think that he actually enjoyed her, actually desired her, that his male lust overcame his anger at her stealing his power. She seemed to think that his resistance was merely a part of the game they would play together, or a result of his pride as a High Lord. This was exactly where he needed her to be—distracted by him and unaware of his true motives—but it didn’t make it any less excruciating.

Every time he entered that room, he lost, and the longer it went on, the more he began to lose track of the purpose for which he’d stooped so low, the reason behind all this shame and degradation.

Velaris, He would remind himself in the darkest parts of night, when he was in his own chambers alone at last, Mor, Amren, Cassian, Azriel.

Only then would he allow himself to think of them, to hold their faces before his eyes, to think of the Sidra and the rainbow and the sparkling sky over the House of Wind. This was his concession—to allow himself a glimpse of the place he was fighting for. But only when he was alone.

Six months after their captivity had begun, Amarantha decided to allow Tamlin and some of his court to return to the Spring Court and see to their affairs; she allowed the same for Winter and Dawn as well. She and her forces had utterly conquered what resistance was left in Prythian, and brought the remaining rebelling fae to their knees, slaughtering them in droves. It no longer mattered where in the land they were—-they were still her prisoners.

Rhysand was not afforded such a boon, nor could he have taken it, except to return to the Court of Nightmares and linger there in bitter darkness. He couldn’t risk contacting those in Velaris, but there was still a part of him that was resentful towards Tamlin—-that she had seen fit to free him from their underground prison, allow him to see the sun, to feel the grass, to roam the woods. 

“Jealous dear Rhysand?” Amarantha murmured to him one night when he’d mentioned it in passing. He hated talking to her—would’ve preferred to perform his duties in silence and be done with it—-but he needed to have her ear, to gauge what was going on, and listen for signs that she was growing suspicious. Already he’d been able to warn Nostrus of an impending raid on Summer Court’s private rooms, and to talk Kallias out of meeting with a traitorous High Fae.

“Why would I ever be jealous of Tamlin?” Rhysand responded dully. 

He was lying flat in her bed while she straddled him, leaning over him and planting kisses on his chest and neck. Her weight was suffocating.

Amarantha’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“You don’t think I know what lies between the two of you?” She questioned, running a finger down his throat, her red hair a cascading frame around her bare shoulders.

“He is of no concern to me,” Rhysand returned in a practiced, flat tone.

She only smiled larger.

“Certainly,” She agreed, her tone condescending.

“I was under the impression that you desired to have Tamlin for your own,” Rhysand countered as she kept touching him, “Why send him away, then?”

“As a sign of good will, of course,” Amarantha returned playfully, “Sometimes the gentle approach is the best one.”

Rhysand could’ve laughed at the utter irony of her saying such a thing.

“If you want him, why not just take him?” Rhysand put in, “He’s powerless before you.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt bad for suggesting it, for suggesting that Amarantha should subject Tamlin to the same degradation he was enduring, but his bitterness towards Tamlin quieted most of that thought. Untouched. Unwounded. He’d gotten off easy. Proud, young fool.

“Of course he is,” Amarantha agreed, pleased by the reminder, “But I don’t wish Tamlin as just a bed mate—he is a prize worth waiting for. My consort. And I can be patient.”

She tilted her head; Rhysand’s mouth was a thin line.

“Now you really are jealous,” She said gleefully.

“I care not what you wish of Tamlin.”

“Now don’t be sour, dear Rhysand,” She tutted, leaning over him again, resuming her kissing, “You have your uses. But Tamlin is a male of quality. Bred for ruling, not rutting. He is a male, and you are…”

She considered.

“...a toy.”

She flicked his nose, smirking as she pressed her chest close to him, letting the ends of her hair tickle his skin.

“But don’t worry, I treat my playthings nicely, if they behave,” She whispered in his ear, grinding her hips against him in a way that was supposed to make him excited. It didn’t.

“Maybe when darling Tamlin becomes my consort, we’ll let you play with us sometimes,” She promised huskily, “It will be fun—the two of you fighting over me.”

Rhysand nearly threw up in his mouth, as she straightened up, pressing her hands against his chest and digging her nails into his skin.

“Now, plaything,” She commanded, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “Make me happy, and perhaps I’ll let you eat tomorrow.”

Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

Rhysand’s nightmares were worse, after visiting the Hewn City. It was like his mind had seen the place after which Amarantha had fashioned her court, and had decided that it was still stuck there, Under the Mountain.

They were vivid---like he was living there again, like the endless days of darkness had never ended. A replay of every horror he'd witnessed at Amarantha's hand, with himself as the victim.

He dreamed that it was him in the pit with the Middengard Wyrm, not Feyre. He dreamed that he was racing down the narrow tunnels, frantically snatching at shards of bone—anything to use as a weapon. His stone heart was beating frantically as he slipped in the mud and dirt, aware of the leering eyes that stared down at him from rows and rows of spectating seats.

When he looked up, though, it was not a crowd of High Fae that were watching him—-just one, sitting on her throne, grinning as the Wyrm howled and charged towards him. Screaming his fury, Rhysand forgot about the Wyrm, and he slammed the bone shards into the wall, using them as a ladder to climb his way out. 

Up into the stands he climbed, even as her laughter rang out around the empty room. He charged towards her furiously and tackled her from the throne, slamming them both into hard concrete. 

His mind was screaming.

Kill her kill her kill her.

But Amarantha was just laughing, even as his shadows surrounded them, blackening out the arena, even as his hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed.

Kill her kill her—kill her so she can’t touch you. Kill her so she can’t hurt Feyre. Kill her or she’ll come back, she’ll come back and she’ll find you.

He squeezed around her neck, even as her malicious eyes met him straight on, her red hair splayed out behind her, her mouth stuck in a wide, malicious grin. And he knew… he could never hurt her, never get her to go away. She would never be dead. 

He squeezed harder.

Then he felt something sharp and painful on his skull—the shard of a bone, and Amarantha’s voice now behind him,

“Let go,” She hissed, her breath sickly sweet. She was behind him, but she was also in front of him.

He blinked down at the Amarantha whose face was now turning blue, contorted in terror.

“Rhys, please…” She croaked.

The thing stabbing into the side of his head was like a fiery pain.

“Let go!” Amarantha demanded behind him, but his hands were still on her neck. It was a trick, a ruse, it had to be. The noise in his head was overwhelming.

Kill her kill her kill her.

“Rhys, stop it!” A voice bellowed, the pain in his head growing sharp.

He blinked, and Amarantha’s hair turned a golden shade of blonde, she struggled beneath him, and he felt it around him—the warmth of sheets, not the cold stone of the arena. 

He blinked again, and the air was black from the swirling of his power, and he could hear Azriel’s shadows whispering urgently, fighting through that blackness, pressing into his head like a spike.

Let go, let go, let go….

He blinked a third time, and suddenly it was Mor’s face staring up at him in terror, Mor’s neck that his hands gripped, Mor’s body that he straddled and tried to strangle.

He let out a cry of terror and released, being yanked back suddenly by Cassian’s arm around his neck, and the pain from Azriel’s shadows trying to force him out of his fog.

“Stop! Stop fighting, Rhys, you’re home, it’s us—” Cassian was yelling, as Rhys returned to himself, and realized where he was, and what he’d done.

“Mor…” He gasped, as Mor coughed and rolled over, wheezing and crawling away.

“Mor, I’m sorry I d–I didn’t—I t—”

Cassian released him and Rhysand reached for Mor, but she recoiled towards Azriel, her whole body shaking.

“I’m sorry—” He stammered, his heart hammering as the images from his mind flickered into the background.

Mor. It was Mor, he was here in his room in the House of Wind, he had attacked her, he had hurt her…

“Oh gods,” Rhysand groaned, as Azriel checked Morrigan’s bruising neck, his fingers touching gently as one of his shadows skittered towards the door, no doubt to find Madja.

There was a long moment of nothing, where Mor wheezed and Rhysand gasped for air, the world settling back into place.

“I’m sorry,” He groaned again, “It was—I was it was a dream—”

He was pulling at his hair, his heart feeling like it would pound out of his chest.

“Can you stand up?” Azriel asked Mor softly, the both of them ignoring Rhys, whose bare chest was sheened with sweat. Mor nodded silently, and rose to shaking feet with Azriel’s arms helping her up. 

“Mor…” Rhysand croaked, as Azriel led her away, shooting back a warning look, as they shuffled through the open bedroom door to the hallway.

“I didn’t mean to, Cass, it was an accident, it was a dream—”

“—I know,” Cassian returned, his own voice heavy as he slid off the bed, not meeting Rhys’ gaze.

“She was trying to wake you up,” He murmured, standing.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys said again, already feeling the crushing guilt of what he’d done to her, to his cousin, what he might’ve done, if they hadn’t stopped him.

“You gonna be alright?” Cassian said, still breathless. Rhys knew he wanted to follow them—follow Mor, make sure she was okay.

Rhys couldn’t speak, he just nodded, kneeling amid the sweat-drenched, disheveled sheets, and still trying to blink away the image of Amarantha’s malicious eyes.

When Cassian left, Rhys crumbled in on himself, his arms clutched around his torso, leaning over until his forehead touched the bed. He slammed his fist against the mattress angrily, his stomach clenching with the force of tears.

You hurt her, you hurt her, you fucking monster.

Rhysand lashed his hand out and cast a ward around his room, then he screamed, and tore at the sheets, his hands sprouting claws as he shredded his bed, tearing down the drapes and flipping over the mattress.

Only when he’d turned his bedroom into splinters and stood among the wreckage heaving for breath did he stop, caught in the square of moonlight, shaking.

Never again. He would never let it happen again.

***

Rhysand moved to the Townhouse the next morning.

Mor wasn’t at breakfast, and Rhys didn’t touch a bite of food. But when he dully announced it to the others, Cass was the only one to protest.

“You don’t have to do that, Rhys,” He assured, “We know you didn’t mean to, she knows it was an accident.”

“I’ve already moved my things.”

Though there wasn’t very much to move.

Azriel and Amren didn’t say anything. Perhaps they agreed—he was a monster and should be kept away.

When he entered the silence of the townhouse, he had to take a few deep breaths to calm the hammering in his heart. It smelled so familiar—smelled of Solstices from centuries past, of laughter and tears and wounds and memories. And he hated the silence, how it felt empty.

He forced his feet to move, though, and returned to his old room, dusting it off by hand and trying to forget the feeling of Mor’s neck under his hands, the way she’d flinched away from him when he tried to reach out.

He avoided his family all that day, but when Cass and Azriel came to the door with dinner and wine, he couldn’t prevent them from barging in. He didn’t eat any of the food they laid out, but he drank enough to dull the frantic shouting in his head.

“Look, we both know it,” Cass said when the fire had burned low and the three of them were sufficiently buzzed.

“We know nightmares, and—and that loss of control. You don’t have to punish yourself, Mor understands—”

“—it doesn’t matter if she understands,” Rhys muttered, “I could’ve killed her. She shouldn’t forgive me.”

“ She knows nightmares too,” Azriel murmured, and they were silent.

“You just need to get some of that tension out,” Cassian reasoned, “Maybe go flying with us after training tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to go flying,” Rhys said dully, staring at the dying embers.

He felt his brothers exchange a look.

There was quiet again for a beat before Cassian spoke.

“...you know, Rhys, we… we noticed that you haven’t really been showing your wings at all, really.”

Cassian shifted, his own wings fluttering a bit in the way they did when he was nervous.

“And we were just wondering if maybe you—you were having trouble. I know the way you summon them is different—”

“—I’m fine, I just don’t… feel like flying.”

“You never hide your wings when you’re in Velaris,” Cassian pleaded, looking to Azriel for support, “But since you’ve been back, I mean… I haven’t seen them once. And you keep winnowing out from the balcony instead of flying, so we thought maybe you needed help getting back into sh—”

“I just don’t feel like it, Cass,” Rhys interrupted, his heart beating too quickly, “Okay? I’m perfectly fine, I can fly, I just don’t want to.”

Not safe. It’s not safe. If she sees your wings she’ll take them. She’ll shred them apart.

“You’ve flown since you got out?” Azriel questioned flatly.

“Yes,” Rhysand lied, “I flew all the way home, alright? I fucking… I’m just tired.”

His brothers were silent again, and he knew they were calculating, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth, trying to decide how far they could push him.

“Look, just… if you need help, you can let us know,” Cassian offered. “I know after the Rite it took me a few months to feel back to my best in the sky—”

“—I said I’m fine,” Rhys snapped, his head pounding from the wine. He didn’t want to be having this conversation, didn’t want his brothers to be sharing looks and fretting over him. Why the fuck were they even here? They should be with Mor—comforting Mor, making her feel better, not worrying about his wings. 

“I’m tired, I’m going to bed,” He muttered, rising from the couch and shuffling for the stairs, ignoring the eyes of his brothers on his back. Where his wings should’ve been.

***

His nightmares didn’t stop when he moved into the Townhouse, but at least he knew he couldn’t hurt anyone. At least he would just suffer it alone and get through it. 

His brothers didn’t seem convinced by what he’d said—that he was fine, that he could fly. Cassian started talking about going to Windhaven, to sort things out with the Illyrians, he asked Rhysand if he was ‘ready’ if this would ‘work’, like he knew Rhysand hadn’t, and possibly couldn’t produce wings. He couldn’t go to the Illyrians without his wings. They wouldn’t respect him.

Mor showed up to meetings and Rhys apologized to her again, but she just looked at him, scanning his face like something worried her, and nodded. 

“I know you didn’t mean to do it,” She said, her voice still raspy, the bruises fading. But her eyes were saying something else—something Rhysand couldn’t read. 

It didn’t matter. If she hated him, that was her right; if she hated him for the next century it was no less than he deserved. He sat with his family through dinner at the House of Wind, but just stirred his food around like Amren. He couldn’t eat. He didn’t deserve to eat.

He thought he was doing a good enough job of putting on the mask, of going through the motions and fulfilling his duties and convincing his brothers and Mor and Amren that he was recovering. But two days after the incident with Mor, he dropped onto the balcony of the House of Wind and found them all waiting for him, looking dour. 

At first he had a spike of fear—was there something wrong? Had there been an attack? Word from one of the other courts? From Feyre?

But then he recognized the concerned look on Mor’s face, and he immediately wanted to escape. He couldn’t though—-couldn’t winnow away without heading down the stairs a bit first. 

“What?” He said flatly, sticking close to the edge of the balcony, his guard up.

“We wanted to talk to you, Rhysand, about coming back up to the House.”

Rhys’ eyes flicked between the six of them—Nuala and Cerridwen were there too, hanging towards the back, like they might disappear at the first sign of trouble.

“I’m comfortable where I am.”

“You didn’t have to run away, after what happened, it was a mistake—” Mor began.

“I didn’t run away,” Rhysand insisted, his hands clenched, his eyes down. He hated them staring at him like this—staring like he would shatter in front of them.

Weak. Pathetic. Piece of shit. They can’t trust you, they don’t know…

“Come back up,” Cassian encouraged, “Nuala put the room back together, and we’d feel better having you around—”

“I don’t want to live here, Cassian,” Rhys gritted out, “I want to live at my home.”

“This is your home too,” Mor returned.

“The townhouse .”

“Then I’ll move in with you—” Cass started.

“— alone ,” Rhys almost snarled.

“Is it the flying?” Azriel said, “Because if you’re having trouble flying, we can adjust the ward—”

“It’s not the fucking flying, how many times do I have to tell you,” Rhysand huffed out, his shoulders hunching.

“Then show us you’re fine,” Amren said with her arms crossed, “Go ahead, get your wings out and fly. If you’re ready to go meet the Illyrians, if there’s nothing wrong.”

Rhys glared at her.

“I’m not going to perform for you like a fuckin—”

“You didn’t fly home,” Mor said quietly. 

Rhys blinked.

“You told Az that you flew home,” She repeated, “But you winnowed to the Moonstone Palace, you didn’t—you weren’t flying. Your wings weren’t out.”

“B–because I… got tired, I flew home and then I winnowed—”

“Lying,” Amren said, matter-of-factly.

Rhysand almost growled at her.

“We’re not trying to attack you Rhys,” Mor said, “We’re just worried.”

“And if we’re going to deal with the Illyrians, then you have to be ready. We can’t go in there unless you—-”

“I told you I’m fine, ” Rhysand shouted, exasperated, “I can go to Windhaven, I can deal with the Illyrians, I can fly if I want to, I just don’t fucking feel like—-”

Before Rhysand knew what was happening, Amren had marched forward on her short legs, shoved him in the chest, and kicked a leg out from under him.

In a split second Rhysand lost his balance, tripped over the balcony railing, and began to fall.

***

Falling.

His heart was up in his throat as wind howled past his ears and he flailed, his scream lost in the rush of air. Rhys twisted and spun, out of control, unable to stop the plummet. 

Wings, wings, He thought through his panic, Wings, you have to fly—fly—

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself back into control, trying to tap into his power to access the wings that he’d grown for himself. He was losing his breath, his heart slammed so hard he could feel it in his ribs, the air was silent and whistling and Velaris was growing closer and closer.

Nothing happened, his stomach did flips and his arms flailed.

He was falling. He was falling. He couldn’t fly. He was going to die. Oh gods.

Rhys curled his arms in on himself, as if to brace for the impact, but just then he saw something out of the corner of his eye, no more than a shadow. 

Suddenly wings swooped in below him, and Cassian was tackling him out of the sky, stopping his freefall as they pulled up short, several hundred feet above Velaris. 

Rhysand felt his stomach drop again as the momentum stopped, and Cassian began to rise back through the air. He didn’t open his eyes until he felt the balcony come up underneath them, and Cassian stumbled to a stop, their feet touching down.

As soon as Cassian released him, Rhys crumpled to the floor, his legs giving out. He landed on all fours and retched, dry-heaving where there was nothing to vomit up.

“What the Cauldron was that?!” Cassian demanded, his wings flaring as he turned to Amren. 

Rhys’ head was still spinning, still in freefall.

“You trying to bloody kill him!?” Cassian heaved.

Amren’s arms were crossed and she remained impassive, Mor seemed shaken but quiet, and Azriel didn’t move.

“Proving a point,” Amren said flatly.

“By throwing him off the fucking balcony?!”

“Something that would not have been a problem if he could fly, like he said he could,” The female retorted, “I told you: when he needed a push, I’d give him a push.”

“You d—” Cassian was seething, like he would strangle her, and Mor knelt in front of Rhys, placing a calming hand on his shoulders. But Azriel shifted, close to Amren, like he would put himself in between the two. Like he was on her side.

“As your second, Rhysand, I could not allow you to go to Windhaven unprepared,” Amren pronounced.

Rhysand finally got enough breath in his lungs to glare up at her, rage now replacing the utter terror of his freefall.

“How fucking dare you,” He snarled at Amren, his fists clenching as waves of black power seeped out beneath his feet. 

“I will not apologize for demanding the truth,” The shorter woman said calmly. 

Rhys was seeing red, his heart pounding with fury at what she had done—as if she knew anything, as if she was better than him, as if she could just play games with him and get away with it.

“I AM YOUR HIGH LORD,” Rhysand shouted at her face, barely restraining the shadows that wanted to strangle her.

“Rhys…” Mor’s voice warned, like she could see how close he was to exploding.

“And you chose me to be your right hand,” Amren returned, utterly unbothered by how close his face was, how his power snapped and curled around her, “As your right hand, I cannot allow you to go into danger without the skills to protect yourself.”

“Throwing him off the balcony isn’t the way—”

“You would rather I let him go?” Amren demanded, not even bothering to look at Rhys, like his threatening power was nothing to her, “Rather I send him into the fray, into war bands of rebel Illyrians without facing the fact that he can’t fly ?”

Amren’s eyes were blazing.

“Fine, let them drop him from the sky. Let your High Lord die because, in his panic, he forgets that he can produce wings or winnow himself to safety!”

Amren gestured to the empty space beside them, the plummet that Rhys had taken, as if that was all the evidence she needed. Cassian opened and closed his mouth, and Rhys felt himself deflating, his fury shriveling up into something small and shameful.

He’d forgotten to fucking winnow. Like an idiot, he’d flailed, helpless in the sky, resigning himself to death because he couldn’t summon his damn wings, and even then he could’ve winnowed himself to safety, but no.

Amren was right.

Fuck.

She was right.

He was broken.

Rhys stalked past her without saying anything.

“Rhys—” Cassian started, but he slammed up a wall of air between them, preventing anyone from following, as he stormed down the hall towards the ten thousand steps.

When he reached the top of the spiral, he began to run.

***

For two days he saw no one.

He warded the door to the Townhouse and crawled into his bed and stayed there, curtains drawn, shadows surrounding him, barely getting up to relieve himself.

Broken. Pathetic. Monster. You hurt her. They were better off without you. Can’t even rule your own soldiers. Can’t even fly. You deserved it. Piece of shit. They don’t need you. Throw yourself off the balcony next time and save them the trouble.

He wasn’t aware of how much time was passing, as he refused to acknowledge the sun. He didn’t eat, and let the hungry gnaw of his stomach sit there with him as it had so often Under the Mountain—-because he didn’t deserve to eat. Because he’d done wrong and had to be punished.

There was the smallest part of himself that knew this was wrong, knew he wasn’t thinking quite straight, that if Mor or Cassian or any of them had been in his shoes, he would’ve fought for them to get better, not condemned them. But he couldn’t look in the mirror without seeing the blood on his hands, and the brokenness in his eyes. 

Better to exist in this hollow nothingness than to let himself feel the things that were clawing at him from the dark, the emotions that threatened to drown him. Somewhere within himself, he knew that he would have to dive through those feelings to get out on the other side, that he would have to face it eventually. But he didn’t have the courage.

Coward.

He might’ve stayed there until Winter Solstice, but two days after the balcony incident, his shadows were disturbed by Mor, who had apparently climbed in through the back window by the garden trellis. He could feel her outside in the hallway, pressings against the darkness.

“Rhys?” Her voice echoed through the fog of his thoughts, and the sound of her knocking.

He lay there, hoping it would go away, hoping she would forget about him and let him rot.

“Rhys, I’d like you to answer me please,” She said.

And Rhys felt a tug of guilt—she sounded hurt, he was hurting her again. He couldn’t ignore her.

“Rhys I’d like to talk to you.”

It took him a few more agonizing seconds to pull himself into a sitting position, and drag his feet towards the door.

When he pulled it open a crack he was met by Mor’s pale face, and he didn’t miss the slight widening of her eyes at the sight of him. He must’ve looked awful. Smelled awful too.

“Can I come in?” Mor asked quietly.

No, no, no, leave me alone, don’t be nice, don’t look at me like that. Rhys’ thoughts were a wall against her, but he knew he had to do whatever she asked—he owed her, after all. He’d hurt her.

So he let go of the door and shuffled back into the room, sitting on the bench at the end of his bed, feeling exhausted just from the two dozen steps he’d taken.

Mor joined him slowly, sitting herself on the armchair that still had dust on it, and looking haggard. They sat in silence, in the gray half-light, for a while, while Mor’s eyes roamed, her face more and more beleaguered by the second.

She can tell you’re a fucking mess, she can see how broken you are, you’re hurting her, you’re scaring her.

“Amren says she’s sorry,” Mor started, and Rhys would have felt surprised if he could feel anything. 

“Well…” Mor twisted her lips, “Not exactly. She said ‘I suppose I could’ve tried alternative methods before going to the extreme’.”

Mor shrugged.

“So I guess for her that means she’s sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rhys picked at a loose thread on his shirt. He’d deserved it. Fucking pathetic High Lord who couldn’t even fly.

“Have you been getting any sleep?” Mor asked quietly, Rhys just looked at her flatly. 

She nodded.

“Have you been talking to—to the girl? To Feyre? Reaching out to her?”

“No,” Rhysand said sharply, looking up in question, “W—of course not, I wouldn’t do that.”

Mor’s brows knit.

“Why not?”

“B–because–she doesn’t want to… she hates me. I hurt her.”

Mor’s face didn’t change. 

But she was silent for a long time.

“Rhys,” She said, almost a sigh, “We’ve been trying to give you your space. Time to… to open up, to talk…”

Mor shifted.

“But you won’t talk to me, and you won’t to talk to Cass, and you’re not talking to this Feyre girl and…”

She turned her palms up.

“I wish we could give you time,” She said, her voice shaking, “I wish we had the time to let you… grieve, to let you wait until you’re ready. But… war is coming. And we need you.”

Broken, pathetic piece of shit. They need their High Lord, they need a General, a Leader, not you.

Mor’s hand was suddenly touching his.

“We need Rhys,” She murmured, “And I’m sorry… but you have to start talking to someone . Maybe… Clotho, maybe go to the library and—”

“What? No,” Rhysand recoiled, “That’s not—I can’t go there. That place is for them— 

“You know they would welcome you.”

“I don’t need to talk to someone, I just need to get my fucking wings to work,” Rhysand growled, standing up sharply, with clenched fists.

He felt on guard, surrounded, attacked. He wanted Mor to leave, but he knew he deserved this. He deserved her to be angry, to hate him, just like Feyre did.

“Rhys,” Mor stood up as well, and this time her voice was firm and determined, like Amren’s.

“We can’t let you go on like this.”

“I’m fine—”

“Nuala said you haven’t been eating,” Mor cut in, her chin lifted sternly.

Rhysand froze.

“She said you haven’t touched the food they’ve been setting outside. And you stopped eating dinner after…” She swallowed, and gestured vaguely to her throat, where the bruises from his hands were just fading.

Rhys couldn’t look at her.

“Are you punishing yourself because of what happened?” She asked.

He was silent, staring at the crack between the curtains, wishing this conversation were over.

“Why haven’t you been eat—”

“—I’m just not hungry,” Rhysand said, “I just don’t–h–have an appetite. Okay?”

Mor’s lips pinched, and he could see that she didn’t believe it. 

Liar. Pathetic. Whore.

“Are you sorry for hurting me?” Her voice said, and Rhys whirled around.

“Y–of course ,” He said, horrified that she would even question that.

Mor nodded, and she was holding her shoulders tight, 

“Alright. So if you’re sorry…” Mor shifted.

“If you really want to make it up to me, then you’ll come to breakfast tomorrow and you’ll actually eat this time. And then you’ll go to Azriel and you’ll let him help you with your wings.” 

Mor sniffed. Silence, again, and Rhys wanted to scream at her but he couldn't even speak.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, Rhys, and I forgive you. But you’re hurting me now, by shutting me out, by hurting yourself .” 

Rhys shook his head, his face hot, his breath starting to clench again, like the panic was returning, like he was in freefall.

Mor took his hand, while Rhys felt like he wanted to disappear into his own shadows.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” She whispered urgently, “But you have to talk to someone.”

She brushed back his hair and held his face firmly, a determined spark in her eyes.

“We love you. And we can’t lose you again. I… won’t lose you again.”

Chapter Text

49 YEARS AGO

Rhysand didn’t know what the cauldron Tamlin was playing at, but the moment he saw that little red-haired Autumn court transplant walking into Amarantha’s throne room, he knew it wouldn’t end well.

Lucien—that was his name, Rhys had forgotten—Lucien had apparently been sent to negotiate on the Spring Court’s behalf. As if they had any leverage. As if there were anything to negotiate.

Once again, Tamlin had convinced himself that he could reason with Amarantha, that stripping him of his power, turning his heart to stone, and tormenting his people wasn’t enough evidence of her utter insanity.

Rhysand was standing behind Amarantha’s throne with his hands clasped behind his back, a position he had now taken up with regularity. Always on the left, always behind her, always a step down from her dais. He was the snarling dog that she held on a leash, used to threaten her enemies.

Today, that enemy was Lucien Vanserra—-disgraced youngest son of the High Lord of Autumn, who’d run away to the safety of Tamlin’s land. In thanks, apparently, Tamlin had decided to send him here—the wolf’s den—sacrificing his emissary like a prized hog on Calanmai. 

Young, proud, fool.

Rhysand hoped that the young male just might be able to get away unscathed if he managed to handle things well; he seemed witty enough, and had a good head on his shoulders. “Entertaining” was just about the best thing you could be when it came to pleasing Amarantha. And she seemed intrigued by young Lucien and his relationship with the male that she sought so keenly after.

But Rhys had forgotten to calculate in Lucien’s other relationships—mainly his heritage from Autumn Court, and the fiery temper that came with it.

When Amarantha laughed at his carefully-crafted offer of a truce, and mocked his past and Tamlin’s lack of power, the young male snapped.

Go back to the shit-hole you crawled out of, witch.

The moment the words left his mouth, Rhysand knew it was over. He closed his eyes, the only sign of regret for the fate that the young emissary had brought upon himself. 

Autumn Court fire. Young, proud fool.

There was dead silence in the throne room, except for the smallest of gasps from the High Lady of Autumn—the emissary’s mother, Lady Calthea. Likely she knew her son had just signed his death warrant.

Amarantha’s hand stilled on her throne and Jurian’s eye swiveled towards the red-haired male, who spat at the base of the dais, as if to seal his fate.

“Cauldron curse you.” 

Lucien had just turned his back to storm out of the room, when Amarantha pointed at him, and his back arched as he crumpled forward with a strangled moan. 

“No!” Lady Calthea exclaimed, and her eldest son gripped her arm. Amarantha snapped her fingers in command, and the Attor stalked towards Lucien’s prone form, a wicked grin on his face as he pulled a short whip from his back.

“I do not appreciate being spoken to in such a manner in my own court,” The red-haired female intoned, and the Attor brought the whip down on Lucien, cutting open his back and side. Lucien shouted through gritted teeth, restrained by Amarantha’s magic as the Attor landed another blow and drew more blood.

“No!” Lady Calthea begged, as the Attor kicked Lucien in the ribs and landed yet another slash, tearing open the flesh again. 

Amarantha waved her hand lazily, freeing the restraint of the magic, and immediately Lucien tried to scramble away, but The Attor grabbed at his arm, and raked his claws down it as he dragged Lucien back to the center of the floor. He gripped Lucien’s hair and elicited a cry from the young male, who was thrashing against the faerie’s iron grip, his arms and side already dripping blood.

When the Attor threw Lucien to the floor again, Amarantha rose from her throne in one smooth movement and stalked towards him slowly. Lucien writhed on the floor, as if some invisible force was clamping him down now, still fighting despite the wounds.

Amarantha waved the Attor off, and he landed one more blow across Lucien’s shoulders, before stalking back to the shadows.

Rhysand remained absolutely still, cursing Tamlin in his head, cursing Lucien for being a fool, cursing himself for standing by and doing nothing.

Coward. Weakling. Whore.

This is not your fight. He is not yours to protect.

“I think perhaps,” Amarantha said in a low voice while Lucien strained against his bonds, his face beading with sweat, “Tamlin has begun to take my generosity for granted, since I have allowed him to live abroad.”

She stepped over the Autumn court runt, one foot on either side of him, and then sank low so she was almost straddling him.

“Or perhaps I have not made myself clear,” She murmured, leaning closer and closer while Lucien struggled. 

She gripped his face.

“I do not negotiate with my subjects ,” She hissed in Lucien’s ear, her talons digging into his cheeks. Lucien grunted, his legs thrashing uselessly, spreading smears of blood onto the floor. 

“But since the Spring Court seems to need their eyes opened to their new reality ,” Amarantha growled, “I will ask you, Lucien, to bring dear Tamlin a message.”

A beat of utter stillness.

And then she struck.

It was so sudden and so revolting, Rhysand heard Lucien’s shrieking before he understood what she was doing.

With her claw-like red fingernail, she dug into the male’s eye socket, tantalizingly slow, blood spurting as Lucien screamed and writhed under her. His hands shoved uselessly against her as she laughed.

“Mercy, please!” Lady Calthea begged as Eris tried to drag her from the room.

Amarantha’s neck was becoming splattered with Lucien’s blood, but she grinned, her teeth staining red from the spray as well. The sounds coming from the young male were inhuman—-terrible squeals like a slaughtered pig.

Tamlin’s sacrificial lamb.

Rhys wanted to look away. Every fiber of himself wanted to avert his eyes and close off his ears as Amarantha dug Lucien’s eye out with her finger, laughing all the while. 

But he couldn’t, his eyes were stuck open, glued to the spot. He couldn’t flinch, couldn’t show empathy, couldn’t appear to care for the unfortunate male. The only sign of his own distress was gripping his hands together tightly to keep them from shaking. 

Others didn’t fare so well. 

Even the most hardened of the fae in the room flinched, some looked away, some seemed like they might faint, Helion vomited, and Lady Calthea was a sobbing mess on the floor now, clinging to her eldest son like she would drown.

The dark tiles were drenched with blood, when Amarantha lifted the now-severed eyeball and held it up to the light. In the sudden gasping quiet after Lucien’s screams, Amarantha peered at the eye, observing it like a sparkling jewel.

Lucien was somehow still conscious, his breaths garbled and his limbs shaking uncontrollably. He might’ve been trying to say something, perhaps to beg, but there was blood coming out of his mouth—he’d bitten his tongue as well.

“What do you think Jurian?” Amarantha crooned, holding the eyeball between her fingers, “Shall I make you a friend?”

The eye in her ring shuddered.

Lucien seemed to not have given up all his fight, even in the haze of his pain, because when Amarantha was distracted by his eyeball he swung his free right arm towards her head, trying to land a punch.

Amarantha blocked the feeble blow, and snarled, leaning back in harshly and gripping his blood-soaked chin.

“Do you want me to make you swallow it?” She demanded furiously, pressing the bloody pulp of Lucien’s eye to his face and dragging it down his cheek. forcing him to feel it, if he could still feel anything at all. 

When she touched it to his lips he moaned in distress, thrashing desperately, holding his mouth shut.

Rhys felt sick, and dug his fingernails into his own skin to keep still.

“Or shall I take the other one, do you think?” Amarantha pondered, now tossing the severed eye behind her carelessly. 

Lucien’s feet slid feebly, trying to find some purchase to push the female off him, but Amarantha taunted him, brushing her fingernails along his other eye, soft and chilling.

Lucien was sobbing from the one eye he still had, whimpering pathetically, and he’d soiled himself. But Rhys felt only sympathy, no disdain.

“Perhaps not,” Amarantha mused, tracing her blood-soaked fingers across Lucien’s mouth, “Then how could Tamlin look you in the eye and see what he’s done?”

Amarantha grinned, then sharply dragged her claws down Lucien’s cheek, causing him to shriek again as she dug bloody trenches into his face.

Rhysand had to close his eyes, just for a second, just to center his frantic heart. 

“There,” Amarantha breathed, sitting up, wiping her bloodied hands back down Lucien’s chest, smearing his own blood onto his Spring Court Green tunic.

“Tell Tamlin I say hello.”

Amarantha rose then, out of the pool of blood, and strode back evenly towards her throne, snatching up Lucien’s eye from the floor where it had rolled.

“Rhysand, be a dear and take little Lucien back to his master,” She bid with a lazy flick of her wrist, utterly unconcerned with the horror she’d just inflicted and the blood on her clothes.

Rhysand forced his numb limbs to move.

“And Rhysand?” Amarantha said, her voice forcing him to stop, “Don’t be naughty.”

She smiled wickedly.

“I expect him to make it to darling Tamlin alive . And I expect you not to… wander .”

Amarantha’s expression was amused, but her gaze was dangerous.The message was clear: if he tried to escape into Spring Court, there would be consequences.

Rhysand gave her the most unbothered bow and amused expression that he could manage in that moment. 

He even forced a smirk, as Amarantha sat again.

“My Queen,” He drawled.

Then Rhysand—-the eyes of the whole court on him—strode over to Lucien’s crumpled, deformed body, and grabbed his tunic harshly, dragging him towards the nearest door. 

Lucien groaned in pain, but didn’t resist, he was flickering out of consciousness, no doubt overcome by the pain, especially as Rhysand dragged him across the floor. But Rhys couldn’t be gentle, couldn’t be soft. He gritted his teeth as he passed the other high fae, who all watched in various stages of disgust, glaring at him as he carried Lucien out of the throne room.

“Please…” Calthea murmured through her tear-tracked cheeks, sunken to the floor, reaching a feeble hand towards her son. 

Rhysand didn’t meet her eyes.

***

He found the first empty room he could locate, and dragged Lucien into it.

The moment the door closed behind him, he turned, lowering the male carefully to the floor and kneeling over him. Lucien was now fully unconscious, his face gray with blood loss, and Rhysand wasn’t entirely sure he was going to make it to Spring Court.

“Nuala, Cerridwen,” Rhysand whispered, and in seconds the two had materialized beside him, “I need healing supplies—salves, something for pain, now.”

“Bandages?”

“No,” Rhysand shook his head, lifting up Lucien’s torn shirt to check the damage from the whip, “I can’t bandage him, she’ll find out. We’ll have to do our best without, just keep him from bleeding out before Tamlin finds him.”

Nuala nodded, and disappeared through the wall while Cerridwen knelt next to Rhysand and helped stem the bleeding, whispering prayers that Rhysand didn’t understand. Thankfully she addressed the gaping hole where Lucien’s eye used to be, because Rhysand wasn’t sure he could keep his lunch down if he looked too long at it.

When Cerridwen returned they continued to work, but when Rhysand tried to slip a liquid sleep draught into Lucien’s mouth, the young male twitched and blinked his bleary eye open. Lucien groaned and started trying to push them away, fear tainting his features as he writhed.

“Keep still,” Rhysand demanded, “You’ll bleed more if you don’t stop moving.”

But Lucien either couldn’t hear him or didn’t believe him. When his eye found Rhysand’s face, his wheezing breath became more panicked, and he flailed again. 

“Fucking stop it,” Rhysand gritted through his teeth, trying to hold Lucien’s arm still without exacerbating the wounds that the Attor had caused. If he’d had his power, he could’ve made the young male fall unconscious with a single thought, saved him any of this pain. But Amarantha hadn’t yet seen fit to grant him any seeds of his power back. He was helpless and pathetic.

Thankfully Lucien sank back into unconsciousness after a few weak, fearful twitches. But just when Rhysand had decided that they were ready to move, the door behind them burst open, and he whirled, ready for a fight.

He was met with the blade of a long knife, and staring down at him was a red-haired Autumn court male—Eris Vanserra.

“Get away from him,” Beron’s eldest son growled, and just behind him appeared Helion, his forehead sheened with sweat and his eyes wide with fear.

Rhysand stared at the pair flatly, and Nuala and Cerridwen stilled.

“As much as I’d love to chat, I have business to attend to,” Rhysand drawled, putting on the careless mask of Amarantha’s Whore; the name they had begun to whisper behind his back.

“Get away,” Eris repeated, his hands gripping the knife tighter.

“Breaking the rules today, are we, Eris?” Rhys said, eyeing the knife, “I wonder what our dear monarch will think when she hears you’ve been hiding a weapon.”

“I’ll fucking run you through—”

“I have orders to get your brother back to the Spring Court alive , and that’s what I’m going to do. You want to kill him? You take it up with Amarantha.”

“Please don’t harm him, Rhysand,” Helion said breathlessly, and Rhys couldn’t hide the way his brow creased, the twitch of confusion. His eyes flicked from Eris, to Helion, to Lucien and back. 

He had expected Eris to be here to finish the job—to execute his runaway brother while the opportunity lasted. Why Helion had inserted himself into this conflict, Rhys didn’t know, but he had to get them to leave.

“And here I thought you were boring,” Rhysand said with a flickering smile to Eris, “Finally decided to think for yourself?”

“If you don’t get away from him, I will run you through,” Eris snarled.

“I’d like to see you fucking try,” Rhys growled, channeling the inner darkness that brought him his power. No shadows showed, but his energy was frightening enough.

“I’m taking him to Spring Court alive,” Rhysand repeated.

“I don’t trust the word of a lying whore,” Eris spat, the knife still pointed.

Rhys felt a bristle of fury down his neck, but he squashed it, wrestling his anger and shame under control. He had to focus.

“I don’t care what you think, but I know that if you don’t get the fuck out of my way, your poor mother’s going to have something else to cry about.”

Eris nearly lunged, but Helion held a hand out to stop him.

“You’re not going to harm him, Rhysand?” Helion questioned.

“I don’t have time to bother with Autumn court runtlings.”

“I’m going with you,” Eris declared, lowering the knife, and Rhysand actually laughed.

“Over your dead body.”

“Then me,” Helion said, his voice almost pleading, “Let me go with you. You need someone to help carry him down the tunnel anyway.”

Rhysand once again frowned, trying to calculate what was happening here—why there was so much that didn’t make sense about this little ambush. 

Eris shifted, but he said nothing.

“Fine,” Rhysand shrugged, as if he didn’t care one way or another, “You want to get blood on your clothes, knock yourself out Helion.”

Rhys rose to his feet, forcing his stance to remain casual.

“But don’t think I’m going to cover for you if you try to run—I’ll hunt you down myself before I let you escape into Spring.”

Helion met his eyes, and nodded. 

Eris, for some reason, seemed to be satisfied by this, and he lowered the knife, gazing for one long moment at his brother’s mutilated face. Rhysand was confused by what he saw in that expression, but in the next moment it was gone, and Eris hardened his face again, before hiding the knife back into his jacket and nodding to Helion.

“I’ll cover for you,” He said, before glancing suspiciously back at Rhysand and slipping out of the room.

Suddenly it was quiet, and Helion and Rhysand stood over Lucien’s unconscious body, with Nuala and Cerridwen half in shadows beside them.

For some reason, in that moment, Rhys felt like he was an intruder. Like he should give them some privacy, as Helion gazed down at the red-haired male. 

Then Helion, too, masked his expression, and met Rhys’ eyes.

“Let’s get going.”

***

Down the long, damp tunnel away from Under the Mountain, Helion and Rhysand dragged Lucien with his arms slung over their shoulders and his blood smearing their clothes. 

Every step, Rhys cursed his lack of powers, his utter weakness, where once he could’ve winnowed them to Spring Court almost instantly, or floated Lucien behind him on a wind of shadows.

They strained for hours up the sloping path in the utter darkness, and Rhys had the distinct feeling of being closed in, like the ceiling was about to collapse on him. He stuffed his panic down, though, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, listening to Helion’s labored breaths across from him.

Finally, when Rhys’ legs were trembling and his head was dizzy from lack of food and rest, a faint light showed through the tunnel up ahead. They shuffled forward the last few hundred yards and were spewed out suddenly onto a patch of grass under a soft moonlight.

The tunnel had ended abruptly.

They were in the Spring Court.

They were out.

Rhysand and Helion both stopped, Lucien still slung over their shoulders, and they stood for a moment, breathless. Rhys had to blink several times to clear his eyes. 

He looked up; he saw the night sky; a smattering of southern stars; a bright, full moon. Something tight clawed at his throat. He hadn’t been outside for over a year. Hadn’t seen the stars, hadn’t smelled fresh, clean air, hadn’t breathed in the pure scent of Night…

There was a rustling in the woods a ways off, and Rhysand was snapped back to his senses.

He brought his gaze down and found Helion coming out of a similar daze. They met each other’s eyes for a moment.

“We have to get back,” Rhys said hollowly. He began to move.

“W–what? And just leave him here in the woods?” Helion protested as Rhys lowered Lucien’s weight to the grass, wincing at the gruesome sight of his mutilated face and bloodied body; a strange juxtaposition udner the beauty of the spring boughs.

“Something could come after him,” Helion insisted, and once again Rhysand questioned why the Day-Court male had inserted himself into this uneasy situation.

“We can’t linger. She made it very clear…”

“—she made it clear that she wanted him alive,” Helion returned firmly, “If something eats him, we’ll have just as much hell to pay.”

Rhysand’s gaze scanned the woods warily. Helion had a point, but the longer Rhys stayed out in this beautiful fresh air, under a spectacular night sky, the harder it would be to turn around and walk back into that prison. 

“Nuala, Cerridwen,” He said to the tunnel. Helion looked at him strangely, but in a few moments the shadows of the tunnel behind them materialized into the two wraith women.

Helion startled, but kept quiet as Rhysand turned to them.

“Can you keep watch until Tamlin finds him?” They looked uneasy, to be out in the open like this, but they remained still and nodded.

“Yes, lord,” Nuala said in her whispery voice, bowing, eyeing Helion.

“He could bleed out,” Helion said, still standing over Lucien’s body, like he was loathe to leave it. 

Rhys sighed, already feeling an anxious crawl on his skin. Amarantha could be watching—this could be a test, he had to get back under the mountain, he had to return. If he didn’t, she would find him, she would find all of them, she would tear them apart.

“Cerridwen…” Rhys said, controlling his breath, “Can you make it to the Manor? Through the shadows?”

The wraith-woman shifted, her bright eyes wide in the moonlight. 

“Can you tell Tamlin to come here?” Helion asked, almost a plea. He might not have understood where the women had come from, but he seemed willing to take whatever they could offer.

Cerridwen dropped her gaze.

“Yes lord,” She breathed. Then she looked to Rhys, and she spoke carefully,

“Is there anyone else you would have me speak with?”

She blinked at him, and he stared back, and for a moment the world became still. 

Azriel. She can feel him. In the shadows, she remembers…

“No,” Rhysand said firmly, his heart beating hard, “No. Just go to the manor, and come back.”

The manor. The manor where his father was killed. Where his mother’s wings were hanging. He should kill Tamlin—he should slit this red-haired bastard’s throat right here in payment for what he did.

But if you run, you could make it… you could make it to Velaris, they could protect you, you could hide, you could be free, it could be over, she couldn’t touch you…

Rhysand squeezed his eyes shut. If he didn’t get back in that tunnel right now he was going to lose his nerve. This place tasted like freedom, and it was poison to him, when he knew he had to stay the course. There was no freedom; not so long as Amarantha breathed. Not for him.

And it was too dangerous to try and contact Azriel; even the shadows might not make it through Velaris’ wards.

You can’t risk them. You can’t put them in danger.

“Come back as quickly as you can,” He repeated to Cerridwen, before casting a sickened glance at Lucien’s bloodied body, and turning towards the tunnel.

He couldn’t stop himself from gazing at the sky one last time though, from watching the stars arc their way across the dome of darkness, and imagining himself for just a moment in that darkness; flying high, wings held wide, crisp air blowing past, stars dancing at his command, shadows swirling—free.

He felt a painful string pulling his heart towards it, this night sky. 

And he wondered if those he loved were looking up at the same sky, and could feel him.

Rhys forced his eyes away from the stars then, and plunged back into the blackness of the tunnel.

Chapter Text

Rhysand found Amren in the private library, sitting with a teacup of blood on the table next to her, and a large tome open on her lap.

He’d obeyed Mor’s commands and gone to breakfast that morning, and forced himself to eat, replaying what she’d said over and over:

You’re hurting me by hurting yourself. 

He had no appetite, and there was a voice in the back of his head screaming at him that he deserved to feel this emptiness, that the pain was his own fault, and if he couldn’t control himself and keep from hurting his own family, then he should starve. 

But Mor had said she wanted him to eat. And Mor was the one he’d done wrong, so he obeyed.

Talking with Azriel had been harder. 

He’d gone to the training ring that morning and sparred with Cassian, who was kind enough not to try and get him to talk. They talked with their fists instead, and that suited Rhysand just fine. But he did notice that Cassian was holding back, and that made his anger spark.

“Quit pulling your punches,” He snapped, when he’d managed to put Cassian on his back too easily.

Cassian’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t deny it, and the next time he didn’t let himself be overwhelmed so easily.

Azriel was waiting for Rhys at the edge of the sparring ring when Cassian left for Windhaven, but he didn’t come out into the ring to join them as Rhys had expected. Instead he jerked his head and said,

“Come on.”

And they winnowed to a lake just outside the city—a small, enclosed lake that was still green even at this time of year, with pine trees surrounding it on all sides. 

It was very quiet, all of the sudden—-with no whistling wind or city sounds. The water was cool and still in the morning light, and only the barest of breezes passed through the boughs of the trees.

“What do you want me to do?” Rhys said, feeling his voice loud in the quiet. He’d always liked this lake—a quiet little oasis just up the mountain ridge. It had been beyond the boundary of the wards though, so his brother had likely not been there for as long as he had. He wondered how it felt for Azriel, seeing it again.

“Nothing,” Az said quietly, standing on the large boulder where they had landed, his hands in his pockets, gazing at the lake.

Rhys frowned.

“Mor said she wanted me to listen to you,” He said, already exhausted, “So I’m listening.”

Az shrugged.

“I don’t have anything to say.”

He was silent, his shadows whispering. 

Rhys frowned more deeply.

“Look, Az, I’m tired, so… whatever you want to tell me about my wings just get it over with.”

“I don’t have anything to say about your wings,” Azriel returned with a tiny shrug. Unconcerned. Unbothered.

Rhys wanted to punch his brother in the face.

“Mor wants—”

“—Mor wants to fix you,” Azriel interrupted, “You can’t be fixed.”

Rhys’ stomach clenched, the sick bile of shame rising in his throat. 

Then Azriel knew he was hopeless. Probably brought him out here just to let him down easy, where no one could see him.

“...because you’re not broken.”

Azriel’s voice came through Rhys’ sudden fog of self-hate.

When he looked up, he found his brother’s gray eyes holding him.

There was a beat of quiet that held only the wind.

“You can fly,” Azriel said firmly, “There’s nothing wrong with your wings. She didn’t do anything to them. She didn’t break your magic. So you can beat up Cassian all you want or have Amren throw you off the balcony a hundred times. It’s not going to change the facts.”

“Which are what?” Rhys snarled, clenching his fists and fighting back heat behind his eyes. He still wanted to punch his brother, if only for telling the truth.

“That you don’t want to fly,” Azriel said blankly. “And until that changes, Rhys… I can’t do anything for you.”

“So you just take me to a lake for the fucking views?” Rhys spat, his defenses going up.

Azriel shrugged again.

“Figured you might like some fresh air.”

His eyes drooped, and Rhys recognized a shadow coming over his face.

“I know what it’s like to be trapped…” He murmured, almost a whisper, “When you think that darkness is the only thing you’ll ever have. And you accept it. But then you get free, and you’re afraid… that if you let yourself get used to the light… it’ll just be taken away from you again.”

He looked out over the lake as he spoke, his mind somewhere far away.

“You don’t have to fly, Rhys,” Azriel said, “You don’t need your wings to be yourself. To be our High Lord. You made those wings for yourself when you were young, because you wanted them. Because you wanted to be like us—to be like your mother, to connect with your heritage. It made you happy.”

He sighed.

“But you’re not the same person you were fifty years ago,” Azriel said, and the truth made Rhys ache.

“And if who you are now is a person who doesn’t want wings, then that’s okay,” Azriel murmured, “You don’t have to fly to be one of us. You don’t have to fly to be whole.”

“You’re saying I can never get them back?” Rhys asked through a tight throat.

“I’m saying that you can have them at any time,” Az corrected, “Rhys, you conjured your wings through willpower, and when you truly want them again, then they’ll appear.”

“I do want them,” Rhys protested. But Azriel just gave him a sympathetic look.

“You want to be who you were before all this. Before her,” Azriel said, without an ounce of judgment. “But that’s never going to happen.”

Rhys had to look away, so Az wouldn’t see, the red rims of his eyes and the quivering in his lips.

He hated to hear that truth. It threatened to break him.

They were both silent.

“I brought you to the lake because you need to remember that the world still existed, outside of that mountain,” Azriel said, “Outside Velaris. When we were trapped. And it still exists now. And no matter what happens next… it’s going to continue existing.” 

Azriel’s wings were still, but Rhys could feel him turn his head.

“You can’t get that person back—who you were,” He stated flatly, “So if you hope to get your wings back… then you have to figure out who you are now. And what that person wants.”

And that was it; Azriel did not have any trick to fix Rhysand. Just words. Just words that cut deep and made him bleed, but didn’t fix anything. 

Not yet.

So Rhys had left, winnowed back to the Townhouse with Azriel, and tried not to think about anything until dinner that night, when he’d forced himself to go back up to the House of Wind to eat—Mor’s punishment for him. 

But Amren wasn’t there, and she hadn’t been at breakfast, and Rhys knew they had to have it out. He was angry with her, but she had been right—he couldn’t fly. Perhaps he didn’t really want to. Azriel had said he wasn’t broken, but it certainly didn’t feel that way.

Now he stood above Amren in the library and tried to resist the urge to flee.

“Well?” The female said without looking up, “Are you going to sit or just block my light?” She turned her page.

Rhys stood with his hands in pockets for a long moment, but then he shuffled over to the cushioned chair opposite her, and sank into it.

Silence resumed, and Amren sipped her blood, as she continued to read.

“You were right, I can’t fly,” Rhys said hollowly.

Amren didn’t look up.

“Apology accepted.”

Rhys gripped the arms of his chair angrily, but then he saw Amren’s soft smirk, and he realized that this was her attempt at an olive branch—to rile him up and get him to let off some steam.

The female certainly had a unique way of being friendly.

Finally after a long silence, Amren closed her book and placed down her teacup, raising a frank gaze to Rhys.

“I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“I know.”

“I knew Cassian would catch you, if you couldn’t—”

“I know.”

Amren nodded, and quiet resumed.

“I am not unsympathetic to what you have been through,” She said. “Amarantha was a beast and if I could’ve torn her throat out myself, I would have.”

Her sharp gaze was seething with dark anger.

“But you dishonor us, by wearing this mask,” She said.

Amren crossed her legs, and when she spoke, it was slow and deliberate.

“You have been putting on a facade for us, just like you do with Keir’s ilk, just like you did when you were trapped there—-and it hurts, to see you lying to me, to them, to yourself every day. As if we can’t see your pain. As if we are strangers.”

“I wasn’t trying t—”

“—I know,” Amren put up one small hand, “I know you were trying to protect us. Like you always have. Like you did for fifty years. But right now we don’t need your protection; we need you to let us in; let us help.”

Rhys cringed at the idea, the same thing that Mor had said—talk to them, tell them, open up. He couldn’t. He couldn’t start talking or he’d never be able to stop, he would vomit out all this darkness and drown in it.

“You made me your second for a reason,” Amren said, “Because you know I’ll tell you the truth where the others may not be able to. That I’ll do what has to be done.”

“Like drop me to my death,” Rhys murmured, and Amren’s lips quirked.

“This window of time we have will not last forever,” She said, “The wreckage of Amarantha’s downfall is going to form itself into something ugly. And soon. So you have to face this. You have to take off the mask.”

Rhys grimaced, picking at the fabric of the chair as he swallowed painfully.

“I c…” He shook his head. “They don’t want to hear about that, they don’t want to know…”

“ They don’t want to know?” Amren said with a calm raise of her eyebrow, “Or you don’t want them to know?”

Rhys looked down at his nails—chipped from his sparring with Cassian that morning.

“...the things I did down there, Amren,” He said hollowly, “I don’t want to think of how they’ll look at me when they find out.”

“Nothing you did will change how they feel about you.”

Rhys didn’t know if he could believe that. And it wasn’t just about degrading himself with Amarantha. They didn’t know about the other horrors—-the blood on his hands.

“But I understand…” Amren continued, “That sometimes it is hardest to tell the truth… to the people we love most.”

She took a deep breath and looked out the darkening window.

“You made a sanctuary in this city… worked to create a safe place for people who’ve suffered.”

Rhys shifted uncomfortably.

“If it’s too much to talk to Morrigan or one of us… you might see about talking to one of the priestesses.”

“No,” Rhys shook his head quickly, “No, the library isn’t my place, it’s for them—”

“It’s for those who’ve experienced hurt and need to heal—”

“My presence would disturb them. I will not take away their feeling of safety.”

Mor and her must have been in league. Both of them fixated on the damn library.

“You gave them the right to choose who would enter the library,” Amren responded, “You know they would welcome you. Respect their choice.”

Rhys felt his heart getting hot, and he wanted to flee.

“I don’t need the library.”

“Why?” Amren lifted her chin, “Because you’re a High Lord and you're stronger than them?”

“No, of course not–”

“Because asking for help is weak and you’re not weak like Clotho and the others?”

“No, that’s—”

“Or because you’re a male. So it shouldn’t bother you what she did to you for fifty years?”

Rhys flinched, swallowing tightly. How did she know? Did they all know? Oh gods what did they think of him? They’d be ashamed, they’d be disgusted.

His face grew hot, he wanted to run away.

But Amren just looked at him frankly.

He sniffed.

“Do the others…” He swallowed. “They know?”

Amren lowered her gaze.

“Just the rumors. From Keir and the rest.”

Amarantha’s Whore.

Rhys felt sick.

He almost jumped when he felt Amren’s hand on top of his.

“Go to the library,” She repeated, “Talk to Clotho. You made it a refuge—so take refuge there.”

Amren’s silver eyes watched him piercingly.

“You would never shame any of those women for what they endured—or what they had to do to survive.”

Of course not. Never. The priestesses in the library were the strongest of Prythian.

Rhys shook his head, unable to speak, and Amren nodded. She squeezed his hand.

“Then don’t shame yourself, Rhysand.”

Chapter Text

The library beneath the House of Wind had a smell to it that evoked a hundred memories in Rhysand—hours spent down here when he was young, studying Night Court history to please his father, or times he’d hidden out in the shelves with Mor to avoid responsibilities. 

It smelled, too, of the females who worked in the stacks, who had come from all over Prythian to find refuge there. He remembered some of those days too—some painful days, when one or the other of his family had brought in a woman who needed safety. 

Still, the library always gave Rhysand a sense of calm, a quiet peace that settled into his bones.

Today, though, his sense of unease was loud, even as the quiet of the library surrounded him.

He saw Clotho first, sitting at the high wood desk near the entrance like she often did, scribbling notes on a sheet with a pile of books stacked next to her. The woman looked up when the heavy doors opened, and Rhysand met her eyes. 

Even before he touched her mind, he felt her speaking with her eyes—a soft knowing that made him feel exposed.

“Hello, Clotho,” He said, when she had allowed him into her mind. The priestess had stepped down from her high desk and come around to the front, giving Rhysand a small curtsy. 

It’s good to see you again, lord, Clotho’s voice spoke in his mind, soft and echoing, like it was bouncing around the walls of the library.

“And how have all of you been faring here?” He murmured, as a pair of priestesses shuffled past, eyeing them briefly.

The rhythm of our lives here were not changed much by the walls, Clotho spoke, But we are glad to have them down. And to see you returned. Several of our order have been ready for some time to leave the library and rejoin the world—they have now been able to do so, and we are glad for them.

Rhys smiled.

“Good, I’m glad.”

Clotho’s scarred face grew solemn.

It is only because of your sacrifices, lord, that the females here were spared the horrors of invasion, She said, her eyes piercing, We are not unaware of what her hordes would have done to us, had Velaris fallen. We all owe you.

Rhysand’s throat threatened to close up, the emotion behind her words coming through the link in their thoughts. He could only nod, and say tightly,

“You owe me nothing. It was my duty to protect my people.”

Clotho gave him an understanding look, but she did not protest. Instead she said,

Is there a purpose for your visit with which I may help you? Or would you simply like to browse?

The priestess gestured to the spiraling levels of the library below them.

Rhysand swallowed, his hands in his pockets.

“Well, it…” He looked around at the dusty rows, listening to the quiet shuffle of papers and breath. “It was Mor, who wanted me to come see you, really…” He shifted.

“She thinks I could do with… some quiet.”

That wasn’t the whole truth, probably not even most of it, but Rhys couldn’t bring himself to say the rest.

I’m broken and I need you to fix me. I’m drowning and I need you to pull me out. Do for me what you did for the rest of them.

Clotho just looked at him, somberly, like she was seeing through him.

It is coming up on the time for evening vespers, The woman said with a gesture, Would you care to join us?

Rhys frowned.

“I, uh… I thought your gatherings were only for the order…”

The evening services are open to all, Clotho corrected softly. Rhys swallowed.

“I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable,” He murmured. He knew that the very presence of a male—no matter what his demeanor or intentions—-could be frightening to some of the females here. It was why he didn’t visit all that frequently, and tried to leave them to their own devices.

If your presence were a detriment to anyone’s healing journey, I would not allow it, Clotho returned, and gestured openly with one hand, towards the side corridor that led from the library to the Priestesses’ places of worship.

“Sure,” He nodded, clearing his throat and trying to resist the urge to run away again. 

“I’m, um… I don’t know if I’m dressed properly for a vespers,” Rhysand offered as Clotho shuffled down the hallway, following after two priestesses with their heads bowed in prayer.

Clotho only gave Rhysand a wry smile.

Would you prefer a blue robe? She offered, and Rhys smiled back. The message was clear: he couldn’t talk his way out of this.

Clotho shuffled into the red-stone tavern and gestured for him to find a seat wherever he chose.

I shall be overseeing the proceedings, but I will send you some company.

“I don’t–that’s alright,” Rhys said quickly, but Clotho just waved one gnarled hand and shuffled away.

Rhysand slipped into the third to last row—-not far enough back that it seemed like he didn’t want to be there, but not close enough to the front that he would distract the priestesses from their worship.

He certainly did not go unnoticed, though, as blue-robed females began to shuffle in, murmuring softly, while several lit candles on the dais and some stepped over to a shrine to whisper prayers.

The females who passed him in the aisle gave surprised glances, some seemed startled, and some passed on the other side of the aisle—as far from him as they could get. 

But some of them giggled to each other, or cast glances over their shoulder at him with shy smiles, whispering to their friends. Rhys kept his gaze on the red stone cavern ceilings or on his hands, folded in his lap. But the attention of the priestesses didn’t make him uncomfortable, only amused. He remembered what it was like to travel with the Illyrian War Bands, where he wouldn’t see any females for months on end—he couldn’t blame the priestesses for being intrigued.

“High Lord,” A calm voice said next to him, and Rhysand looked up to see a white-haired priestess with light brown skin and a stern expression. Rhysand recognized her as Clotho’s second-in-command at the library, but he couldn’t recall the female’s name.

“Good Vespers to you,” She said in a clipped, unimpressed tone. Rhys stood and nodded.

“Good… vespers,” He said, feeling off-kilter. He wasn’t used to being unsure of himself, wasn’t used to being intimidated by people, but this female was intimidating. Not in an Amarantha-like way--trying to make people afraid of her--but in a way that simply exuded from her naturally. He knew right away that she didn’t care what he thought of her, and that was odd, for a High Lord.

“Merrill,” She said without fanfare, and it took Rhys a moment to realized she meant her name, “Clotho’s sent me to babysit you.”

Rhysand raised an eye, unsure if he was offended or amused.

“Do you mind?” Merrill said flatly, glancing at the pew.

“Oh... certainly,” Rhys stepped down to give her enough space to sit, conscious of all the females in the room eyeing him as others rose up onto the dais and began the service.

Rhysand was keenly aware of the female standing next to him, as music began to swell from the mouths of the priestesses around him. At the first strain of the song, Rhys closed his eyes, feeling the need to focus on only the sound and nothing else, to revel in the swell and dip of the voices around him. 

It was unearthly, beautiful, enrapturing. It reminded him somehow of his mother, of flying, of laughter, of the way magic flowed through his veins and Feyre’s eyes looked when she was standing on that balcony in the early morning. 

Rhysand felt his throat tightening and a heat behind his eyes, the beauty of the music drawing out emotion like a healer drew out disease. He saw his sister’s wings catching in the sunlight, her laugh as she dived towards the ground shouting,

“Race me!”

Tenira had always been a deadly fast flyer—-faster than Rhys—-and she liked to prove it. 

That had been back when Rhys’s only responsibilities were following his father’s orders and studying to be High Lord one day. He’d not expected that day to come so soon. 

The music changed, and with it his thoughts drew towards darkness—towards those terrible days, when he’d heard the reports of an attack, when he’d entered the camp-house to find that his sister wasn’t there, when he’d opened that box and stared into his mother’s dead, flat eyes. 

His world had crumbled.

At that moment, in the midst of the swirling sound, Rhysand had to force his eyes open. He couldn’t give in to the call of the music anymore, couldn’t let it sweep him away, because if he released his hold on all these things he’d been bottling up, the tidal wave would drown him.

Rhysand swallowed tightly and blinked over the blue-robed heads in front of him. He briskly wiped away a tear with the back of his hand, and took a few shaking breaths to fight back the rising tide of feeling evoked by the music.

Don’t let them see. Put the mask back on. Hide your feelings; you can’t let them see; they’ll take everything from you.

Rhys dug his nails into his palms, forcing himself away from the pull of tender music, blocking it out and staring instead at the red cave ceiling above Clotho’s head, but seeing only the red of Amarantha’s hair, the red of his mother’s blood, the red of the sunrise when he’d fled the Spring Court.

He wanted to get out of here, to shut his ears to this damn music, but Merrill was blocking his path.

Instead, Rhysand put up a silent shield around himself, blocking out the noise. The utter silence was a relief, but his chest was still tight, like the shield was compressing his ability to breathe. It was better than the feelings, though—better than what the music was doing to him, unraveling his carefully-built walls.

When the service was over, Rhysand released the shield around himself immediately, listening to the quiet murmurings as they said their final prayers and began to file out, glancing his way again.

“You don’t wish to praise the Mother?” Merrill’s voice came from his side.

“What?” Rhys asked, thrown off by the sudden resuming of noise and Merrill’s frank tone.

“You were blocking your ears from the holy music,” She said, and Rhys’ heart sank.

“Clotho invited you here to worship with us, why accept if you did not wish to?”

“How’d you know—”

“I am a master of winds, High Lord, I recognize when the pattern of breath around me changes.”

Merrill waved her hand as if in demonstration, and a soft breeze tousled Rhysand’s hair. Rhys lowered his gaze.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” He murmured.

“I don’t give two rat’s tails what you meant,” Merrill returned, unimpressed. “And I don’t care if you want to plug your ears and silence the Mother’s music. Only I don’t like liars.”

Rhysand was too flustered to wonder why this woman dared speak to a High Lord like that.

“I’m sorry,” He said, as he could sense Clotho shuffling over to them. He hoped the priestess would save him from Merrill’s intense stare. 

“It affected you,” Merrill stated, “The music.”

Rhysand didn’t want to be talking about this, and he was starting to get angry at Merrill’s presumptions. Didn’t she know he was her High Lord?

“It affects us all,” She continued before he could snap back, “In different ways. But shutting it out never brought anyone closer to peace with the Mother.”

“Perhaps I’m not interested in peace with the Mother,” Rhysand returned before he could stop himself, “What has she ever done for me?”

Merrill’s eyes glittered, but it was not anger or offense that Rhys felt as she stared him down, rather a sort of intrigue—like he had been boring up until that moment and had now finally said something interesting.

Rhys regretted it, of course, as soon as he’d said it; it was a horribly offensive thing to say to a priestess, and he hadn’t quite realized he felt that way until the words came out of his mouth.

Sure, the Mother or the Cauldron or whoever had caused him to be born into a High Lord’s family, given him phenomenal powers, but They had also allowed his mother and sister to be slaughtered, his friends abused, his people trapped and his identity stripped away. 

And when it had really counted, his powers had done nothing to stop it—-he hadn’t been able to prevent his mother’s death, and he hadn’t been able to stop Amarantha. So what good was The Mother anyway if she was just going to watch all this evil and not lift a finger against it?

Somehow he got the feeling that Merrill had read all of that on his face without him even needing to say it out loud, and that made him uncomfortable. She had a gaze like Amren’s—intense and unflinching and not entirely compassionate. 

“The next time you bless us with your presence, High Lord,” Merrill continued, “Pray pay a visit to my office. I think we would be able to offer each other stimulating conversation, something that can be lacking, in a place like this.”

She waved vaguely, and Rhysand frowned.

“Are not all your sisters scholars?” He asked, “Surely your sect would be adept at stimulating conversation.”

“Scholars, yes, and brilliant ones,” Merril returned crisply, “But scholars who’ve not seen the sun for decades, at least. It tends to become a bit of an echo chamber, if you understand. No new ideas except those that we find in books—which is to say, old ideas.”

“I don’t know that I’d have anything new to offer you,” Rhysand shrugged.

“You’ve just spent the better part of a century locked in a cage with the best and worst of Prythian,” She said bluntly, and Rhysand almost flinched, “I think it’s safe to say your observations would come from a unique perspective.”

Merrill shuffled her way out of the pew.

“Besides,” She said as she seemed ready to leave, “I am working on a treatise about the Valkyrie warriors, and would value the insight of someone who actually fought in the War with a winged legion.”

With no more ceremony and nary a goodbye, Merrill joined the flow of priestesses leaving the cave, and disappeared among the throng of blue, leaving Rhysand confused and amused. No one except Amren ever talked to him like that. But it was a relief, he realized, not to be either praised or coddled.

He was smirking when Clotho returned, the cavern nearly empty now and one priestess blowing out the remaining candles on the dais.

I hope Merrill was not too much to handle, The priestess said with a knowing smile as Rhysand fell into step with her.

“No,” He returned, his hands in his pockets, “Refreshingly… unique,” He decided, and he could’ve sworn Clotho snorted.

What did you think of our service, then? Did you benefit from it?

Rhys didn’t want to tell her that he’d blocked the music out, he felt ashamed about it now. But he also didn’t want to lie to her, so he found a middle ground.

“I think it brought up… difficult feelings,” He managed, and Clotho nodded.

Indeed. When one slows their mind down enough to begin pondering the things of life, it can expose hidden hurts. That is one reason why all the acolytes are required to attend these gatherings, no matter their stage in the healing journey.

Her sharp eyes glanced to him.

Avoiding pain will never result in true change.

Rhys couldn’t quite meet her eyes, having the inkling that perhaps she knew after all, what he’d done. He just nodded and let her lead him back to the main entrance of the library. 

I hope you’ll return tomorrow evening, Clotho said as they stood in front of the great double doors, It can be good… to be in fellowship.

“I feel as though I made some of the females uncomfortable,” He countered, remembering those who had startled and kept as far away from him as possible.

Clotho met his gaze calmly.

As I said—avoiding pain will never result in true change. Sometimes it is necessary to be uncomfortable, in order to move past one’s fears. If I say you are welcome here, then you are welcome here. By your own decree.

Rhysand nodded, seeing that he could not talk his way out of it. In truth, he didn’t entirely want to anyway; he did like the idea of returning to the library—-of being in a quiet place where he knew Mor or Cassian or Amren weren’t likely to ambush him. 

He also thought it could be an opportunity to find information on a topic that had been at the forefront of his mind since meeting Feyre—-the history of mating, and whether or not a High Fae had ever mated with a human before. Rhys wasn’t certain whether the cauldron had tied him to Feyre because it knew that she was destined to become fae herself, or whether it was actually possible to be mated with a human. Perhaps that was why mating bonds were so rare—because thousands of fae would never meet a human, never come face to face with their possible mates.

The other thing Rhysand wanted to know—though this was harder for him to admit—-was if there was a way to sever a mating bond without a rejection from the female. Because he had had another nightmare about Feyre and Tamlin together, and he wasn’t certain he could stand this feeling for the next few centuries—-of being away from her and still tied to her. Of watching her be happy with Tamlin; if happy was what you could call it. He still felt her despair, when he let their bond slip through, but he despaired even more when he felt the way she longed for Tamlin to hold her, to comfort her, to fix what was broken inside her.

He wanted to be near Feyre and never be severed from her, but at the same time his heart felt like it was being crushed every time he thought about her. 

So it was that the next day, he arrived to the library in the afternoon, several hours before evening service, and nodded at the priestess who was manning the desk in Clotho’s place. 

The female did not seem surprised by the arrival of a High Lord in the library, and Rhysand took that to mean he was allowed to enter. He inquired as to where Merrill’s office was—surprising himself; he hadn’t quite decided whether he liked the female or not, but she certainly intrigued him.

The quiet whispers of the library soon became like a soothing hum in his mind, as Rhysand followed the spiraling library down in row after row. He inhaled the smell of the old books, and allowed himself a small smile, the memories of many content hours here coming back to him. He remembered seeing his mother’s wings peeking out from one of the stacks, Mor’s bright blond hair shining up at him from the levels below, soft whispers over dusty books.

When he reached Merrill’s office, he gave himself a moment to back out—-to walk away before the stern scholar knew he was there, but he didn’t want to be a coward. Why should he–an Illyrian warrior, a High Lord—back down from a blue-robed, bookish female who hadn’t seen the sky in three hundred years? And besides... she had intrigued him.

He knocked, and was ushered in by a crisp,

“Enter,” From behind the door.

Merrill didn’t look up from her writing when he stepped into her office—which was stacked full of books and a site of organized chaos. He waited in silence for a few seconds until the female turned her page and looked up.

“Didn’t expect to see you ,” She commented as she continued to write. Rhysand’s lip quirked.

“You… invited me,” He offered.

“I invited you to stop by my office the next time you visited the library—I thought you would give it a decade or so, not visit the next day . Bit overeager.”

Rhys just smirked again, the female’s bluntness might’ve been abrasive to most, but he found it amusing.

“I thought perhaps your work on the Valkyrie’s history was important enough to warrant my attention.”

“It is,” Merril returned without ceremony, “But I certainly didn’t expect you to know that.”

Rhys shrugged, his hands in his pockets, feeling at ease with the crisp banter.

“What can I say, I like to be unexpected.”

Merril glanced up then over the rims of reading glasses, holding his gaze for a split second, her expression unreadable.

Then she returned to her writing once again.

“You may sit,” She gestured to an open chair next to her desk.

Rhysand had to move a stack of books off of it, but he did so with a flick of magic, floating them neatly onto a nearby stack.

“Something wrong with picking them up?” She said, shooting him an annoyed look.

“I figured the touch of magic would be gentler on these precious tomes than the touch of my hands.”

“You must have very rough hands, then.”

They stared at each other for another silent moment, before Merril resumed her work and Rhysand picked up a book from the top of the pile next to him. It read:

A History of Skies: Catalog of Winged Races and Their Culture

Intriguing; he wondered what such a volume would have to say about Illyrians.

He sat in silence in Merril’s office for some time, reading, and allowing his mind to exist in this strange netherspace, where he had nothing to think on but the book in front of him and the dust motes swirling in the faelight. Somehow, in the library underneath the House of Wind, his mind seemed quieter. The cloying fear and lurching panic that always lurked at the edges of his mind seemed dim; not gone altogether, but hushed, as if the weight of the mountain around them and the many thousands of books left no space in his head for despair.

The book was interesting enough, and its observations on Illyrian culture were accurate enough, if a bit clinical. It mostly spoke of the males, with very little information on Illyrian females, though that was not uncommon.

He didn’t know if Merril had anything to ask him, but he figured the brusque female would let him know, and he was content to wait.

Finally, after the better part of an hour had passed, Merril closed the tome she was working in and looked up.

“Tell me about the war,” She commanded, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper from a stack, and readying a pencil. Rhysand raised an eyebrow.

“What about it?” 

Merril’s lips were tight as she scribbled in a title.

“I am seeking first-hand accounts of the Valkyries during the war, and their fall. Was your legion involved with them at all?”

Was his legion involved? No, not really. The Illyrians would spit on any female warrior they came across, and Rhysand’s father had known enough to keep their legions separate. But he had crossed paths with them a few times, amidst troop movements and meetings, and had always admired the females’ strength, as well as their willingness to stand up against even the likes of his father.

And during that last fateful battle—when the Valkyries had taken on a fight that even the Illyrians were too afraid to face—he had been a prisoner in Amarantha’s camp, his wings pinned to the ground while they tortured him.

He told Merril as much, speaking evenly and clinically, as if these memories from centuries ago did not bother him anymore. In the years since, he had mostly healed from those dark days—from the horror of war and the memory of that bloodshed—-but being Under the Mountain had torn open those old wounds, once again reminding him of his own helplessness.

“And when they fell? What was the general consensus of the rest of the armies?” Merril asked after he’d described the way the Valkyries worked with the various courts.

Rhysand gave a small shrug.

“I can only speak for the Illyrians, but they did not speak highly of the Valkyries,” He admitted, “Though I’m sure most of them realized what cowards they had been—refusing to take on the fight alongside the Valkyrie to defend the pass—they could not bend their pride enough to admit to the females’ bravery. They dismissed it as a fool’s battle, a fight that weak, foolish females had taken on. They deserved the fate they got.”

“And you?” Merril asked, “What did you think of them?”

Rhysand sighed.

“I think they were the bravest fighting force we had,” He said sadly, “And I think that if they’d been male—perhaps they would’ve received the help they needed that day. Perhaps we might’ve won that battle.”

Rhys remembered Cassian explaining it to him, in the hazy days after his rescue, when he’d been recuperating up at the cabin while the war was ending and the treaties being signed. 

It had sunk his already destroyed heart to learn of the demise of the Valkyrie—he had been hoping that they might pave the way for the Illyrians—be an example of how successful a winged female fighting force could be. He knew that their downfall would set back the Illyrian female’s progress by centuries.

Merril continued to ask him about the war, about how the fight styles of the Illyrians differed from the Valkyries, about the leaders that he’d come into contact with, and other personal anecdotes that would not have shown up in her research. Most of the Valkyries’ history had been passed down orally, and because so many of them had died at one time, much had been lost.

“What about you?” Rhysand asked as Merril was looking up statistics in a red-bound book on Prythian battle history, “Were you alive during the war?”

Merril’s eyes flicked up, and she huffed a dull laugh.

“I was born in Autumn court before High Lord Beron,” She said, and Rhysand blinked in surprise. “So yes, I was alive during the war.”

“Were you a priestess back then?”

Merril paused for a moment, and her lips were thin, but she went back to her note taking and said,

“I was. At the Denegalle temple.”

Rhysand became very still. He knew what that meant—had remembered the terrible battle that had taken place on the slopes of the mountain where the Senegalle temple sat. It had been a sudden and brutal ambush by Hybern’s forces, and the priestesses of the temple had not had time to evacuate. The siege that followed had lasted for nearly a year.

Merril met his gaze frankly.

“I’m sorry,” He said, lowering his gaze.

“As far as I am aware, you were not personally responsible for the sack of Denegalle,” She responded flatly, and Rhysand nodded. 

Clearly she was not looking for pity.

“And have you been here since then?”

“No,” She returned calmly.

Rhysand remained silent, unsure if he should ask more. He understood what it meant that she had been a captive of Hybern’s army, and he didn’t wish to press her with questions.

Merril seemed to read his hesitance, though, and continued her explanation in the same crisp and clinical tone, as if she were giving a lecture from one of her books.

“When Hybern’s troops took over the temple they murdered many of us, as was their habit—to keep the rest in line,” She said, not looking up from the writing she was doing, “They kept the rest of us in the cellars beneath the temple and raped us whenever it pleased them—which was often.”

Rhys felt a sick twist of his stomach, but Merril spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that belied the horrors of what she was saying.

“We did not rebel, because we had been clearly shown what would happen to the others if one of us fought back. But eventually, they had killed so many of us that it stopped mattering much; none of those females who remained seemed to care whether they lived or died. And when I came to that conclusion myself, I decided to take my revenge on the bastard general, who had taken a particular affinity to me.”

Merril did not meet Rhys’ eyes once during this calm explanation, but when she mentioned the general, her tone became lethal.

“So the next time he dragged me to his bed, I snatched a letter opener from his desk and cut his balls off with it, let him scream a bit before I sliced his throat.”

Rhys felt bile in his mouth, but Merril simply flipped over the parchment in her hand and continued.

“I supposed that his men would find me in there and put me to death, but as the Mother would have it, that was the very day that your General Cassian and his legion liberated the temple—though of course he wasn’t a general then.”

Finally her eyes flicked up towards Rhysand, who was staring with a pained expression. He was taken off-guard by how forthcoming Merril was being, almost as if she considered this a fair trade, for the information he had given to her. The two things did not seem equal to him, but he bit his tongue and let her speak. Perhaps she wanted to speak, perhaps people did not often listen to her story.

“At the time I was quite furious to be denied the chance at death,” Merril continued, “And it took me some time before I was grateful to have been spared. I was purposeless—-unable to return to service as a priestess, and unable to find any other meaningful work. I was from an insignificant Autumn Court family and had no wish to marry. For a century or so, I wandered Prythian wherever I could be the most anonymous, using my gifts as a scribe to make a small living, and generally existing in a rather pitiful state. The only thing that prevented me from ending my life was the knowledge that it would be an insult to those of my sisters who had fought to survive and been unable to.” 

Merril let out a slight sigh—the only sign of any emotion so far in this, her horrifying tale.

“But then Clotho found me in Adriata—-recognized me from her days as an emissary between temples—and she told me that the High Lord of the Night Court was creating a refuge, for females such as ourselves…”

Her eyes flicked up again, pointedly.

“And she asked if I would assist her in running it and providing a useful occupation for the females who would abide there—-namely, the maintaining and study of an ancient collection of books.”

She gestured to the piles around her.

“I had been the temple scribe in Denegalle, before it fell. And in these tomes I found my purpose again.”

“And in the Valkyries?” Rhysand asked, and Merril nodded.

“In the strength of the female spirit. And in their sacrifice.”

Rhysand hands were folded on his lap, his shoulders heavy with the weight of what she’d just shared—though Merril herself did not seem affected by the recounting. Perhaps five hundred years was enough time to learn to manage one’s pain. 

Would he have to wait that long before he could speak about the mountain, about Amarantha, without falling apart?

“Thank you for sharing your story,” Rhys said quietly, feeling that it ought to be acknowledged.

But Merril seemed to have finished with the topic, and now stood without ceremony, strolling past him to a bookshelf. She quickly took down a red-bound, rather thin book, and turned back to him, quite close in the small study. He could smell a scent of warm vanilla coming off her—almost like a wisp of wind had sent it his way purposefully. 

“You might read this, if you’re looking for insight on the histories and struggle of female Illyrians,” Merril said academically, “There are not many books about them, as I’m sure you know, since they are often not permitted to read and their brutish husbands would not allow them to speak with a scribe. But this is one, and what little information it has is quality. I understand you and your General are attempting to improve their lot.”

Rhysand blinked, reaching for the book, their fingers momentarily touching as she passed it.

“I… thank you,” He said. For some reason that tiny touch made him shiver, and he wasn’t sure with what.

“It is only a loan,” Merril clipped, “And don’t think I won’t hunt you down for it just because you’re a High Lord.”

Rhysand smirked.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“Return it to me directly, if you wish,” She said, turning away, the curtain of her silver hair swishing, “You know where I’ll be.”

Rhys nodded as the female sat back down at her desk, and immediately set to her writing again, ignoring him entirely.

He knew a dismissal when he saw one, but for some reason he lingered, staring at her for a moment longer than necessary—at the way her sharp brows focused so intensely on the page in front of her, and her full lips pursed in concentration.

“Is there something else you require?” 

Merril spoke without looking up, and Rhysand snapped out of it, blinking his head clear of whatever it had been about to think.

“No, thank you.”

He caught Merril glancing up at him from under those dark brows, and the almost indetectable smirk she gave him.

“Good day then,” She said, sounding self-satisfied.

“Good day,” He returned crisply, and turned on his heels, pulling open the door to the office and leaving quickly, his skin suddenly flushed. 

He didn’t stop moving until he’d reached the dining room, and only then realized that he had forgotten to search for any books on mating bonds. 

Breathing a bit hard, he looked down at the slim book he held, and wondered why his hand was tingling. And why he wanted to go back.

Chapter Text

Rhysand slept as poorly that night as he had the previous days, nightmares swirling on the edge of thought, the music of the priestesses ringing hauntingly in his dreams, and his mind reaching out to Feyre in his sleep, finding her hollow and hurting, and cursing himself for being too weak to do anything about it.

After a too-short training session that drained his already-exhausted body, Rhysand found his way back to the library, sulking away to avoid being confronted by Mor or the others. He hadn’t eaten much at breakfast and he knew Mor was disappointed. She would chide him again, and he couldn’t handle it.

He asked a priestess where to find books that spoke on the history of mating bonds, and followed her soft footsteps down the spiraling slopes. T

They passed a few of the other priestesses as they made their way down, one of whom was a short woman with bright blonde hair, who startled and shrank back into the stacks as they passed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare her,” Rhysand said to his guide after they had continued on.

“Don’t worry yourself, lord,” The older female dismissed, “Renalla is frightened of all outsiders. It is not you.”

Rhysand looked back as the blonde priestess shuffled up the spiral, feeling sad for her.

Then the older female gestured to a row of shelves and said.

“Here, lord; you’ll find the books you seek in these three aisles.”

If the female wondered why the High Lord of the Night Court was suddenly interested in ancient magic and mating bonds, she didn’t say so.

Rhysand settled into the quiet, secluded row, and began to scan the shelves for the books he was looking for. He spent most of that day coming through tomes that shared varying opinions on mating bonds—some of them polar opposites—but none mentioning whether a human/fae bond had ever occurred, or whether it was possible to sever one. 

When his mind started to stray longingly to Feyre and it became too much to think on, Rhysand took to reading the book that Merril had given him—on Illyrian females. Though of course he had his own first-hand experience with them, the book offered interesting insight on significant Illyrian females in history—a subject about which very little was written. 

When he heard the soft chiming of bells in the library, he closed the book and tucked it under his arm, making his way reluctantly to evening vespers. He would’ve rather Winnowed down to the Townhouse and gone to bed, but it wasn’t yet seven o’clock in the evening, and if he wasn’t at Vespers then his friends would expect him to be at dinner. 

He didn’t want to sit through another tedious dinner of them tiptoeing around him in their conversation. Besides, he suspected that Mor would be checking in on him—on how he’d been getting on in the library—and he wanted to make sure that Clotho gave her a good report so she would stop worrying.

You owe it to her; you hurt her.

When Rhys sat in the red cavern and the gathered priestesses began to sing, he forced himself not to block his ears, though the urge was strong. Merrill was once again standing at his side, and he knew she would notice. 

Even so, when the music starting tugging at his emotions, he did everything he could to distract himself from the draw of it—counting the number of candles in the room, digging his fingernails into his palms, reciting in his head the names of every High Lord of Prythian in recorded history.

Mor had sent him to the library to seek some kind of solace, and—likely seeing this—Clotho had brought him to Vespers. Both clearly wanted him to face the feelings that were threatening to drown him, but they didn’t know, he couldn’t . If he faced them, then he would fall apart, he would crumble, and how would Velaris survive without its High Lord to lead it?

Sometimes it is necessary to be uncomfortable, in order to move past one’s fears.

He remembered Clotho speaking that to him, and realized that she was not just talking about the priestesses and novices under her care. No, the High Priestess definitely meant that message for him. But he couldn’t release the tether he had on himself, let go of the walls that he’d built up. He didn’t know who he would be once he did.

In fact, Rhys was finding that he much preferred the brusque, unbothered tone that Merrill took with him. She didn’t look at him with worry in her eyes like his friends did, or give him that soft, melancholy gaze that Clotho had. 

It was easier to be around her. Uncomplicated.
He’d started to realize, too, that the odd tension he’d felt in her office the other day was actually something akin to attraction. It had caught him off guard, and taken a minute to understand. Merril was beautiful—gorgeous even by Night Court standards—and his subconscious hadn’t failed to notice. 

Inwardly he was berating himself for being attracted to her. For one, Merril likely had no interest in being ogled by the opposite sex, and he was her High Lord for cauldron’s sake. For another, he was Feyre’s mate, and he shouldn’t be looking at another female, should he? …should he?

Regardless, he knew he wouldn’t act on the attraction, and he was all but certain that the priestess did not return it. Why would she? Though the way she had looked at him in the office the previous day had been rather strange. In another context he might’ve said it was suggestive.

Merrill herself turned to him after the service concluded and exchanged a few words in her usual sharp, quick tone, smirking at him before leaving him once again with a wisp of vanilla scent in her wake. Almost like the wind was carrying it to him alone.

***

Rhysand’s eyes were already drooping with exhaustion when he arrived at the library again the next day. He hadn’t slept hardly at all the previous night, shivering on the floor of the townhouse bedroom, after waking up from a nightmare that Amarantha was carving his eyes out on the floor of the throne room. He’d smacked himself every time he started to droop into sleep after that, fearing the nightmares more than he feared the exhaustion.

Cassian had asked him that morning at training if he was feeling alright, if maybe he needed a sleeping draught from Madja, and Rhys had snapped something mean at him before storming off to hide among the books. 

He was doing what Mor and Amren had told him to do—go to the library—and if that meant that his friends couldn’t hunt him down and bother him with their concern, it was just as good. Amren had said she didn’t want a mask, but he had nothing to give them except the mask. Because despite what Azriel had said, he was broken beneath it.

In the warm, fae-lit aisles of the library, Rhysand could hide from the world above. He began to understand why the priestesses liked it down here—why they stayed so long. Maybe he would stay too. Just linger among the dusty books for the next few centuries, until he could forget the world and all its cruelty.

Rhysand felt his exhaustion come back to him that afternoon, as his eyes struggled to keep the words on the page from swirling and dancing. He was sitting in a high back chair tucked in the corner of one of the shelf rows, and was just thinking that he should move to a less comfortable chair, when his vision changed.

He blinked his eyes open and was staring at the intricately-woven canopy of a bed, sharp iron shackles around his wrists and legs. 

He felt the chill air touching his bare skin and a dozen welts and cuts that stung with their freshness.

His chest seized up in fear. What was happening? Why was he here? He recognized this room—-this bed—-the stifling scent of the incense and the damp smell of rock. 

Oh no, He whipped his head, trying to pull at a shackle, No, no, no, no...

He tried to thrash his legs, but they were shackled tightly together. 

No…

It had all been a dream, he was still down here, still her prisoner. He was trapped. She had trapped him here in her room, just like before, just like with the Winter children. She would leave him to starve to death Under the Mountain and they’d find his skeleton tied to this bed in a century or two. 

Rhys let out a terrible groan, panic rising in his throat.

“Help me!!” He screamed, not caring if his voice cracked and he sounded weak, “Somebody please! Help!”

He thrashed until the movement drew blood—until the shackles cut into his skin—and still he couldn’t stop pulling. 

It wasn’t real, it was a trick, you never got out. Velaris was a dream. Her death was a dream. Feyre was a dream. Feyre… Feyre… Feyre, help!!

As if he’d been pushed off the balcony again, he felt himself falling, the air rushing out of his lungs as he panicked. 

Then Rhysand landed with a sharp jerk in another bed—in a room flooded with soft moonlight and smelling of sex.

“I love you,” Feyre’s voice said quietly, and for a moment he imagined he could know happiness again—just to hear her say that. 

But then he saw who she was looking at—who he was looking at, through her eyes. She lay with Tamlin in the stately bed, their naked bodies entwined, her beautiful hair covering him as she rested on his chest. 

Rhysand wanted to scream.

Get away from her!!

But he had no voice. He was in Feyre’s mind. He had begged her to save him and she had, dragging him from one nightmare to another. 

He wanted to wake up. He didn’t want to be here.

“I love you,” Tamlin returned, leaning in to kiss her with a deep inhale, like she was the oxygen he was breathing. 

Rhysand wanted to strangle him, he tried to, tried to reach his hands around Tamlin’s throat and squeeze the life out of him, watch his fear when he realized that his end was coming.

But then Feyre’s hands moved, and they went to his neck, and they froze, and Tamlin looked at her.

“What’s the matter?” He asked with a frown. 

Rhys realized what he’d done again, and a voice was saying,

“My lord, you must wake.”

And then there was a sudden, sharp pain on the back of his hand and Rhysand lurched upward with a shout, scrambling away from invisible hands that seemed to close around his throat.

He knocked over a faelight on the table next to him and it shattered to the floor while he blinked the confusion from his eyes, finding the floor swathed in thick black shadows.

“My lord, you are in the library,” The same female voice said urgently, and Rhysand was suddenly panting for breath, staring up at half a dozen blue-robed faces.

Oh gods, he’d fallen asleep in the library, he’d had a nightmare—no, not a nightmare, the bond. He’d watched Feyre with Tamlin, in love with Tamlin.

More priestesses peered from the end of the row of books, looking in with various expressions of curiosity or worry. Rhysand was still in the highback chair, his book fallen to the floor, his hands shaking, and inky blackness pouring from him, filling the library.

The shadows continued to outwards as he quivered with anger at the memory. Of another male touching his mate, kissing his mate, telling her he loved her. And Feyre saying it back.

He clenched his hands to control the shaking, and felt pain above his knuckles.

“Apologies, lord,” One of the females said, and Rhys recognized the frightened blonde one, who had skittered away from him the previous day.

Her fist was clenched around a writing quill.

She’d stabbed his hand to wake him up.

Somehow she’d known—-pain was the only thing that could bring him out of a nightmare.

Rhys’ thoughts were scattered, he was trying to think through blinding rage and heart-hammering fear. 

They were staring, the priestesses, they’d seen his nightmare, they saw the black shadows.

You’re scaring them, stop it, He was shouting at himself, but he couldn’t control this violent anger radiating from him.

Rhys squeezed his eyes and his hands closed, trying to stop the shadows. Some of the priestesses backed away in fear.

“It’s alright,” Rhys breathed, “It’s n—I didn’t mean…”

He lifted a placating hand to try and show that he wasn’t a threat to the females, but black smoke was curling off of it, his power out of control.

“I’m sorry, I n–I need to…” He rose, and the skittish blonde priestess backed away, along with the others, giving him space to exit the aisle.

Just as he’d passed out into the open, though, a hand gripped his forearm, and looked down to see the blonde priestess who’d stabbed his hand.

Her eyes were clear and large, without a trace of that skittish fear he’d seen in her before.

“The Mother does not make mistakes,” She breathed, her gaze locking him in place, speaking as if she was pronouncing some great prophecy, “She is your salvation.”

Rhys’ stared at the female, breathless for a moment, his brow creasing. But just as he opened his mouth to ask what she meant, she released her iron grip and scurried away up the slope of the library. 

Rhysand grimaced after her, confusion mixing with that uncontrollable anger. He had to get out of here before he hurt someone.

“High Lord.”

A crisp voice said, and Rhysand turned to see Merrill, watching him warily.

“Come with me,” She said briskly, turning up the slope and marching away. 

Rhysand charged after her, shadows still reverberating from his feet and hands.

He would kill Tamlin, he would strangle the life out of him. Fuck him, the pathetic coward, what had he done all his life but sit on his ass and let people get hurt? He should’ve died that day in the Spring Court, Rhysand should’ve let his father cut Tamlin down in his home. 

Rhys’ breath heaved as he marched after Merril, the ground rumbling beneath him.

He was trying to reign it in, trying not to let his power leak out into the library, but he was so fucking angry he couldn’t see straight.

How could Feyre do this to him? Couldn’t she feel it? Didn’t she know? Why would she hurt him like this? How could she love Tamlin , of all males? 

Gods, Rhys was pathetic, pining after her when she hated him, when she thought he was nothing and she loved Tamlin. 

“Get in,” Merrill ordered, holding open her office door, and Rhys obeyed, clenching and unclenching his fists, the room filling with his darkness the moment he entered.

“You need to reign it in,” Merril said calmly when she closed the door.

“I’m trying ,” Rhysand gritted, wanting to punch something, to tear down the bookshelves and shatter every piece of furniture within reach.

“You harm my books and I’ll have you strung up,” Merrill said, her voice even, as if she’d read his violent thoughts. 

Still, she didn’t seem scared of him. 

Rhys growled, pacing back and forth in the small space, his skin flushed. Over and over he was seeing them together—Feyre and Tamlin; he was touching her and she liked it. Cauldron damn her, how could she do this?

“Talk to me about something,” He gritted out, feeling another pulse of power shudder out from him.

“Thirteen hundred years ago, there was a leader of the Valkyrie called Sheannan Strongwing,” Merril rattled off without hesitating, “When she had been only a century old, she was shot out of the sky by Autumn Court rogues and left to crawl out of the wilderness by herself. Her wings were crippled and she never flew again.”

Rhys kept pacing, breathing, his eyes closed, trying to focus on the words and not on his consuming rage.

“—nevertheless, she became leader of the Valkyrie before her two hundredth year—”

You’re worthless, she’ll never want you. You’re disgusting and Tamlin can give her everything she wants. She doesn’t need you. Nobody needs you.

“—she had a right hand who flew her to wherever she needed to go, and though she did not go into battle with her sisters, she was respected as the fiercest and most cunning general they’d ever had.”

Rhys punched his fist against his own chest, unable to dispel this terrible anger any other way. Unable to stop the tingling energy on his skin; the tang of magic.

“When it came time to elect a new general, the Valkyrie went against tradition, and re-elected Sheannan—”

Why couldn’t Feyre see what she was doing to him? 

You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve her. 

“—-and they continued to elect her every three years, for five centuries.”

Rhys put his hands on his thighs and leaned over, back against the bookshelf, forcing himself to breathe, to find something to hold onto besides this fury. 

He wanted to feel something else, he wanted to feel anything but this sick knowledge that Feyre didn’t want him, hated him, would always hate him.

“—until she died, fifty years before the War broke out—”

Anything. He just wanted to feel. 

“—killed in her sleep by Hybern spies.”

Rhys finally felt his power recede, the dangerous flaring and rumbling calming down to only embers beneath his skin. It still wanted to get out, but the light in the room returned to normal, and the ground stopped shaking.

“Some say that if she had survived to see the War, the Valkyrie might’ve had the victory that day. Might not have been slaughtered. Might have lived on to fight.”

Merril was standing close to him, her hands at her sides, watching him carefully. 

He was leaning against the bookshelf, his legs all but giving out. His breaths were heavy, but the shaking was abating and he was becoming still again.

Merril squinted, assessing him, watching for danger. 

There was silence in the office for a long stretch of seconds.

“Are you going to bring this mountain down?” Merrill said calmly.

Rhys’ chest rose and fell, his breath calming.

“No,” He swallowed, the haze clearing from his eyes, leaving a terrible empty pit.

There was a beat of quiet. 

“Would you like to speak of it?” She said flatly.

“No,” He shook his head.

Feyre hates me. Feyre loves him. She loves him. She wants him. She’s fucking him and she’s happy to. 

Rhysand felt the anger flare again. 

“What do you want?” Merril spoke, her voice drawing him back to this—-the office, the books, the tingling on his skin. 

He wanted escape.

He wanted distraction.

He wanted to feel something good for once.

Without thought, Rhysand’s hand rose to touch Merrill’s smooth face, but then he recoiled, realizing what he was doing.

Merril didn’t flinch, though, and kept staring at him.

“Do you want to touch me?”

She’s not your mate—Feyre’s your mate, you can’t want her. You can’t betray Feyre.

“No.”

“I don’t like liars,” Merril reminded coolly, “Do you want to touch me?”

I want to feel something.

Rhys shuddered with the effort of self control, closing his fists and digging his fingernails into his hands.

“I won’t, I promise,” He managed through clenched teeth.

“Why not?” Merril questioned, raising one eyebrow. 

Rhys’ eyes flicked up.

“B… you don’t want me to,” He said.

“Did I say that?” Merril returned. 

In that moment Rhysand realized how close they were standing, mere inches separating their bodies. His skin was tingling with the need to feel something. To feel the lips and body of a beautiful female.

But Feyre. You can’t betray Feyre.

Rhys’ face contorted in anger. 

Feyre was having her fun, her escape—fucking Tamlin for a few blissful moments of distraction. Why couldn’t he?

“Are you going to kiss me or not?” Merril asked calmly, not coming closer, just standing there, waiting for him to decide.

“Do you want me to?” He breathed.

Merril gave a little shrug.

“I’m not opposed to the idea. If you wish.”

But Feyre…

Rhys clenched his fist.

Forget Feyre. 

He wanted to escape too.

Within a breath, he had his hands around Merril’s face and was kissing her, breathing into her, erasing all other thoughts from his frantic mind except the warmth of her lips and the touch of her hands.

Those hands quickly slid across his hips to his lower back, pulling him into the kiss as he tried to chase that feeling of bliss, to quiet the screaming in his mind. His heartbeats became rapid and his skin hot, igniting with desire.

Merrill moaned when Rhysand slid a hand down over her breasts and began kissing down her neck, until he landed a light bite to her exposed skin. She pushed against him then, meeting his rushed, frantic energy and pushing their lips together again like she’d devour him. 

He found himself back against the bookshelf, her body flush with his, her hips grinding into him. 

Escape. He wanted to escape. He wanted to stop thinking for one damned second and just feel.

But then her hands were sliding under his shirt, cold against his skin, and something changed. 

He felt sharp fingernails digging into his chest, a hand around his throat, the sting of cold metal on his wrists and a cruel laugh. 

Oh gods, this was a mistake. He shouldn’t have done this. He didn’t want this. But it was too late, she was kissing him and touching him and he couldn’t stop her now. He had invited this, he had asked for it, had wanted it—hadn’t he always wanted it? Hadn’t he always been a whore?

“What’s wrong?”

Rhys hadn’t realized that he’d squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. His whole body had locked up, and he was frozen against the bookshelf, stuck in place and waiting for Merrill to do whatever she was going to do with him. 

But Merrill had noticed, and now she was still, her hands flat against his chest, her eyes searching his face with a frown.

Rhys’ breath shuddered.

“I…” 

It’s too late. You started this. 

No it’s not, just tell her you made a mistake, tell her to stop. 

“I d—I d—” Merril frowned.

It doesn’t matter what you want. She won’t listen.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys blurted out breathlessly before he could lose the words, “I don’t… I don’t want to do this.”

Merrill blinked.

“Oh.”

She dropped her hands from his chest and stepped back immediately, her expression unperturbed.

“Okay,” She said casually, turning away and straightening her robes as Rhys tried to catch his breath, still pressed against the bookshelf.

He swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” He breathed, as Merrill rounded to her desk and poured herself a glass of water.

“For what?” She said blankly, her face calm and unbothered.

“F—for, I… I didn’t mean to lead you on. I k–I kissed you…” 

He put up his palms, not sure what he was trying to say. He’d never left a female unsatisfied before, not since he was a foolish young male running about with Cassian and Azriel. He felt like he was doing something wrong.

“You changed your mind,” Merrill said with a shrug, “Which you’re perfectly entitled to do.”

She took a sip.

“I might’ve done the same.”

Rhys’ heart was slowing now, his breath coming back to its normal rhythm. The anger from before had dissipated, and now so had the fear, leaving him hollow and foggy. 

But Merrill was not looking at him with anything like disgust or annoyance. She simply sat at her desk and picked up a pen, as if she had been interrupted in her studies and was now picking up where she left off.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” Merrill said, not looking up from the paper.

Rhys felt exhausted now, and he wasn’t sure he’d make it to Vespers. He had a dry, sick taste in his mouth, and though Merrill’s touches hadn’t been unpleasant in themselves, they’d left behind an echo of dread, of the thousands of times before when he hadn’t been able to change his mind—-when She hadn’t listened to his pleas.

He stared over at the blue-robed female, sitting calmly at her desk, a victim of the same violation once upon a time, and yet seemingly unbothered by it now.

Rhys felt a clenching in his chest, and he dropped his gaze to his shaking hands, letting silence resume for a moment.

“When does it stop feeling like this?” He whispered, looking to Merrill for some kind of anchor, some glimmer of hope, “How do I fix it?”

How do I fix me ? How can I be who they need me to be? How can I be with Feyre? 

Merrill looked up with an inscrutable gaze, her eyes squinting slightly, as if reading something in his face, calculating some new information. 

Rhysand hoped to gods she understood what he meant, because he didn’t have the strength to explain himself to her. What he was. What he’d done.

Merrill took a preparatory breath, however, and went back to her writing as she spoke.

“Sometimes it merely takes time,” She said in a calm, clinical voice, the same voice she’d used to speak of the Valkyrie’s history, “To put space between yourself and your pain, and allow that space to heal you.”

She turned her page, still not looking at him—like she knew he couldn’t stand the scrutiny.

“Some find they need to talk about it; to expel the past by putting into words, and letting those words go. Others reclaim their bodies by loving them and allowing others to love them, replacing the bad memories with good ones.”

She tilted her head, eyes still on her work. But her tone was softer now, and carried with it knowledge of many wounds—-of the hurts that all the priestesses had carried into this library and laid at Merrill’s feet.

“For some, that closeness will never be the same, there is no fixing it,” She said, “But there can be new intimacy to discover. New ways of loving and being loved, beyond the physical.”

Merrill took a breath, and looked at Rhysand then, frank and understanding, with not an ounce of judgment.

“I could not tell any one person how to heal their wounds. It is something each of us must discover for ourselves—-and it is a hard road.”

Merrill held his eyes for a second, and then took a breath and returned to her writing once more.

“But sometimes, all it takes…” She said to the desk, “...is finding the right partner.”

Chapter Text

SIX MONTHS AGO

Amarantha was angry, and when she was angry—even if it wasn’t because of something Rhysand did—she hurt him. 

He had seen the different tones and flavors of her anger over the past five decades, and this was the worst of it—the cruel, biting anger that she felt when she’d been embarrassed, betrayed, out of control. She couldn’t stand not being able to control everyone.

This time, it was because of Kallias. And the Winter Court. And what they had done in their last desperate bid for freedom, as the time of Tamlin’s deal was coming to a close.

Amarantha had slaughtered the rebels she’d found, and had Kallias whipped within an inch of his life before everyone in the court, but she hadn’t killed him. She was debating it though, debating it as she’d dragged Rhysand to her bed and forced herself on him, hitting him cruelly and commanding that he beg her for more. 

It was a long, exhausting night, and it ended with Amarantha straddling him, his hands shackled up on the top of the headboard while she traced her fingers along his sweat-soaked body. Most of the time after her bouts of angry sex, Amarantha became soft and playful. She liked to linger, liked to keep Rhysand with her for a while, as she did now, not allow him to escape too quickly. She was sitting over him—her weight suffocating—and kissing his skin softly, as if asking forgiveness for the pain she’d just inflicted on him.

“What am I going to do with you, pretty Rhysand?” She mused, a single fingernail tracing the lines of his Illyrian tattoos.

“Whatever you like, my queen,” Rhysand returned automatically, resisting the urge to pull against the shackles and scream. 

Amarantha’s white teeth flashed in amusement.

“That’s a good boy—I wish the others understood how to play the game like you do,” She pouted, leaning over him and kissing up his neck, “Rebellions are so irritating, and I do so hate executing High Lords. It makes things messy for a few years.”

Rhys felt a spike of fear, not realizing how close she was to having Kallias killed.

“You don’t need to execute him,” Rhys said, trying to keep his voice neutral, “I think you made your point clearly enough.”

Amarantha sat up and gazed down at him, her hands flat on his chest, considering.

“Do you,” She stated, and Rhys felt a danger in her words. He shrugged—or tried to shrug, with the painful way he was hanging from the shackles.

“You embarrassed him, showed his Court that he was powerless against you, that the rebellion was futile. You already killed his rebels, killing him would only… make him a martyr,” Rhys said carefully, trying not to sound like he cared. But he did. He did care. He couldn’t let another High Lord die. He didn’t know who would replace Kallias, and things were on a knife-edge as it was.

“But if I don’t kill him…” Amarantha continued thoughtfully with her roaming hands, “The others might get ideas. A High Lord fears nothing so much as his own death… why should anyone care if a few underlings are executed?”

“Kallias cares,” Rhysand said, a little too quickly, “The males you executed were his most trusted guard. He’ll think twice about defying you now.”

Rhys shifted slightly in discomfort as Amarantha licked his pectoral.

“...and besides,” He continued, forcing his voice to sound casual and amused, “If Kallias dies then you have to deal with one of his obnoxious nephews, and they’ll be a thorn in your side for decades.”

“Could slaughter all of his family,” Amarantha considered casually, rolling her hips, trying to elicit some excitement from Rhys again, but Rhysand was too focused on saving Kallias to keep up that part of the facade. They were dangerously close to Amarantha making a fatal decision, and he was the only one who could talk her down.

“Certainly, but who knows who would replace him?” Rhys returned, “Could be even harder to control. And who’s to say the others won’t rally against you—if they’re afraid you’ll kill one of them next?”

Amarantha was silent for a long second, and Rhys couldn’t help the way his heart beat hard, waiting to hear her verdict. She sat up again, looking down at him with a tilted head and a gaze that made him afraid.

“You’re right,” She decided, and Rhys felt a flood of relief, “Killing Kallias would be far too much of a hassle.”

She swung her leg back over him and climbed off, reaching for a silken robe and throwing it over her bare body.

“There are better ways to control High Lords who grow too confident for their own good,” She tied the robe and flipped back her flaming hair, flashing Rhys a wicked, knowing smile.

“Thank you dear Rhysand,” She said, leaning back over the bed. 

Rhys expected her to undo the shackles that restrained him, but instead she placed a kiss on his lips, grinning ferally over him.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Rhys felt a lurch of fear as Amarantha rose and turned away.

“Wait…” He said, trying to sit up fully, but unable to. “W—Amarantha—”

The red-haired female strolled towards the door.

“If I were you, dear Rhysand,” She cooed, turning back to him from the doorway—a wicked glint in her eye, “I’d use this time to think about how I might continue to make myself… invaluable.”

She looked at him with a chiding expression.

“You’ve proved yourself quite useful these past years,” She continued, her hand on the door, while Rhys tried to control his rising panic, “But with dear Tamlin set to join us soon, your services are about to become…”

She eyed his naked body up and down.

“...redundant.”

Rhys swallowed tightly, heart pounding.

“And I have a feeling you’re going to want my protection.”

Her teeth glinted again, and she opened the door.

“W–wait, Amarantha!” Rhys called out, despite himself. But the door closed and locked behind her abruptly, leaving echoing silence, except for Rhys’ shaking breaths.

Oh gods, he’d made a mistake, he’d come on too strong, he shouldn’t have defended Kallias like that, he’d made her nervous… but he’d had to, he’d had to keep her from killing the High Lord of Winter, didn’t he? He had to keep the High Lords alive if they ever had a chance to fight back. But she’d seen—she’d seen the panic in his eyes, or heard his frantically beating heart and known that he cared.

“Fuck,” Rhys cursed through a tightening in his throat, looking up to one shackled hand and trying to wriggle his way free, “Fuck, fuck…”

He’d messed up. He’d been too obvious. Idiot. Stupid fucking idiot. 

Ever since those dreams had started, ever since he’d found that human girl on Calanmai, he’d been unsteady, distracted and uncertain, and Amarantha had noticed. She would know something was up, she would ask questions, and then the girl would be in danger…

“Fucking shit,” Rhys growled as he yanked on the shackle desperately. They were reinforced with Amarantha’s magic, so he could not use his own weak magic to break them apart.

He had to get free and warn Kallias, though. Whatever Amarantha was planning, the High Lord of Winter needed to prepare for it, try and shield himself somehow, or talk Amarantha down. Thankfully Kallias had no wife for Amarantha to murder, but she might torture him in front of his court, or force whoever was left of his advisors to whip him again or something.

“Nuala!” Rhys whisper-shouted, eyes on the shadows, “Cerridwen! I need you!”

He’d never called for them from Amarantha’s bedroom, had never wanted them to see him like this, but it was desperate now. Amarantha was planning something vile, and had left him locked up here so he couldn’t prevent it.

However, the two wraith-women did not appear, and Rhysand cursed again, knowing that there were likely wards around Amarantha’s bedroom to prevent people from passing through. They might not have even heard him.

Rhys thrashed again as best he could with his feet shackled at the bottom of the bed. His shoulders were already aching from how long he’d been hanging by his wrists, and he thought about dislocating his thumb to try and slide it through the shackle, but even then his hand would be too large.

Breathing rapidly, Rhys tried to close his eyes and center his frantic thoughts. He needed to warn Kallias. He needed to figure out what Amarantha was planning. He needed to find a way to stop it, or at least lessen the blow.

He didn’t need to leave the room to do that.

Forcing his mind to calm, Rhysand reached out in his thoughts past the walls of the room, straining his handicapped magic in what would have once been a ridiculously easy exercise. 

He found a few flickering consciousnesses out in the hallway, but passed them by, noting nothing of import in their dull thoughts. Lesser fae worked a level below in the kitchens, and a few High Fae were rising from their beds—it must have been very early in the morning, Amarantha had had him all night. 

He ignored the various flickering minds he came across, searching for Kallias–knowing that it would be futile to try and get through Amarantha’s shields.

He never reached Kallias, however, because two levels below on a dark stone staircase, he came across the minds of three Hybern guards under Amarantha’s command. And they were romping down to the caves deep in the mountain, where the lesser fae and low-ranking courtiers had been put into camps. 

When Rhysand touched the mind of the male in the lead he heard the thought:

The Winter Lord’s done for now—even if she don’t kill him, his own court might.

Rhys stopped his wandering and honed in on the guard, the group he was in, their steady progress lower and lower. He sifted through the man’s thoughts and—-straining his daemati magic—-saw scraps of memory, a burly higher commander looking down at the males sternly.

Queen wants two dozen children from Winter Court gathered up—-I don’t care whose. Bring them to the meeting chamber. Tell anyone of this, and you’re dead.

Rhys’ heart seized.

Children from Winter Court. Why? For what purpose? What was she planning? 

He breathed hard, his eyes still closed as he hunted through the men’s minds, leaving them and finding their commander, who was already dragging in two wailing children by their white hair.

No, no, no, no, Rhys thought frantically, following the man’s path into the smaller hall where Amarantha usually met with her advisors and commanders. Three children were already there, huddling together and looking around frightened. And then Rhysand saw Amarantha, standing at the front of the room with a gleam in her dark eyes. Kallias was not there; no witnesses, no one to see what was being done—or by whom.

This wasn’t like her—Amarantha wanted a show, she loved public torture, scaring people into submission by having an audience for her torments. Why would she hide her punishment to the Winter Court?

Rhys sensed the Daemati the moment she entered—a Hybern female that was often whispering in Amarantha’s ear, or watching the courtiers with hawk-like precision.

The moment he saw her, he knew what was happening.

No. 

Rhysand’s heart began a rapid, terrified beat, but he forced himself to focus. 

Straining his mental strength until his mind almost snapped, Rhysand tried to enter the thoughts of the guards that he could sense now gathering up children, tearing them from their screaming parents, hauling them towards their doom. 

There were too many, and they were too far away. 

Rhys groaned in frustration, ripping his mind from all the guards except one, hoping he could stop at least this male in his tracks, before he reached the throne room—and then head on to the next one. 

But the thread of Rhysand’s power was tenuous at best. He could see what was happening, but he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control the males who brought the children to Amarantha’s feet.

“No!” Rhys screamed into the empty bedroom, stabbing out with all the strength he had, begging the Mother and the Cauldron to intervene, just this once. 

“Please!” He shouted, straining again at the relentless shackles.

I’ve never asked for anything, He pleaded to the Powers that Be, Not once. I never asked you to spare me or protect me or save my people, but please, please, please…

Rhysand pulled so hard on the shackles now that he dislocated his own shoulder, and cried out in pain, even as his mind still stabbed outwards.

Until the very last moment Rhysand fought, his black claws scrabbling at the minds of the guards, trying to pull them back. When they’d reached the meeting room, he diverted his mental energy to the Daemati herself, slamming himself against her mental shields, heedless of the fact that she would know, that she would sense his attack, possibly realize who was behind it, and tell Amarantha.

He clawed at her desperately, his body straining from the effort, but the Daemati did not break. He was too far away, his power was too dampened. Amarantha had chosen her executioner well.

“No,” Rhysand pleaded to the empty room, his voice cracking as he sobbed, and the dark-haired female approached the line of shivering children.

Whether through some twisted sort of mercy, or because the Daemati did not have the skill to draw out her deed, the children’s minds were shattered quickly. As one, Rhysand saw them shudder and blink, and then crumple to the floor—lifeless, blood seeping from their noses.

Rhys let out a strangled sob, fighting the urge to wrench his mind away from the scene—he had done this, this was his fault, he deserved to have this image burned into his eyes for the rest of his life.

Your fault your fault your fault.

He screamed through his gritted teeth, shaking with fury and helplessness.

There was silence in the meeting room then, and even some of the guards looked a little sick, the twenty-four children still with death on the cold floor in front of them.

Then Amarantha spoke:

“Take them back to their parents,” She said flatly.

At last Rhysand released his mind from its grip, and returned to his own body, chained in Amarantha’s bed, shuddering as blood dripped down his arms from where the shackles had cut into him. 

His shoulder screamed with sharp sparks of pain, but he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything, just stared at the canopy of the bed, wishing he’d had an Illyrian blade, so he could stab himself with it.

Twenty-four children. Twenty-four innocent High Fae children. Children who’d likely spent the whole of their short lives Under the Mountain, living off the stories their parents told them of a world beyond, and dreaming of one day escaping. 

It was very likely that there were now less than five children under the age of maturity left in Winter Court. Amarantha had decimated them for their rebellion, given them a reason to curse Kallias, and lay the blame at Rhysand’s feet.

It did not escape him, the fact that she had used a Daemati, and had done the deed in secret so no one would know. So everyone would look to him.

***

Rhys lay there hollow for an endless stretch of time, drifting in and out of consciousness, in and out of his body, waking up only to scream or thrash or be sick. Hours passed, he couldn’t tell, except that the blood on his arms was drying and his hunger grew gnawing. 

He might’ve been worried, might’ve wondered how long she would leave him like this, except that he couldn’t feel anything, he was existing in a sort of hazy half-life, like he was mid-way through winnowing, stuck in the pocket between worlds. 

He drifted off to sleep sometimes, only to awake with stabbing pain when his dislocated shoulder shifted the wrong way. He lost feeling in his hands and developed a desperate thirst. The silence drove him mad, hearing only his own breaths, and seeing the image of the Winter Children’s bodies floating in front of his eyes.

“Help!!” He screamed hoarsely, after hours, or maybe days, he wasn’t sure anymore, “Somebody help!!”

He didn’t care. He didn’t care anymore who found him, that they would see him like this—naked and chained and covered in his own vomit and piss. He had to get out or he’d die. Maybe he should die. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe she would leave him here and finally starve him to death—-the conclusion of the sick game she’d been playing with him for the last fifty years.

He’d never be able to get back to Velaris and see his family, or find that human girl again, and figure out why she haunted his dreams. He’d been a fool to ever think he would. To ever hope.

He didn’t dream of her in that room—-the painting girl with the lovely hands—-like her presence was now too pure and good for his black-stained soul. He’d killed those children, as surely as if it had been his power shattering their minds, he’d killed them.

The only thing that kept him from utter and total despair was the knowledge that he had to live in order for Velaris to stay guarded. He had to keep his magic alive, or the shields would shatter. It wasn’t fair—when he deserved to die for what he’d done—but there were children in Velaris too. Dozens and dozens. And if she found them…

Rhys’ breaths came in shallow wheezes, and his heartbeat felt sluggish when the distant noise of the door clicking open floated into his consciousness.

“Mother’s blood,” A low voice murmured. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it.

Rhys’ eyes were unfocused, gazing blankly at the garish tapestries hung on the opposite wall, he’d long ago lost the ability to hold his neck up, and it sagged at an odd angle on his ruined shoulder. 

Footsteps chafed across the floor as the voice said,

“Rhysand?”

Someone was here. A male. Not her. Not Amarantha… Cassian? Had his brother come to save him? Perhaps he was dead and this was the Life Beyond. But no, because that would mean Cassian was dead too, and he couldn’t stand that thought.

Rhys wanted to turn his head and look but he couldn’t; perhaps he was frozen by some spell, perhaps he was paralyzed.

The male was cursing low under his breath as he reached towards the shackle on Rhys’ right arm.

The sudden touch after so many hours of nothing was like a shock to Rhys’ system, and he jerked up in alarm, letting out a terrified groan.

“It’s me, Rhysand, it’s Helion—” The voice said quickly, and into Rhys’ foggy vision came a brown male face framed by dark hair, brow furrowed and eyes sharp.

Helion. High Lord of Day. Not Amarantha. What was he doing here? Oh gods, he’d come to kill Rhys, for what he’d done, for the Winter children…

“It w—it wasn’t—it wasn’t me,” Rhysand begged, his voice cracked and raspy from so much screaming, while Helion went back to the shackles, and murmured over them, dismantling the spells that held them fast.

“It wasn’t… I didn’t… I trie–I tried—” Rhys’ breath was shuddering, his lungs unable to fill up completely from the way he was hanging

When the first shackle was loosened, Rhysand’s weight sagged against the other—his dislocated shoulder—and he shouted in pain through gritted teeth. Helion moved quickly around the bed to loose the other wrist, the male’s face grim.

“I didn’t—kill those children,” Rhysand wheezed, shaking his head, pleading with Helion to believe him. 

The second shackle came loose and Rhys went limp against the bed.

“Think I bloody believe you now,” Helion murmured, his face stony. 

He did not give Rhysand any warning when he popped his shoulder back into place, and Rhys screamed again, arching in pain. After a moment, though, the pain dissipated, and Rhys was able to think a little clearer.

Oh gods, what had he done?

“You shouldn’t… you can’t be here,” Rhysand rasped, realizing the danger, “If she finds out you helped me…”

“She sent me,” Helion returned, his brow still furrowed as he went to the bottom of the bed and began to remove the shackles from Rhysand’s ankles.

Rhys’ heart shrank in fear. No, he couldn’t see her, not like this, not now. Helion must’ve seen his expression, because he said,

“She’s not coming here, but I think she wanted me to find you… wanted… to shame you.”

Helion’s eyes were fixed firmly on Rhysand’s bruised ankles.

“No one’s seen you since… since what happened, and she was making a big fuss about it, laughing about it, saying you must be hiding from Kallias after—after what you did.”

Helion’s eyes flicked up, the second shackle coming free.

“But then she told me I should find you, that she wanted to see you at the feast in three days—the anniversary feast.”

Of the day she’d taken their power and made herself Queen.

“I looked in your chambers and asked Keir and the others, but… then I figured…”

He shrugged reluctantly, gesturing to the room.

“I think she knew no one else would be able to get through her wards.”

Helion swallowed tightly as he walked back up to the head of the bed, removing the outer layer of his draping toga, and laying it over Rhysand as a covering.

“I–t–I tried…” Rhysand wheezed again, his body still twitching, like it didn’t know how to be still now that it wasn’t restrained.

“I tried to stop—”

“—can you get up?” Helion interrupted, his expression flat. His anger was simmering just below the surface.

Rhys managed to pull himself to the edge of the bed, but even that movement made him dizzy, and Helion seemed disturbed.

“How long have you been like this?” The male asked.

Rhys just looked up at him darkly from under his brow, eyes bloodshot.

“Since the children were killed?” Helion almost whispered, his eyes sharp.

A cough wracked Rhysand’s body as he forced himself into a sitting position, Helion’s robe covering his legs, leaving his torso exposed and cold.

He nodded when the fit had passed, and Helion grimaced.

“It’s been seven days,” Helion said hoarsely, and if Rhysand had had the strength, he might’ve been horrified by that.

As it was, he just said,

“Water?” 

Helion hurried over to the wash basin, which held some stagnant, tepid water, and brought it back to Rhysand, who didn’t have the strength to hold the pitcher up to his lips. Helion held it, and Rhys drank, and his desperate thirst was slightly relieved. 

“Is she trying to kill you?” Helion asked in disbelief, shaking his head. 

Rhys didn’t have the strength to explain—-to tell Helion that it was his fault, that he had overplayed his hand, and she had killed the winter children because of it, punishing him in the process.

There was silence in the room for a long stretch then, as Rhys drank more water from the pitcher, and felt his shriveled stomach come to life with hunger. 

“Please don’t tell…” He started, his voice giving out for a moment before he swallowed, “Please don’t tell the others,” He begged, his heavy eyes lifting to Helion. Probably the closest thing he had to an ally down here—-the male who’d been the most understanding about his arrangement with Amarantha, never spat at him or called him a whore, seemed to have enough secrets of his own.

Helion shook his head.

“Kallias thinks you did this, Rhysand, but if he knew she had you locked up…”

“I can’t,” Rhys said, his voice coming out loud for just that one word, “They have t—they have to fear me. They won’t fear me, if they saw… if they knew…” 

His lungs couldn’t draw steady breath. He was a shuddering mess and Helion could see it. He had been shattered again, after fifty years of holding himself together, she had shattered him because of one stupid mistake. Just to prove she still controlled him.

He looked at Helion with a deadened, desperate gaze.

“Please,” He begged the male.

Helion’s lips were thin, but he did not look at Rhysand with derision.

“You’re sure it’s worth all this?” The male said finally, his voice low and haggard, “Wherever they are?”

Rhysand’s sanity was hanging by a thread, and even the slightest mention of his family would send him teetering off the edge.

Yes, He thought at first—firm and assured. His family and Velaris, they were worth everything, his whole life. But then another, worse thought creeped in… fifty years they’d been free, untouched by Amarantha’s plague because of what he’d done. And had they done anything to try and rescue him? Had they even tried to help? Had they even cared that he was gone? His mind was fraying, and the truths upon which he’d built his fragile soul were shaken. He had to get out of this fucking room.

“Please,” He said again, looking up at Helion, unable to voice anything more.

The tall male sighed.

“Can you get up? Winnow?”

Rhysand could not stand on his own, and hadn’t the strength to access his withering magic, but Helion slung an arm under his shoulder—-after wrapping the cloth carefully so it would not fall—and helped him rise. 

The male winnowed them to Rhysand’s chambers then and helped him quickly inside.

“I’ll have the kitchen bring up food,” He said, looking Rhys up and down in concern as he let him down onto the soft armchair at the side of his own bed.

“Don’t eat too much at once or you’ll be sick,” He advised, still standing there while Rhysand caught his breath and tried not to be sick right there.

Rhys just looked up at Helion, his breaths heavy, and nodded.

“Thank you,” He breathed, “I… owe you.”

Helion shook his head.

“No,” He murmured, “I owed you—-this makes us even.”

Rhysand’s brow knit, but he didn’t have the strength to ask what the other male meant, and in a flash, Helion was gone again, leaving Rhys alone in the empty room.

When food was brought, he ate, though his appetite was slim despite the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. He drank and sat in a daze as the faelights flickered in his room. 

He’d no idea what time it was, where anyone was, what had happened Under the Mountain in the week he’d been confined. He only knew that Amarantha expected him to be in the throne room in three days’ time. The thought made him want to be sick again, but he reeled in the cloying fear that filled his nostrils, and tried to calm his racing heart.

It took him hours, but he finally worked up the strength to rise from the chair he’d slumped in and wash himself in the bath, soaking in scalding water and scrubbing his skin raw. When he dressed again, he felt that he’d finally returned to his body, steadied his mind, and could see straight.

But the thought of crawling into the bed to lie down made his legs shake and his heart clench in fear. 

So he took the top cover off the bed and went back into the bathing room, climbing into the dry tub and curling up against the cold porcelain, trying not to think about what Helion had said:

Are you sure it’s worth all this?

It had to be. 

It had to be.

It had to be… or there would be nothing left.

Chapter Text

After the incident with his nightmare in the library and his unexpected kiss with Merrill, Rhysand had expected to be asked not to return, or at least for Merrill herself to be a little cold towards him—a little cold er he supposed would be more accurate to say. 

But Clotho greeted him with her usual soft smile the next day when he entered, asking if he had recovered from his episode, but not prying too much. 

That evening at Vespers Merrill did not find her way to the pew he stood in, and Rhys supposed that made sense, considering his abrupt rejection of her after he’d initiated things. But then he realized it was because she was leading Vespers that evening—apparently the head priestesses took it in turns to guide the rest of the order in their prayers and songs.

The following evening, Merrill returned to her usual spot, and exchanged her usual brisk, unconcerned banter. Somehow that made Rhysand feel light and calm inside—-if she could still look at him straight on after what he’d done, then perhaps it really was alright. She didn’t think he was a freak or a fool. At least not moreso than anyone else. She treated him just like normal.

Knowing that he had the sanctuary of the library available to him made Rhysand feel calmer about the time he spent with his family. He could share dinner with Az and Cassian without wanting to bolt, listening to their words like he listened to the soft shufflings of pen and paper in the library. He could go about the city with Mor and avoid panic, knowing that if it all got to be too much he could find shelter in the quiet stacks, or talk to Merrill about her studies to distract himself.

If he’d scared any of the priestesses by his nightmare outburst of shadows, they didn’t seem to resent him for it. In fact, most of the females seemed to look at him more firmly now—-their eyes not glancing away in a shy sort of manner, but instead nodding his direction and giving him a knowing gaze, as if to say:

We understand. 

Rhysand tried not to let that make him feel self-conscious; it was very close to pity—the look that they gave—and he couldn’t stand that. 

He continued to train with Cassian, and was grateful to find that, after only a few weeks, his body was responding to the renewed routine, strength returning and muscles honing themselves once again. 

He still became more easily winded than in the past, and his wings had not yet made an appearance—- You can’t force it, Azriel had said when Rhysand was cursing himself for his failure, Focus on what you can control—- but other than that let down, Rhys was grateful to find that he had not lost all his skill as a fighter in his fifty years trapped.

He still found himself rippling with anger, especially as he was subjected to not only Feyre’s dalliances with Tamlin—-which he was able to shut out at all times except during sleep—but also the brief glimpses through the bond where he saw that she was withering away, a shell of herself, wracked by guilt and nightmares. One month on, and she was nothing like the determined woman who had stood before Amarantha and boldly called for Tamlin’s freedom.

And Tamlin—Cauldron curse him—was a useless piece of shit, doing nothing to help Feyre, so far as Rhys could see.

“You’re really concerned for this… human…” Cassian mentioned at the end of a training session, when Rhysand had muttered something under his breath after getting a flash of Feyre’s pain through the bond.

“She’s not human,” Rhys snapped, a little more sharp than he ought to have been, “Not anymore.” 

He saw Cassian’s careful glance, but his brother bit his tongue.

“Look,” Rhysand sighed, “It just… isn’t right. For him to ignore her like that, after she saved him.”

“Saved all of you,” Cassian said quietly, and Rhys could feel him watching him.

She’s my mate, Rhys wanted to say, I’m concerned for her because she’s my mate, because I can’t breathe when I’m not around her, because I feel her pain as if it were my own, because I love her and I’d die for her and she’ll hate me forever.

But he just said:

“It’s the stupid bargain I made. I h–had to do it, you know, to keep her alive. But now it won’t—leave me alone.”

He tapped his temple, to imply that the bargain was the only thing that connected them.

If Cassian doubted this flimsy explanation, he didn’t say so. He just nodded.

“Wish I could meet her,” He said, forcing his tone to be light, “Sounds like a badass.”

Rhys looked at his brother strangely for a moment, but didn’t respond. Because all he could think about was Feyre’s frail, huddled form on the floor of the Spring Court bathroom, and how different it was from the woman who’d flung a bone shard at Amarantha’s feet.

She was.

***

That night, Rhysand was awoken from unsteady sleep by a firm tugging on his arm, like a vine had wrapped itself around his wrist and was dragging him away. He shot up with a start, before recognizing Azriel’s shadows.

Immediately he met his brother’s mind.

What is it?

Attack on the Temple at Sangravah. Get to the House of Wind, now.

Rhys felt his stomach drop, but he flung himself out of bed immediately and snapped on his fighting leathers, grabbing his Illyrian blade from where it was stored in the pocket between worlds, and throwing on his boots. 

He frantically told the others what was going as he laced up his boots with shaking hands, out of practice and unsure. Then he hurtled down the Townhouse stairs until he was far enough outside that he could winnow up to the House of Wind.

Rhys plummeted from the drop above the balcony and rolled to absorb the blow, before running inside to find Cassian, Mor and Amren in the dining room, the former two dressed for battle and wide-eyed.

“Azriel’s already there,” Rhys blurted out, sliding knives into sheaths at his side,
“Cassian, fly Mor outside of the wards so she can winnow away and then come back for me.”

Cassian was holding his gaze, hesitance on his face, and Rhys could have burned with shame for his own pitifulness—he would need help just to get into battle.

“Rhys, it might not be wise to go into a battle wit—”

“—I’m going,” Rhys snapped, “That’s that. No time to argue.”

Amren stayed still and Mor looked worried, but Cassian just twisted his jaw and nodded, marching out to the balcony.

He launched off the ground with Mor and flew out a few dozen feet, while Rhys stared over the edge of the balcony and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his wings to form.

Come on, He pleaded with the magic inside himself, I need them, I need my wings, people need me, I need to fly.

But nothing happened, there was an empty space where the magic should have been.

Rhys hit his own fist against his thigh, cursing himself for being inept. 

Broken. Useless. 

But then Cassian was back, and Rhys let his brother hold his large arms around him and launch back into the air, until they were far enough out that Rhys could winnow them both. 

The world went dark and twisted and Rhys squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the swooping feeling that would occur when they dropped into the sky above the temple.

What he hadn’t anticipated, were the screams.

A cacophonous wall of noise reached up to them when they appeared over Sangravah, and Cassian flared out his wings to slow their descent. 

Screams rose up from echoing stone buildings, fires raged on the grounds and wind howled on the mountain slope, while the temple bells rang in alarm, a plea for anyone to help. 

There was a brewing storm with rolling thunder coming down from the peaks,and bitter snow bit at their faces.

“Put me down at the top of the stairs!” Rhysand shouted over the noise, “Then fly up to the bell tower and start getting those fires out.”

“It’s not saf—”

“Do it, Cassian!” Rhysand ordered. He would not be babied by his own general.

The moment his feet hit the ground, Rhys was running, blade drawn, darkness rippling out from beneath him. 

The open veranda at the front of the temple must have been beautiful on summer evenings, when the sun was setting and the priestesses held their services outside. But now it was an ugly mire of cracked stone and burning rubble and—worst of all—twisting bodies. 

Rhys scanned the lumps for signs of life, finding dead priestesses everywhere, and a line of dead soldiers left behind by Azriel, their uniforms clearly from Hybern, a fact which made Rhys dizzy with fear.

He shoved it down and hunted again—-for live soldiers, and the females they were holding captive. They were scattered throughout the veranda as well, and Rhys did not need to be a daemati to know what the soldiers had been doing before Azriel had gotten there.

He sent his rippling power to end them all.

Rhys found one male wrestling a screaming priestess to the ground, her robes torn and her face bloodied. Immediately Rhys whipped his power out at the man, suffocating him with darkness, jamming the shadows down his throat so he choked on them, so his eyes went wide and he writhed and fell off the female, feeling every second of his death.

“Are you alright?” Rhys shouted at the female when the soldier was still. He knelt down to see her head wound, trying to still his shaking hands. The wound was bleeding but not bad, and though the priestess was shuddering, she nodded her head.

“Fine,” She said through her gasps.

“What’s your name?”

“Tamerley,” She croaked as the noise covered her words, “M—my sisters—inside.”

She pointed.

“There are children.”

Rhysand nodded, immediately going stiff. 

He felt the arrival of city guards from Velaris, winnowed to the temple stairs by Mor. The magic protecting the temple meant that no one could winnow directly into the veranda, but it also meant they couldn’t winnow out , which meant the soldiers were now trapped.

Quickly, Rhys created a magic barrier between the temple and the veranda, trapping any males inside, where they would be hunted down and slaughtered.

“Wait out here,” He ordered the shaking female, conjuring another robe for her to pull around herself, “Gather those sisters who need the most help, if you can. You’re safe, there are none left outside the temple. My guards are coming up the stairs now.”

The female nodded sharply, determination in her eyes despite the horror of what she’d just been through, and she rose, heading for another priestess who was calling for aid. 

As Rhys hurried towards the temple itself—his heart hammering in his chest with adrenaline—-he could not help but stare at the upturned faces of the females who lay with blank, lifeless eyes; those he had been too slow to save.

Rhys burned with rage as he saw the carnage, and this time, he did not rein it in.

Entering the arched hallways of the temple, Rhysand moved like a hurricane, out of control and unforgiving and lethal. Once he spotted a soldier, they died. No question. No begging. No mercy. 

Over and over he slaughtered with magic and mind and sword. If there were no females in danger, he took his time, eliciting screams from the males before he ended them with a stroke of his blade. 

One soldier he ended by repeatedly bashing his head into the stone wall, splattering his blood and brains everywhere. Another he strangled with his bare hands, and when he found one assaulting a priestess in an empty sitting room, he impaled the male’s eye with his knife, and twisted it cruelly. 

Rhys felt nothing but fury, and he gave himself wholly over to the wild anger that screamed at him to kill kill kill. 

We need to keep some of them alive, Azriel’s urgent voice came through his mind, even as Rhys beheaded a male who’d tried to turn and flee at the sight of him. Rhys didn’t hear his brother—didn’t heed him. He could not fathom the thought of leaving them alive. He just killed.

The next male he found was in a room with a dead priestess, her arms and legs bound and her throat slit. The soldier had killed her—he had heard them coming and he had killed her.

The male faced Rhysand with the angry gaze of a man who knew he was about to die, and would not repent.

It was everything Rhysand could do not to transform into his bestial self and rip the male’s throat out with his teeth. Instead, he flung him against the wall with his shadows, then back to the ground with a sickening crunch, then broke each of his limbs one by one while the male screamed. 

Then Rhysand brought his blade down on those limbs, hacking at the male until the sounds coming out of him were inhuman. Blood sprayed into Rhysand’s face, and the male stopped wriggling, but he continued to bring his blade down, over and over, his mind and eyes wild, shouting with each blow, making the corpse unrecognizable.

Kill kill kill.

“Rhysand!”

Rhysand swung the blade around lightning-fast, but Cassian blocked it with his own, the metal reverberating through Rhys’ blood-soaked arm as his brother stared hard at him.

“It’s me,” Cassian said, unflinching, as Rhysand’s blood pulsed in his head and his mind screamed.

Just then Azriel burst through the door at the other end of the hall, a wounded female in his arms, wrapped in his cloak, her copper hair hanging down in long sheets. Azriel’s expression was like death, and his shadows were crackling with fury, but all he said was,

“In the kitchens, there are children.”

And he marched past Cassian and Rhysand with the half-conscious female.

Cassian looked alarmed.

“There’s still a fire in the eastern—”

“—I’ll get them,” Rhysand growled, stalking away.

“Rhys, your face—” Cassian called out to stop him, Rhys looked back, and Cassian gestured.

Right. The blood. Children. He would scare them.

Rhysand cleaned his face with a flick of his magic, not having the focus to do much better.

When he entered the kitchens he had to step over the corpses of soldiers and priestesses alike—-one of which had the same coppery hair and fair skin of the female Azriel had been carrying.

Rhys saw the carnage, the slaughter, but his mind could not process it. He was blank, hollow, unable to recognize what he was seeing. He knew it would hit him later—those dead eyes, the blood and skin.

He had a moment of fear when he entered the kitchens and found no one living; he scanned the bodies and was terrified that he would find children among them, but no. Then he felt consciousnesses below his feet, and he closed his eyes, stretching his power out to sense the room. 

Under the table, under a rug, he could sense the hearts and minds of about a dozen children, hiding, terrified.

Quickly, he sheathed his sword, moved the table aside, and knelt to pull back the rug, taking a calming breath and schooling his face into a less frightening expression.

When he lifted the trap door he could’ve wept to see the gathering of blue-clothed children—-gray faced and fearful, but unharmed. One of the oldest of the girls was standing at the front of their group, holding a knife up at Rhysand’s face, a mask of determination hiding her fear as her shaking hand gripped the hilt.

Rhysand put his palms up to show them he meant no harm.

“My name is Rhysand,” He said calmly, “I’m here to help you. You’re safe now.”

The huddled children eyed him warily.

“Where’s Sister Gwyneth?” The girl with the knife demanded, her little shoulders tight with fear. Rhysand glanced back at the dead female behind him, hoping that she wasn’t the one of whom they spoke.

“I don’t know right now,” He said, “But I’ll help you find her. Right now some of the temple is on fire, and we need to get outside.”

The children glanced at each other uncertainly, fearful of a trick.

“Here,” Rhysand said, drawing the Illyrian blade on his back, causing the children to stiffen. He moved slowly and deliberately though, placing the blade on the floor and raising his hands from it.

“I promise I mean you no harm. Sister Tamerley told me to find you.”

This seemed to win them over, and the girl in front lowered her knife a bit. Cautiously, they began to climb out of the hiding place, as Rhysand helped them by the hand. 

He had placed a glamour on the room to hide the bodies, not wanting to traumatize the children further. No doubt they knew the priestesses who had been slain—any of them might’ve been their mother. 

He tried not to think about that.

When Rhysand emerged back onto the veranda, he had a small child in his arms and one riding on his back, a third holding to his free hand as the girl with the knife led the others up ahead. The smoke had lessened and the screaming had stopped, the bell falling quiet, leaving only the sound of the wind whistling through the temple grounds. 

The fight was over, and all the soldiers lay dead.

Some healers had been winnowed in and were tending to wounded priestesses, and those still standing were gathered close to the steps, some weeping, some sitting and staring blankly, some searching frantically for friends or comforting each other, some seemingly knelt in prayer. 

The boy holding Rhys’ hand let out a startled cry and immediately let go, running ahead towards the gathered priestesses, where a female who shared his blonde hair and honey complexion shouted his name and grabbed him up into her arms. 

This brought the attention of the rest of the group to the children that were emerging onto the Veranda, and there were cries of relief, as mothers found their offspring in the crowd.

“Thank you, High Lord,” A female said with quivering lips, as she took the child from Rhysand’s arms and clutched him to her shoulder, “Mother bless you. Thank you.”

Rhys couldn’t say anything, the words were stuck, he tasted only ash. 

And despite the tearful reunions, he could see that there were  some children who did not find their mothers in the crowd, who stood looking in forlorn confusion, until one of the other sisters gathered them close to comfort them. 

He was only grateful that the Velaris guards had already covered the bodies with sheets.

“Any of them… not make it?” Cassian’s voice said next to him, staring at the children. Rhys shook his head.

“They were hidden.”

Cassian swallowed, and nodded.

“Azriel said she wouldn’t tell where they were,” He nodded to the copper-haired priestess who was slouched against a piece of rubble, rocking herself and sobbing—still wrapped in Azriel’s cloak, while Mor tended to her as best she could.

“Where is he?” Rhys said hollowly, his voice sounding strange in his head after the adrenaline and blood.

“Giving chase,” Cassian said with a note of worry, “Rhys…” He glanced up, “They got the foot of the cauldron.”

Rhysand’s stomach plummeted. 

Oh gods. 

He closed his eyes, fear threatening to drown him. The Cauldron, Hybern was after the Cauldron, he was preparing for war, he would attack, he would enslave them again, they would be back Under the Mountain, helpless, and this time Velaris wouldn’t be free. Hybern would know—

Rhysand, I need some help.

Mor’s voice in his mind cut through his panic, and he looked up. The copper-haired priestess was standing now screaming someone’s name and trying to lurch towards the temple while Mor held her back, trying to calm her to no avail. The female was inconsolable. Even her sisters could not get close enough to her to tend her wounds or comfort her; she would not remove Azriel’s cloak for anyone to look at her.

She needs to get out of here. Mor said, It’s too much.

Rhys had to close his eyes for a second to steady himself.

“Come get me when Azriel’s back,” Rhys ordered Cassian stiffly, “I’m going to the library.”

Then he reached out with his mind to the grief-stricken female and pressed the thought of sleep upon her mind, quieting her into a gentle unconsciousness, where she would not be plagued by dreams or horrors. 

He would’ve felt bad for intruding upon her like that, but he knew unconsciousness was a far better choice than what she was feeling. He knew what it was like.

He walked over as the young female slumped in Mor’s arms. One of the older priestesses was hovering nearby with a haunted gaze, and when he spoke to her he forced his voice to be calm and comforting. 

“With your permission, Sister, I will take her to a safe place in my city, where healers can see to her in quiet.”

The older woman nodded. Rhys was keeping his composure at this point only from pure adrenaline. Once he stopped to think, it would be over.

“Please… whatever can be done.”

“If there are others who wish to go, they need only ask.”

The priestess seemed to understand this—to understand that some would need time away; that for some, this place would never feel safe again.

She nodded and bowed low.

“We are in your debt, High Lord.”

Rhys tried not to wince. He couldn’t stand that—listening to her thanks—when he had done nothing to prevent this brutal attack, had not foreseen the assault on a temple within his own borders. Azriel, too, would never forgive himself for failing to discover the plot, but Rhys would have to deal with that another day.

Now he bent down and gently lifted the unconscious priestess into his arms as Mor said,

“Tell Clotho I’ll be there as soon as possible.” His cousin was glancing around, at the other brutalized females who needed tending to, and Rhys nodded.

He started towards the stairs.

“And Rhys?” Mor said; he turned back.

“Her name is Gwyn.”

Sister Gwyneth.

Rhys let out the slightest breath. One small victory, at least.

“Tell the children she’s alive,” He said, before turning towards the stairs and stepping beyond the boundary of magic. He winnowed back to Velaris as the sky lightened with the first rays of morning.

Chapter Text

Rhysand had landed hard on the balcony of the House of Wind,  doing his best not to drop the unconscious female in his hands, and regaining his balance quickly, before he hurried down towards the library.

He sent ahead his thoughts to find Clotho, and as soon as he burst through the wide double doors, a contingent of priestesses were there to meet him, all grim-faced but determined. 

For a moment he saw the bodies again—the same blue robes lying crumpled on the veranda, the stench of blood and smoke filling his nostrils—-but then the unconscious girl was being taken out of his arms and placed on a pallet that one of the women elevated with magic. 

She was whisked away, and suddenly Merrill was before him.

“Are there others coming?” She asked crisply, and Rhys shook his head, still catching his breath.

“I don’t know.”

Merrill nodded.

“Are you injured?” She questioned, scanning him quickly. He looked down at himself—every inch of him splattered with blood and gore, his face streaked with smoke from the fires. 

He shook his head again, and Merrill nodded.

“Clotho will want to speak with you. We’re locking down the library for now.”

With a twist of her hand towards the two great doors and the sound of a lock clicking into place, she turned away, hurrying after the other priestesses and the injured female from Sangravah.

Rhysand was left alone in the entryway of the echoing library, a sudden silence falling, after all that panic and noise.

He stood breathing shakily, and felt sick rising up his throat. He forced it down, though, and pressed his back against the wall, sliding until he was seated. He pressed his palm into the sharp edge of his armor and let the pain ground him, taking long, steady breaths as he waited. 

He should winnow back to the temple, he thought, but then again Clotho may have questions about the girl—the wounded priestess. But there could be others, and perhaps Mor needed him to bring them here as well, to get them away from the ruined carnage of their home. A home which Rhysand had allowed to be destroyed—which had fallen under his watch.

He pressed harder against the metal.

He was just about to rise and make for the doors again, when Azriel strode in, passing through them like he was made of shadow, his armor grimed with blood. His face was hard and set when he met Rhys’ eyes.

Rhys pushed himself into standing, his legs protesting at the movement.

“You alright?” He said, his voice coming out hoarse. Azriel nodded tersely.

“Lost them over the sea,” He said with crisp anger. His shadows lashed out, echoing that same anger.

Rhysand nodded.

“You did your best,” He said, knowing it sounded feeble. 

Azriel’s eyes flashed, and his eyebrows came together but he said nothing.

“What?” Rhys asked.

Azriel remained unreadable.

“They brought the girl here? The—”

“What is it, Azriel?” Rhysand demanded, seeing his brother’s evasiveness, his barely restrained anger.

Azriel let out the smallest of breaths and his shadows flared.

“I asked you to keep some of them alive, so I could question them. And you didn’t,” He said flatly.

Rhysand swallowed, feeling the hot curl of shame in his gut, and the memory of crunching bone as he’d killed soldier after soldier in a blind rage.

“You shouldn’t have gone into the battle,” Azriel said, his voice hard, and Rhys’s anger rose sharply to meet his.

“ You called me for help,” He retorted.

“I called you to send help, I didn’t say you had to come yourself. Rule number one of combat: do not send soldiers who aren’t ready. And clearly you weren’t ready.”

Rhys clenched his fists.

“ I decide when I’m ready—”

“It took you twenty minutes to get to the children,” Azriel snapped, his voice rising almost to a shout, so rare for him, “Because you were killing those soldiers one by one, slaughtering them with your hands and giving the others time to kill their captives.”

Rhys felt the words like a blast of ice to his chest. He saw the female with the slit throat, her empty eyes staring at him accusingly. Had she died while he’d taken his time revelling in the bloodshed?

“You should have rendered them unconscious with your mind as soon as you came within range,” Azriel continued, voice strained from the chaos and fear of the day, “But instead you took the time to butcher them, and now they are gone with the foot of the Cauldron, and I have no survivors to interrogate!”

Azriel stared at him with a flat, unflinching expression, the expression of someone who knows the truth and is unwilling to back down from it. 

Rhys felt a spinning, sinking feeling, and a catch in his breath, but his own indignation fought against the guilt that was welling up in him.

“You saw what they were doing,” Rhysand said through brimming eyes, “They had to die.”

“And they would have,” Azriel growled, “ After they told me what Hybern is planning.”

Rhys swallowed, finding no retort.

Oh gods, Azriel was right… he should’ve been able to render them helpless… why hadn’t he been able to… why hadn’t he reached out with his mind and just knocked them all out right there? That priestess had died because… because he was too slow… because he didn’t do what he fucking should’ve done.

“Cassian tried to tell you not to come,” Azriel said, his voice lower, quieter, full of the same exhaustion that Rhys felt, “He’s your General. You should’ve listened to him.”

“I…” Rhys felt his throat tightening.

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by sharp footsteps, and both males looked up to see Merrill coming out of the nearest hallway.

“Shadowsinger,” She greeted, “She’s asking for you.”

Rhys looked back at his brother, and Azriel’s face grew disturbed, before nodding and rising briskly. 

He didn’t look back at Rhys as he disappeared into the hall after Merrill, and Rhys clenched his fists tighter, feeling shame in his gut. He’d saved the children, sure, but how many more had died because he hadn’t gone into that fight with his head on straight?

Unable to sit there any longer, Rhys rose suddenly and began to pace, restlessly, walking back and forth across the worn stone, feeling only his uneasy breaths and the echoes of his own footsteps.

They needed your help and you failed, fucking idiot. Hybern has what they came for and it’s all your fault. Those soldiers could’ve told you their plans—told you everything, but you had to end them, had to slaughter them because you’re a monster and the only thing you’re good for is killing.

Rhys smacked the side of his head with the heel of his palm, berating himself like Azriel never would.

Idiot, you fucking bastard, he told you not to; they all told you, you weren’t ready, you shouldn’t have gone…

He still couldn’t breathe right, kept seeing the dead eyes of the females he had failed to save, the crimson blood staining light blue robes. Kept hearing the crunch of bone breaking under his hand and the terrible squelching of flesh as he obliterated his enemies in a blind rage.

He hadn’t prepared himself for the screams, and now that the battle adrenaline was gone, they were echoing in his mind again, screams like he had heard Under the Mountain, in his waking and in his nightmares.

Nostrus screaming as Amarantha had gutted him; Lucien screaming as she’d carved out his eye; Clare Beddor screaming as the Attor had tortured her beyond recognition; the screams of Winter Court parents as their children were torn from their arms; his own screams; Feyre’s screams. 

Suddenly a real scream rang out in the hallway, and Rhysand’s blood turned to ice. 

He whirled, hand reaching for his blade, but there was no one there, and as a second wail echoed through, he recognized that it was from another room—from the room where they’d taken the poor wounded priestess from Sangravah. 

Her screams sent lances of pain through Rhys’ head, sparking the panic again. Bringing him back there. To that throne room. 

Rhysand laced his blood-stained hands around the back of his neck as he paced frantically, trying to bring himself back to where he was—in Velaris, in the library, safe. 

But there were stone walls towering around him just like before, and a dark ceiling far above his head just like before, and the smell of damp stone and the echo of empty chambers around him and oh gods he was back Under the Mountain, he had to get out, he had to find the sky again, he was going to suffocate under the weight of all this, he was going to die, he couldn’t breathe.

Rhys stumbled back into the wall again, breaths shuddering, a wail growing in his throat as he rocked back and forth. 

I have to get out, I have to get out, I have to get out, He thought, and he lurched towards the double doors, gripping the handles and pulling, but they didn’t budge. 

Trapped, His mind screamed at him, Trapped, trapped, you’re stuck down here, forever, she’ll never let you out.

He yanked against the handles and found them immovable, desperately thrashing as his heart raced out of control and sweat chilled the back of his neck.

Please, please, please, He begged, drowning in the panic again—just like when he’d been falling, helpless and out of control and unable to save himself. Or trapped in his nightmares, screaming for Feyre to find him. Or chained to Amarantha’s bed, unable to stop the slaughter of children.

Trapped, Trapped, Trapped…

My lord, A voice said in his mind, and a gnarled hand was on his shoulder. Rhys shouted and stumbled away, seeing Amarantha’s cruel grin in his mind’s eye.

But there was no grin, even as he held up his hands, expecting a blow. There was only a soft gaze, and an understanding face under a blue hood.

Clotho was there, her hands now clasped in front of her, standing far enough away not to startle him.

The library. You’re in the library, He said to himself, blinking away the frantic tears and swallowing through the lump in his throat.

Yes, High Lord, Clotho returned with a dip of her head. He hadn’t realized he’d said it in his mind, There is no danger here. Merrill locked the doors only as a precaution.

She gestured, and Rhys looked down at where one hand still clasped the doorhandle. Of course. He’d watched her do it. How could he be so stupid?

Another scream rent through the silence and Rhysand flinched. 

Clotho was merely still.

Would you like to come with me to somewhere quieter? She said, and Rhys swallowed, his skin still flushed with the panic.

“I–I sh–should go back,” He said with a strained voice, though he wanted anything but to return to the smoke-choked temple with the bodies lying on the Veranda.

Lord Azriel said the fight was finished, Clotho asked, Is there still danger?

Rhysand swallowed. 

There’s always danger, we’ll never be safe, He thought. But he said:

“No, it’s over.”

He could feel the blood on his hands.

Then perhaps a moment to collect your thoughts, Clotho said, gesturing down the hall in the opposite direction from where they had taken Gwyneth. Rhys stood indecisive, but then there was another wail of despair, and he couldn’t stand to be in the hallway a second longer.

He nodded tightly and followed after Clotho, who led him down a few quiet passageways until she reached an unassuming but finely-made wooden door.

She opened it with a wave of her hand, and entered the quiet space.

It was an office, that was clear, but unlike Merrill’s it was not crowded and stacked with books and parchment. This office had a warm fireplace—which crackled to life with another wave of Clotho’s hand—and several comfortable armchairs. A soft fountain in the corner and gentle lights that instantly made Rhysand feel drowsy. 

Best of all, Clotho’s office had a wide window framed by heavy red drapes, that looked out over Velaris and the sea, where the newly-risen sun was sparkling off the water and the chimneys were just coming to life for the day. 

Rhysand breathed a sigh of relief to see the sky—-a reminder that he was not Under the Mountain, but home. And that the stone walls of the library and the peak under which it sat were not a prison, but a refuge.

Tea? Clotho asked, and Rhysand pulled his eyes from the stunning view—his city, his home.

Rhys swallowed.

“Thank you,” He accepted, feeling it would be rude to refuse.

Please sit, She gestured to the cushioned chairs, which looked comfortable enough to lie on for a nap.

“I’ve got… blood…” He gestured vaguely to his clothes, which were encrusted with smoke and dirt and blood. He would have been able to clean it off with magic, but he was exhausted.

Clotho gave him a soft smile.

Do not worry yourself; these couches have seen all manner of spills and grime. After three centuries, I know how to keep them clean.

She gestured again, and Rhysand sat, sinking into the comfortable cushions and feeling pain in every joint. He’d thought training with Cassian would’ve prepared him for a fight, but true battle was much different than sparring, and these were muscles he’d not exercised in a long time.

It was Sangravah that was attacked? Clotho asked as she poured hot tea into two steaming cups. 

Rhys nodded with a swallow.

“ Hybern troops ,” He said, knowing that the priestess would not spread the word. He had long since come to trust Clotho for keeping secrets of the most sensitive nature.

Clotho’s eyes flashed with trepidation.

And there were losses? She asked.

Rhysand nodded.

“They couldn’t sound the alarm. We only made it there because of… because of Azriel’s shadows.”

Clotho nodded solemnly, handing him his teacup.

Tell Morrigan that any of the priestesses are welcome here, even if only for a few days of rest and quiet.

“Thank you, I will,” Rhys said, raspy. 

There was silence between them for a moment, and Clotho seemed to be giving him a moment to recover his wits—no doubt she’d seen how panicked he’d been at the doors to the library.

It cannot be easy, She said finally, The weight of so much on your shoulders. Being flung into a fight, so soon after your own troubles. Every person should have time to heal.

Rhys stared down at the liquid quivering against the sides of the cup. He could feel her gentle prodding through the mental link, her voice bringing with it the feeling of understanding, of empathy.

He rolled his shoulders though, and tried to sit up straighter.

“We all have our duties,” He dismissed.

Clotho let that hang for a moment.

I suppose, She admitted, But very few of us have the responsibility of an entire Court on us. 

He met Clotho’s unwavering, calm gaze, and just ducked his head again, saying into his drink:

“War’s coming. There’s no time for…”

He couldn’t finish.

“People need me.”

Clotho offered him a soft smile.

Many people need me as well, She nodded, The females under my care look to me for strength.

She held out her gnarled hands.

Sometimes they need strength that I do not have to give.

Clotho had a way about her, eyes that seemed to see through Rhysand somehow, without feeling invasive or probing. He swallowed and remained still, feeling his heart tighten in his chest.

When I feel myself insufficient to the task… I find that sharing my burdens with someone can give me the strength I lack.

Rhysand’s brow twitched, and he grimaced. But he remained silent. 

She didn’t know what she was asking.

I am not a stranger to the weight you are feeling, Rhysand, She said, his name sounding strange to him in her thoughts. He didn’t think she’d ever called him by his given name.

It is not a weight that lifts merely by listening to what others have to say—though advice and counsel can be valuable, She continued, In my experience, it lifts only when you begin to speak—-when you start to expel all the things inside that are drowning you.

Rhys shifted, turning the delicate teacup in his calloused hands. 

He shook his head.

“It’s not that simple,” He murmured, and Clotho’s soft smile returned, like she had been expecting him to say that.

Of course not, She offered, But in all my centuries of helping people on the road to their healing… talking has always been the first real step.

Rhysand allowed himself a small, humorless laugh.

“You and Mor and… Amren seem to have shared notes on how to fix me.”

You do not need to be fixed, Clotho returned, still smiling. 

“That’s what Az said,” Rhys murmured, picking at the worn fabric of the arm of the couch. It was frayed already, like many hands before him had done the same, under the High Priestess’s keen gaze.

Your friends have been through their own hurts, Clotho offered, They know. They give sound advice. The advice that, no doubt, you would give them—were your places reversed.

“This isn’t the same,” Rhys said quickly, thinking of all the times he’d tried to get Azriel to talk to him, all the nights he spent waiting for Mor to open up, or for Cassian to speak about his feelings without turning it into a joke.

Why not?

“Because I…” Rhys swallowed and looked down, “Because I’m guilty, because I d—I did things. Because I made choices, nobody…”

Rhys found himself teetering on the edge and he was afraid of tipping over it. The chasm opening before him was too large and too dark for him to know if he would make it to the other side. 

He placed the teacup on the low table before him, his hands shaking.

When you were trapped Under the Mountain, you made choices, Clotho echoed, Why did you make the choices that you did?

“F–for them! For—” Rhysand gestured vaguely to the window, to the bright city sparkling in the dawn, “And that’s the…”

He swallowed.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it. That—” He wasn’t looking at Clotho anymore, couldn’t look at her, “That everything I did was f—for this, for them, for my family, for this–this library, this city and I…”

He shook his head.

“I killed people, and I watched them… and I s–I stood by and did nothing, for this …” He gestured back to the window, his voice coming faster now, as his breathing shook.

“I tortured them, and I terrorized them, and I—I slept with her and I let horrific things happen, to protect my family, and I would do it all again, I would , but sometimes I can’t look them in the eyes because I just…”

Rhysand choked.

“I fucking hate them so much for it,” He said in a strained whisper, hating himself even as he said it.

 “The people I killed—I killed for them , I gave up—all those fae, Under the Mountain, I was willing to trade them all for this , for the people in this city, for my people, for my family.”

It was all spilling out, an unstoppable torrent.

“And what gave me the right?” He asked, “To play like I’m a god? To choose who—to decide who—who lived, whose lives were more valuable, I don’t…”

He looked up to Clotho now, begging her with tears in his eyes to explain it, to give him an answer for the crawling guilt. That was the weight that would drown him.

“ Children , Clotho…” He said in barely a whisper, “I traded twenty-four Winter Court children, for the children of Velaris…”

He gestured again to the streets, thinking of Sevenda’s son—growing up safe and happy and loved—-while the children Under the Mountain suffered and died at Amarantha’s cruel hand.

“ I made that choice. I decided.”

There was a pause, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse and hollow, he looked down at the blood in between his fingernails, which felt like it had been there forever, like it was a part of him and would never come clean.

“...I had sex with her for fifty years so that she would never look beyond me… look too closely at my court.”

He swallowed, and saw a flicker in Clotho’s eyes.

“But I knew she would look elsewhere…” 

He pictured the faces of the children that terrible day—terrified and brave and helpless.

“I made sure she looked anywhere else. But here.”

He sniffed.

“And now I look at this city, and my family… and I just see them covered in blood. The blood that I allowed to be shed on their behalf.”

He looked down at his lap again.

“I can’t tell them that,” He whispered, “I can’t tell my family. It would r–it would ruin them.”

The office was filled with silence again, and Rhys didn’t know what he expected Clotho to say, didn’t know if he could stand her understanding gaze. 

He heard a quiet intake of breath, measured and even, a heavy sigh. And then she spoke.

I have not been able to use words of my own… for many years, She said in his mind, and he looked up to meet her knowing eyes—full of their own griefs.

Have not been able to speak my heart as I would wish, to put into words what I know to be true, have had to rely on the words of others to speak on my behalf. 

She folded her twisted hands together.

And so I understand the value of words, the importance of the words that we use… most especially those words that we use about ourselves.

Rhys’ brow creased just slightly. After everything he’d just confessed he wasn’t sure what he was meant to take from this.

You have said that you are guilty, Clotho said, her mental voice firm now, You have said that you made choices, that you traded lives, that you played god…

Her head tilted as she searched him.

But not once have you mentioned the person who forced those choices upon you. Who made it necessary to decide who to save and who to leave. Who brought about the torturing and the killing.

Rhys felt acid in his stomach. He wanted to shrink into the couch.

Did you play god, Rhysand? Clotho asked, Or did you make the only choice you could, to protect those who were under your care?

Rhys’ chin was quivering, his eyes blinking sharply.

Did you kill because you wanted to? Or because she made it impossible not to?

Did you lose two dozen children… or did you save two hundred?

Clotho leaned in, and gently placed her gnarled hand on his arm.

Did you sleep with her for fifty years?

…Or did she rape you?

Rhysand’s lip trembled, and the heat behind his eyes was leaking out, and he knew the ledge he was standing on was giving way, and he was tumbling into that chasm.

He let out a choked sob. He clamped a hand to his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut as if to hold it back, but it was no use. 

Clotho’s gnarled fingers rested like a weight on his arm as Rhysand started to crumble, sobs rising up from his gut, his whole body clenching, like a sponge squeezing out all the liquid it held.

In the silence of the office, with the city glittering through the window, Rhysand wept, his shoulders shaking and his lungs gasping. He couldn’t stop it, everything he’d been trying to push down, it was rising up now, expelling from him like vomit. 

Clotho had heard it all—the ugliest parts, the hideous things—and she hadn’t flinched. She, who had seen the worst that the world had to offer. She, who knew so personally of terror and pain. She did not judge him. 

Her evil is not yours to bear, Clotho’s voice spoke in his head, It is not your fault.

Rhysand wept for them all. For the High Lords that had been killed for their bravery, for the Winter Children whose lives had been cut short, for the fae trapped in dark camps beneath the rock, for the rest of them who had to fight for survival every day in a sick, twisted game, for his friends being caged and alone for fifty years, for Feyre and all that she had endured, even for Tamlin… because he had defied her like Rhysand wished he could have done, every day. If there was one brave thing Tamlin had ever done in his whole miserable life, it was to say no to her, when he knew what it would cost.

Rhysand wished he could’ve said no. Wished it would have mattered. Wished that he could unmake the body he was in and reform it so that it was untouched, unruined by her. The blood and soot that caked his skin now merely covered over the true layer of filth, the dirty feeling that followed him everywhere, even as the name had done for fifty years.

Whore.

Rhysand felt himself shrinking smaller. Feeling the shame.

It is not your fault, Clotho’s voice repeated in his head, You survived. You are free. You are loved.

And for the first time since he’d made it out, there was just a small part of Rhysand’s shattered heart… that believed it.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed the attack on Sangravah, Rhysand felt both terrified by the threat of war that hung over their heads, and also steady, grounded, more calm than he’d felt since escaping Amarantha.

His conversation with Clotho seemed to open up a floodgate of feelings that he had been trying to shore up behind iron hard walls. It was like someone had taken a pickaxe to those walls and sent sharp cracks ricocheting up them. He was fragile, and he hated it, but once he had begun talking to Clotho, he found he couldn’t stop.

Every morning before the sun was fully up, when he’d woken from some phantom dream or tossed and turned all night without sleep, he would find his way to the library, and Clotho would somehow be there, like she knew exactly when he needed her.

She would sit in her office and he would talk, and she would listen most of the time, saying nothing. Or sometimes she would stop him in the middle of his ranting and ask a question, something that knocked him off his feet, that forced him to reconsider how his thoughts controlled him.

But the one constant in Clotho’s words was about blame—and more specifically the blame he placed on himself.

Repent for those actions which were under your control, She advised when Rhysand had been nearly pulling his hair out, terrorized by a dream of the human girl Claire Beddor, who had died because of his own stupidity, because he hadn’t realized that Feyre had given him a real name. 

You acted with the information you had, and did the best you could.

“But I killed her–her whole family—”

You did not, Clotho reminded calmly, Amarantha did. And it was never your intention for her to be harmed. Had you provided them with a false name entirely, who knows? They may have slaughtered the entire human village in hopes that they would kill the one they sought.

More than her calm understanding was the fact that Clotho made sense. The words she spoke to him were so true, so obviously true that he would find he couldn’t argue against them. It was like his own self-hatred made him blind, and her eyes pierced through the veil of darkness that surrounded him.

Do not borrow guilt, She advised with an understanding gaze, There is plenty for each of us to repent of without conjuring more guilt than is our due.

Rhysand was steadied by Clotho’s words, and found that, after all, his friends had been right. Talking about things—even if it felt like digging a knife into his chest—made him feel steadier, kept the panic at bay.

He was almost sent spiraling again, when, several weeks after the attack on Sangravah, Azriel came to the Townhouse, his expression grave. The two of them had spoken after the attack, and Rhys had apologized for his failure to listen, and Azriel had absolved him, apologizing in turn—saying that he ought to have saved the discussion for a later time, when both of them were less hot.

“I know you did your best,” His brother had said heavily, “And you saved many priestesses that day.”

Rhys tried not to remember the smell of smoke and the screams of the brutalized females.

Now it was the week of Winter Solstice, and Rhysand had been forced by Mor to go out into the city and shop for presents. It was such a strange thing—festivity and present-buying and celebration. Fae on the streets waved to him and wished him Happy Solstice, gleeful to have their High Lord back and Prythian freed. Many of them would be spending Solstice with extended family for the first time in fifty years, and there was a marked feeling of joy in the air. 

This was difficult for Rhysand, as he was not feeling particularly festive, but he did his best to go along with it. He knew Mor wanted Solstice to be good again—with all of them back together—and he did love seeing the children in the city, shrieking with delight at the toys they saw piled in windows and sold on carts. 

This was what it had all been for, after all—this peace, this prosperity, these people. He tried not to think about the blood that had been shed for it; the blood he’d shed for it.

When Azriel arrived at the Townhouse that day he had just been getting ready to go down to Sevenda’s, to drop off an order for solstice pies. Gods, he’d missed Sevenda’s pies; it was one thing that he’d thought about almost constantly Under the Mountain, when he was near-starved and dreaming of what food would be like. He was going to order one of every flavor she made and two of the lemon.

But he answered the door of the Townhouse to find his brother looking solemn, and immediately felt a spike of fear.

“Has there been another attack?” He asked sharply, but Azriel shook his head.

“No, it’s not–can I come in?”

Rhys frowned, but stepped aside and let his brother inside. They both went to the parlor, and Rhys was rubbing his hands together with nervous energy, trying to get ahead of whatever terrible news Azriel was about to give him. 

If they weren’t under attack, then maybe he’d had news from Hybern, or maybe one of the High Lords had died? Maybe the Attor had been spotted? Maybe there was trouble with the Illyrians? But why wouldn’t Cassian tell him then?

“Please just spit it out,” Rhysand begged, unable to stand the nervous energy sparking off of Azriel’s shadows; the way they were slinking around, like they were reluctant to be there.

“I’ve received news from my spies in the Spring Court, which I expect will be common news soon enough.”

Rhysand’s heart lurched. 

Feyre. She was in Spring Court; what had happened, was she hurt? Was she… no, she wasn’t dead. Rhys would’ve felt it. He had kept a stern hold on the mating bond the last few weeks, refusing to let even a sliver of his feelings through. He had put up an iron wall between him and Feyre, though whether it was to protect her or himself, he wasn’t sure. But he would know if she was dead. He could still feel her light, far away on the other side of that wall. 

She could be hurt, though. Someone could have hurt her.

Rhysand dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, waiting for Azriel’s words.

“...Tamlin is engaged to be married to the Cursebreaker, Feyre Archeron. Their ceremony will be some weeks after Solstice.”

Rhysand blinked.

It felt like the air was suddenly sucked from the room. Like his lungs had forgotten how to inflate. 

He swayed.

Oh this was worse. So much worse. Better, of course, but also worse.

“I’m sorry,” Azriel said, his voice muffled, like something was stuffed in Rhysand’s ears, “I know she… meant something to you.”

Azriel seemed very far away, and Rhysand was just standing there, blinking, his heart moving sluggishly. 

Engaged to be married. 

Everything in his nature roared against this; his very being shouted in defiance. No. This was wrong. She was his mate, she couldn’t marry someone else, certainly not a High Lord, certainly not Tamlin.

“I wanted to tell you before the others, in case… you needed a moment,” Azriel said quietly. 

But how did he know? How could Az know what Feyre meant to him? Rhys hadn’t said… he hadn’t told them…

My mate, my mate, my mate. Stop her, save her, take her.

Rhysand closed his eyes, clenching his fists tightly, forcing those thoughts down.

No.

She isn’t yours. 

She loves Tamlin.

She wants Tamlin.

She deserves Tamlin.

Rhysand would do nothing, he would sit back and let this happen, he would let her be happy, let her choose the man who deserved her, let her be at peace. 

“...if you wanted to, you could call in your bargain.”

Azriel’s words were far away, but suddenly Rhysand’s mind snapped into focus.

“What?”

Azriel was looking at him without emotion. Calm and reasonable.

“You said you made a bargain with her Under the Mountain—that she had to stay with you for one week every month. You haven’t called it in. But you could.”

Rhysand stared at him, a mix of horror and great desire churning in him. 

You could do it, A dark voice whispered in his mind, You could take her from him. You’re High Lord. She’s your mate. She belongs to you. Take her, and spite him. Take her, and make her yours.

Rhys shook his head, forcing the thoughts away. No. He couldn’t do that to her—he couldn’t be that kind of male. Like his father, taking his mother to his court without so much as a request. He’d always told himself he wouldn’t be like his father. 

But she’s your mate.

“I c—no,” He said to Azriel, before his dangerous thoughts could go too far down that path, “No, I… I’ve no interest in that bargain. It was just for show, it wasn’t…”

He swallowed. He wondered how Azriel knew, how he could tell that the thought of losing Feyre in that permanent manner was like acid in Rhysand’s stomach. Did his brother suspect that the bargain wasn’t the only bond between them?

“No,” Rhysand concluded, forcing breath into his lungs, “She deserves to be left alone.”

She deserves to be happy.

Azriel seemed skeptical, but he nodded.

“If that’s what you wish.”

When Azriel left—which only happened after Rhys insisted multiple times that he was fine—the house was quiet. The soft ticking of the mantle clock was the only noise filling the otherwise-silent air. Rhys sat in the parlor chair next to the fireplace, which was cold and unlit, and he stared at nothing, while dust motes swirled in the winter sunlight streaming through the front windows.

Married. Engaged to be married. To Tamlin.

It took everything in him not to reach down the mating bond and seek Feyre out—to figure out how she could do this, how she could say yes to that male, when it felt so wrong. Couldn’t she feel it? How wrong it was? Couldn’t she feel the ache in her bones like he did?

She doesn’t care. She loves him.

Rhys thought he would break; thought that when Azriel left he might crumble to the floor and begin sobbing, like that first day when he’d winnowed to the palace and collapsed in Mor’s arms.

But he didn’t. He felt the cavernous hole opening in his chest, and he sat with it, and he let it hollow him out until he was empty, and still he sat, staring at nothing, while the sun worked its way across the sky and the room grew grey with twilight.

He never did make it to Sevenda’s that day.

***

“I’m sorry,” Mor said quietly as they stood under the canopy of stars on Solstice Night.

Rhys was on the roof of the Townhouse, getting a breath after a long evening of warmth and celebration—swapping gifts around the fire, greeting well-wishers who came to the door to offer their Solstice cheers. 

It had been so familiar—the same food, the same songs, the same warm glow and good wine and sparkling lights—but also foreign. Had it really been fifty years since he’d sat around this fire with his family and celebrated the longest night of the year? Or had that all been a dream?

Under the Mountain it was always night; there was no sun. And it wasn’t the beautiful sort of night that filled you with wonder and awe. It was an oppressive night. Like choking shadows.

Now Rhys was looking at True Night, at the canopy of stars that spread above him, covering Velaris in velvet beauty. How he had survived fifty years without this sight, he didn’t know. 

“I’m sorry,” Mor said, and Rhys knew what she meant. They hadn’t spoken of it—Feyre’s engagement. But she had heard Azriel’s report, and only she knew the depth to which the news would wound Rhysand. She had also, no doubt, noticed his muted affect in the last few days. After regaining some strength from his visits to the library, he felt once again like a shell; no appetite, no strength, just a hollow cavernous emptiness in his chest. The knowledge that his mate was going to marry another male and there was nothing he could do about it—not without betraying everything he believed in.

“It’s for the best,” He said dully. He knew that was a feeble response, but it was all he had. He was numb to it. To that particular jagged shard of pain. And it was for the best—-or, for Feyre’s best, anyway. She would be with the man she loved, whom she had suffered for. She would be happy. That was the only thing that mattered.

“You know you can still ch—”

“I’m not taking her from Spring,” Rhysand said quickly, cutting Mor off before she could speak the same tempting, tantalizing offer that Azriel had. How he longed to winnow right there and snatch Feyre from that house and run away with her into the night, how he wished to launch into the sky with her in his arms, fly among the heavens, show her the firmament that only he knew intimately, that was in his very skin, in his heart. What would she have thought of Velaris? Would she have loved it like he did? He supposed he would never find out now.

“...I’m sorry,” Mor said again, and Rhys felt her arm around his waist; she leaned her head on his shoulder, looking over the sparkling city with him. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” She said quietly, and he leaned his head back on hers.

“Me too,” He murmured.

They fell silent for a while, listening to distant music and laughter emanating from the streets and houses stretching out below them.

“Are you going to the cabin tomorrow?” She said after a while.

“Hmm,” Rhys agreed. 

It would be his first time there, since everything. But he knew this was something he had to do; he had to abide by tradition, to join his brothers in their snowball fight, and maybe salvage what they had been missing these past decades. He hoped it would be good, hoped it would feel normal enough, and that he could capture something of the joy he used to have.

He’d done it today—around the fire with his family—he’d managed to feel an echo of the the festiveness that used to mean so much to him. It wasn’t the same, exactly, there was a dragging weight of melancholy on his limbs, but there had been moments—moments when he forgot, moments when he looked at their smiles and listened to their excited chatter and knew he would be okay.

Standing here on the roof with Mor, he wasn’t sure. But the sky stretched above him so beautiful and dark, and it made him think of flying with his mother, spinning among the constellations as if they were made of stars. And he wanted so badly to be up there again, touching the sky.

This is your birthright, my son, His mother would say as they twisted around clouds and ducked under drafts, when Rhysand had been young and full of laughter.

I am the sky and your father is the stars, and when night falls you are its master. You will always have a home up here, when the sun goes quiet and the heavens begin their song. The night sky is a blanket of comfort over all, but it belongs to you. And you must listen, for the stars to speak. You must listen to hear the night music.

How Rhys wanted to hear that music now, when he hurt, when he felt hollowed out by the sheer weight of his pain. He'd felt so hollow, since Azriel had told him about Feyre, like a hole had been opened in his chest and every good moment was being sucked into it. He enjoyed Solstice with his family, but Feyre. He was happy to be home, but Feyre. He found comfort in the library, but Feyre. He loved his city, but Feyre.

He wanted to stretch up to the heavens and touch them, and let the vast darkness above take away some of the darkness inside him. But the heavens felt so far away.

"Where'd you go?"

Mor's voice came through his thoughts.

He breathed.

"It's going to be a long life... without her," He said through the tightness in his throat. The image of Feyre's face on the balcony flashed before his eye, and he felt Mor's hand squeeze him comfortingly.

He looked down at his cousin, and felt so grateful to be with her again--his friend since birth, his confidant. He could talk to any of his family, but Mor was the person he trusted with his feelings the most.

"...but I'll still have my family."

He breathed, nodding to himself despite the sheen of tears.

"And that's enough."

Mor smiled softly up at him, then hugged him tightly, squeezing his waist with her thin arms like she could lift him off the ground.

"Alright, alright... you know I just ate," Rhysand laughed, grunting as she tried to crush the air from him.

"Yeah, practically a whole pie by yourself," Mor chided with a smirk.

"Sorry. I know you wanted some lemon."

"Ah, well," Mor shrugged. Then her face grew serious again.

"I'm just glad you had an appetite today."

They stared at each other for a moment, passing silent words. There was a crash from down below, then, and a bellow of laughter from Cassian, and Mor lifted her head from his shoulder with a knowing smirk.

“I’d better get down there before they destroy the place,” She said, meeting his eyes in the darkness, her hand steadying him.

“I’ll be down in a bit,” He murmured, and she nodded.

“Happy Solstice, Rhys,” She said quietly, and he gave her a soft smile. How many times had he wanted to hear that from her? How many years had he passed, dreaming of this—of Velaris on Winter Solstice, dreamlike under the stars. And now he was here. Home. He was home. Even if Feyre was gone, he was home. Even if he wasn’t the same, he was home. And that was something. That was everything .

“Happy Solstice,” He returned, and Mor turned away, heading for the stairs as Amren’s angry shouts echoed up towards them.

Rhysand returned his gaze to the heavens, tilting his face upwards and closing his eyes, like he could will the stars to sing to him, so close, and yet so far away. He wanted to reach up to them, he wanted to be there, to get closer, to hear their song like he had before. He wanted to be free, he wanted to remember, to be close to his mother and sister as he had been once, to remember what it was like, to be one with Night, to be master of the skies… he wanted to… he wanted to… he wanted to fly …

Rhysand opened his eyes and took a sharp breath. He felt the ripple of power coming off him, borne from his will, his desire, forming into something solid, spreading out from his back.

I want to fly, He thought, like a prayer offered to The Mother. 

Let me fly. Please. Let me fly.

There was a breeze coming from off the sea, and it tousled his hair, and he felt the dormant power in him take on living form, and begin to move, as it had so many thousands of times before. Like a muscle he’d forgotten how to use, coming to life again.

He nearly stumbled from the weight of it, his heart hammering as great black wings rose behind him. His wings, this part of himself that had been just beyond his reach.

He gasped with the feeling, the sudden rightness as his wings spread into the darkness, stretching out like they were tasting the air. 

Azriel had said he had only to want it, and he had thought he did—-before—but now he realized he’d been wrong. He’d been turning his face from the sky, he’d been hiding from Velaris, from the stars, afraid of facing the tender pain that came along with all those memories.

But right now, on the longest night of the year, standing under the canopy of the heavens, Rhys wanted nothing so much as to touch them, to feel their kiss on his cheek, and hear their song. He was willing to face the pain, if it meant being up there again, where he belonged.

He took a deep breath of the cold night air, and let his wings spread wider, growing familiar with them again, like saying hello to an old friend. Then he curled his right wing close, and gently ran his fingers along the spine, feeling the warmth beneath them. 

He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, as the membranes caught the light from the city, their veins glowing red.

Azriel had been right. He wasn't broken.

Rhys heart beat with the fresh flow of blood, sending power to the newly reborn wings, his skin tingling with anticipation.

Fly, fly, fly, His heartbeat demanded, and Rhys flared his wings outward, looking straight up at the stars, then back towards the stairs.

His family could wait a bit; right now, the sky was calling.

So Rhysand bent his knees, and he launched himself off the roof of the Townhouse, pushing down with one mighty flap of his wings, feeling the power radiate from him as he rose. 

This was it, this was him, his true self. He was here, and he didn’t have to hide, and he didn’t have to be afraid. The past was far below, and he was above.

Above the frozen waters of the river, and over the sparkling lights of a thousand quiet homes, Rhysand soared. The wind bit at his cheeks and whistled past his ears, but he didn’t put a warming charm over himself; he wanted to feel its familiar bite.

For just a moment he forgot about it all. About Amarantha, and Under the Mountain, about Tamlin and about Feyre, about his shame and hurt and fear. About all the weight that plagued him—he was weightless, he was light as air. 

He just spread his wings and reached out to touch the stars, remembering the way his mother had taught him, spinning like an arrow, dancing on gentle wind currents, free and unbound and not caged beneath a mountain.

He couldn’t erase that darkness. He couldn’t change the past. But he was here. And he was now. And the stars were so beautiful as they began singing to him, welcoming him home after so long, echoing their triumphant song at his return.

He was himself, and that was enough. He was Rhysand. He was High Lord. He was Illyrian. He was Night. And he was one with the sky.

Rhysand laughed, and the sound echoed off the heavens like the call of an old friend.

Chapter Text

Two days after Winter Solstice, Rhysand winnowed to the Illyrian camp at Windhaven.

His brothers hadn’t been able to hide the immensity of their relief when he’d landed on the balcony of the House of Wind the morning after solstice, wings stretched wide and glowing in the new winter sun.

After that night—after flying for the first time since the Mountain, after feeling the night sky on his skin and letting the dew from the clouds wash clean his soul—-Rhys hadn’t been able to bring himself to put the wings away. He’d slept with them out, learning how to lie down comfortably again after fifty years, and he went to meetings with them and visited the library with them and ate breakfast with them (which may have resulted in one or two broken dishes and overturned chairs, when he failed to account for the wingspan while turning) 

It was like a lever had been flipped, and he couldn’t bear to be without the familiar weight on his back, the feeling of freedom he felt standing at the edge of a balcony and knowing the sky was his playground. 

She couldn’t take them from him. She couldn’t. It was a lie his fearful mind was telling. And he refused to listen anymore. Amarantha was dead, and he was here, and he was whole, and if not healed then at least healing, and if not happy then at least capable of happiness. 

When he woke up with a start in the middle of night, he was comforted by the weight of those wings—the immediate knowledge of where he was. They were an anchor to him. He hadn’t had wings Under the Mountain, so he couldn’t be Under the Mountain. 

Rhys was not given much time to settle into his new state of being, though, because two days after solstice Cassian came to the Townhouse with a grim expression and said,

“I don’t mean to press the issue, but I think it’s time. The Illyrians need our attention.”

And so Rhys had agreed, and they had winnowed first to Windhaven—-the camp where they were most known and most feared and most nearly respected—-and they began their plans to round up the rogue Illyrian War Bands. Even now the bastards were cutting their way across the Wilds of the Night Court, stealing and pillaging and raping where they wished, in utter rebellion to their master. 

It seemed that they did not care that Amarantha was fallen, that their supposed Queen was no more. She had merely been an excuse for them, and Rhys’ imprisonment merely a convenience, for them to become what they had always wished—self-serving and untamed and cruel beyond measure.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rhysand said in a low, dark voice as he leaned over the map with Cassian, inside the pragmatic building that served as Devlon’s council room. 

“There were a lot of moving parts—”

“—I could’ve stopped this. Sooner. I could’ve stepped in sooner, I should’ve—”

“—Devlon and the other loyal Camp Lords wanted to try and deal with it themselves,” Cassian interrupted, firm but even, “I thought it best to let them address the matter in their own way, before calling you in. They managed to defeat three of the rogue bands, but the others are in the wind.”

Cassian’s eyes flickered, and his firm expression softened.

“And you know as well as I… you needed time, Rhys,” He spoke gently, but Rhys couldn’t help the feeling of resentment that soured his stomach.

Weak, he thinks you’re weak, he thinks you can’t do this—

Rhys closed his eyes, shutting down the spiral of self-hatred.

No. He’s your friend. He’s looking out for you, for the Night Court. Like always. He’s your General for a reason. Trust his judgement.

Rhys was still looking at the map when he nodded and said,

“Give my thanks to Devlon for his loyalty. I know it can’t have been easy killing fellow warriors.”

“Actually he called them ‘traitorous, honorless, womanly pigs who aren’t fit to bear wings’. So I don’t think he’s too cut up about it.”

Rhysand let out a humorless huff. 

“Well, then,” He said, straightening and flexing his own wings in the cold mountain air.

“Let’s hunt some pigs.”

***

Rhys landed hard with a gust of black shadows, his Illyrian blade gripped in one hand. 

“I will speak with your leader!” He bellowed at the group of Illyrian warriors who were suddenly startling from their dinner, reaching for their weapons as they realized just who had landed amongst them.

There was a moment’s pause, as each of the males seemed to calculate their chance of survival if they were to attack right then.

Then a tall, hard-faced male with a great scar on his chin sauntered forward and said.

“I am the chief of this War Band.”

He eyed Rhysand with fury and disdain, but Rhys knew that the look masked a deeper fear, a knowledge that his end was near.

It had been the same with the others, the other four War Bands that Rhys and Azriel and Cassian had hunted down in the steppes, and brought to justice. It had been a week of brutal, exhausting, sickening violence, and Rhysand was tired, and angry, and full of blood lust that had nothing to do with these males.

But he prepared to offer the same choice to this band as he had offered to the others—and he was not foolish enough to expect a different outcome.

“You and your males,” Rhysand said, loud enough for all sixty-odd of the warriors to hear, “Have been convicted by the word of a hundred witnesses, of war crimes and crimes against the people of the Night Court.”

It was more than a hundred, actually. Rhys had made sure, before he set out on this terrible mission, that the charges were inscrutable; he had gone to the villages where these males had attacked, visited the families of the people they’d killed, spoken with the females that they had ravaged. It had been sickening work, but necessary, to gather the condemning evidence. He had to make sure that every death was well-deserved, that every Illyrian life he took was measured against crimes that not even the other Illyrians could excuse. Devlon and the other loyal leaders were behind him in this.

They had not, however, been behind his decision to offer a small mercy to the condemned men. They saw it as weak, and while Rhys agreed that none of the warriors were likely to accept his offer, he had to make it. Otherwise he would feel their blood on his hands, and always wonder if it had been truly just.

“As such, you are condemned to death,” He said loudly, his eyes roving around the hardened faces, looking for some sign of contrition, some hint of regret.

“We do not serve the mountain-witch’s whore!” A voice called from the crowd, and Rhys felt Azriel growl beside him, his shadows snapping.

Rhys himself had to take a breath, to let the sting of it pass through him, to let the shaky, sick feeling dissipate before he spoke.

“In the face of your deserved death,” Rhys continued, ignoring the outburst, “I offer you one chance at life, at the possibility of redemption, at restoring your honor, one day.”

There was silence, as each warrior still gripped his weapon and stared.

“Your choice is this: to die at my hand today. Or to submit to having your wings clipped, as lifelong penance for your crimes.”

Just as before, with the other two bands of warriors, fury rippled through the crowd, curses and scoffs and indignance. 

Rhysand closed his eyes with a sigh.

“You mock us!” The leader snarled, clenching his fist, over which a siphon gleamed, “Take your pity elsewhere, half-breed!”

He spat in Rhys’ direction.

“You and your bastard generals have no claim over us!”

The others howled their agreement, beating against their chests and engaging their siphons. Rhys looked over the crowd one last time, hoping to see at least one male, at least one of his people who might repent of their actions.

But there was only rage, and violence.

He sighed.

“So be it.”

Then they fought.

It could have been over in a fraction of a second, if Rhysand had willed it so. He could have wiped all sixty of these men out with a flick of his wrist; but he was thirsty for blood, and violence hummed in his veins, after speaking to the terrorized people of his court who had been at these male’s mercy for fifty years.

So he used his sword, and his wings, and he fought alongside Cassian and Azriel, and he cleaved flesh and bone and howled his fury to the skies as he cut through the ranks of the warriors like so much wheat in a field.

Hot blood pumped through his veins and splattered his face. He channeled all the anger he felt about Amarantha, about Tamlin, about the Winter Children and the King of Hybern and Feyre’s hurt and his own terrible loneliness. He became fury, and let his sword sing.

It didn’t feel good, though. He didn’t feel satisfaction when male after male fell before him, didn’t feel the righteous anger growing into contentment, because this wasn’t the blood he wanted to spill, these eyes were not the eyes he wanted to look into while he struck a killing blow. It had been lodged in his throat for weeks now, that terrible injustice, that anger that he had not been allowed to strike her down.

It should’ve been me, it should’ve been me, He thought as he howled and brought his sword down again and again, as he blasted warriors back with spikes of darkness, impaling them on his power. 

Tamlin had been the one to rip out her throat, Tamlin had gotten to feel her blood between his teeth, Tamlin had made her heart stop beating and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair . 

How could he know? How could he be sure she was really gone? If he hadn’t felt the life leech from her himself, how could he ever rest? 

It should’ve been me, it should’ve been me, it should’ve been me!

Rhys hacked the head off an already-wounded warrior and swung with a shout, only to find silence, and a clearing full of steaming bodies and bloodied snow. 

He panted, his sword arm outstretched, his snarl fixed on his face. He heaved for breath, not done yet, not satiated from his bloodthirst.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair.

“That’s all of them,” Azriel said, materializing a few feet away, as Rhysands rampaging heart began to slow, his arm lowering, as he saw the dozens of glazed, lifeless faces staring upward.

He heard Cassian’s heavy footfalls, as his brother stomped out of the clearing, placing his hand on a frozen tree and leaning over like he might be sick. His great wings shielded his face, but Rhys could hear the retching.

Az met his eyes, but they said nothing. This was hardest for Cassian, they knew. He took it personally.

“Alright?” Azriel questioned Rhys as he began cleaning his sword. Rhys suddenly felt drained, after his battle rage, after all that adrenaline. The tip of his sword brushed the ground as his arm dipped from the weight, but he nodded, even though it wasn’t alright. He wasn’t alright.

It’s not fair, The voice inside him cried again, but he squashed it down and straightened his shoulders.

There was work to do.

***

These Illyrians would not receive an honored funeral; but neither did Rhysand wish to leave them lying in the woods for an unsuspecting traveler to stumble on. He did not want his court to be littered with horrors.

For hours then, he and Cassian and Azriel labored to pile the corpses into a pyre in the middle of the clearing where they had made camp, searching the tents for stolen goods before they tossed all their possessions onto the pile.

It was grim work, and it should have taken the fight out of him, dimmed that bloodlust and desire for vengeance, but as Rhys moved the bodies of the dead warriors, he somehow only grew angrier with them. 

What a waste. What a foolish, terrible waste. What a thing they had forced him to do—to come here and slaughter because they refused to treat those outside their clan like equals. Because they thought they had a right to steal, and hurt.

 And now Rhysand had blood coating his hands and death on his mind and it didn’t matter, none of it fucking mattered because he didn’t want to kill any of these males, he couldn’t be satisfied with the slaughter, couldn’t bathe in their blood and use it to wash away his fear. Theirs wasn’t the blood he craved, but he had to spill it nonetheless, and it only left him feeling dirtier. 

What would Feyre think of him? Covered in gore, dragging bodies through snow-packed ground. Nevermind that these males had done horrific things and refused to repent; he was the one left with their lifeless eyes staring back at him when he closed his own, with their screams as they died. 

Rhysand stalked away when Cassian tossed the torch on the pile of carrion. He didn’t wait to see it go up, to smell the charring flesh of the dead Illyrians.

It’s not fair.

“We should find a place for the night,” He muttered as he passed Azriel, whose siphons glowed from reflected firelight. Azriel didn’t ask why they wouldn’t just winnow—neither of them had the energy for it, after their week of long travel and hard fighting.

So they waited for Cassian to finally turn his back on the burning pyre and join them, before taking off into the sky with their packs on their back, scanning the ground below for signs of rock formations that might offer them a cave to slip into.

Azriel banked first, not needing to say that he’d found their spot. Rhys followed silently, his anger still stewing like the embers of a dying fire, his body and heart exhausted from the heavy work.

They landed in another quiet, untouched stretch of woods, startling a bedded family of deer as they did. Azriel led them through the trees as the sun breathed its last and night took over in earnest, his shadows searching out the way before them. They would need to get under cover soon, if they didn’t want to start fighting the beasts that prowled this wood in the dark.

Az used his magic to light a torch in his hand, and ducked into a cave that wouldn’t have fit any of them standing straight up. Cassian followed, and Rhys ducked into the narrow passage as well, his wings folding tight, trusting that Azriel had made sure the cave was big enough to fit all of them.

It was more than big enough, actually, as the narrow entrance opened up to quite a large cavern a few yards in. Azriel had, as usual, found the perfect hiding spot for them to get a few hours rest.

But the moment Rhysand had passed out of the narrow entryway into the wider cavern, he felt something hitch in his breath. 

Cassian was slinging off his pack and Azriel was taking out his fire kit, and Rhysand stood still at the entrance, his chest suddenly tight. His wings flared, like a spasm, and he felt them press against the cave walls, felt the cold of the damp rock, and the sudden oppressive feeling of the stone above him. 

Rhys put out a shaking hand, pressing against the stone wall to try and ground himself, but it only made the damp, mildewy smell grow sharper—-that smell, these cold stones, his wings, he couldn’t spread his wings, he was trapped. 

Rhys pulled his hand off the wall sharply, and left behind a bloody handprint, as he turned his palm around, his breath shuddering now.

“Rhys?”

Cassian’s voice was dim and distant, as Rhys turned both his shaking hands, staring at the blood on them; oh gods. The blood. There was so much blood. It was their blood—the Winter Children, no… no it was his blood. No it was Nostrus, Nostrus’ blood when she’d run him through, no, it was Lucien’s blood, his deformed face flashing into Rhys’ mind, no it was Feyre’s… it was Feyre’s blood. 

It was Feyre’s blood on his hands and he was trapped and he was going to die here oh gods he was dying he’d killed her he’d killed her and he was dying…

“Rhys, it’s just a cave, it—”

Rhys whipped around, back to the cave entrance, his wings slapping against the cave walls recklessly. He lurched forward back through the narrow passageway, feeling his shoulders and wings scrape against the walls, like they were closing in on him.

No, no, no, no, no…

He burst out back into the cold night with gasp, stumbling and grabbing the nearest tree to avoid falling into the snow. Then he snatched his hand back, fearing to mark the tree with this blood—the blood he’d spilled, the blood on his hands. But not Her blood. Not Her blood because he hadn’t killed her. Because she wasn’t really dead, because she could never die. 

“Here we are again; you at my mercy,” A voice said, and suddenly she was there—in the woods she was standing there in the dress she’d been wearing that day when Feyre had died. She was here. All these last few months, his freedom, the flying, it had just been a trick, one of her games.

“No!” Rhysand shouted, half to himself and half to the ghost of Amarantha. He knew she wasn’t real. He knew this was just his exhaustion from the bloody work of the day, and his fear pushing his mind beyond the confines of reality. But he felt her presence like ice on his spine, like her hands were tracing down his back. 

“Fucking leave me alone!!”

The image of Amarantha disappeared suddenly as he drew his sword from the sheath on his back, his chest heaving in great gasps, caught between abject terror and absolute fury.

She’s not real. She’s gone.

“Rhysand, is there something happening?” Azriel’s voice said as Rhys turned in a circle, trying to find where she’d gone, trying to find her before she got her hands around his throat.

“Rhys, there’s no one here,” Cassian said, trying to step into Rhysand’s line of sight.

I know there’s no one here. I know. I know she’s gone. I know she’s gone.

His head knew, but his body didn’t.

“I think we’re gonna have a lot of fun together, Rhysand,” She said with a smirk, her eyes roving up and down his form in a way that made his anger spark.

“I’m going to kill you,” He growled—-his voice haggard through cracked lips and a bloodied mouth. 

But he hadn’t… he hadn’t killed her, he hadn’t fulfilled his promise, and she was still out there, she was alive and she would come for him.

No, no, it was Tamlin, Tamlin killed her. He ripped her throat out, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead but it should’ve been me, it should’ve been me, not him, she didn’t do that to him, she didn’t hurt him, she didn’t rape him for fifty years; she was mine, she should’ve been mine to kill.

“Rhys you—”

“IT’S NOT FUCKING FAIR!” Rhys screamed, swinging his Ilyrian blade at that image—that mirage of Amarantha’s smirking form. His sword whistled through air and embedded itself into a tree.

“It should’ve been me!” He wrenched the blade free and swung again, sending reverberations up his arm and splintering tree with every swipe. He could hear her laughter echoing in his head, mocking him.

“It should’ve been me, she was mine!” Then he beat a snow-covered trunk with his blade, hacking at it over and over.

“She was mine to kill, she was mine, not his!” 

He didn’t know what he was doing anymore, lost completely to the helpless rage.

“It’s not fucking fair!” He shouted again, and he found that he was sobbing, his tears turning icy on his cheeks even as they fell. He brought his sword down again and again on that fallen stump, as if it were Amarantha’s corpse and he could chop it up into little pieces and cast it into the sea.

He felt Cassian and Azriel come close, as close as they dared while he was still recklessly swinging his blade, over and over, the weight of it becoming heavier as he heaved sobs and kept swinging.

“It’s should’ve been me, it should’ve been me, it should’ve b—” 

And he wasn’t sure what he meant by that,exactly. Whether he should’ve been the one to kill Amarantha, or whether he should’ve been the one to die. Instead of those Winter Children, instead of Nostros and Clare and Feyre.

“It should’ve b…”

Finally his arm couldn’t swing anymore and his legs couldn’t hold up, and Rhysand sank into the snow, still gripping the hilt of his sword as its tip dug into the earth. One hand clung to it, and the other pressed against the cold ground, the blood on his hand staining the white dusting of snow as he sobbed.

“It’s not fair…” He croaked as the tears shook his body.

In the fog of his sorrow, he felt the soft brush of wings and a strong, firm arm around his shoulders. He felt a kneeling form in front of him, rough hands gripping the back of his neck, a forehead pressing against his to steady him, like an anchor.

“She’s gone,” Azriel whispered to him, their white breath mixing, “It isn’t fair. But she’s gone. She’s gone and she’s never coming back. And there’s nothing in that cave that can harm you.”

Cassian’s arm on his shoulder squeezed tightly.

“We’re here, Rhysand.”

Rhysand pressed his hand against his brow and wept, as his brothers held him in the cold of the woods, heedless of the nightly creatures that might stalk by. 

“She’s gone,” Azriel’s voice reassured. Then, in a break from his reserved, inexpressive self, Azriel echoed his own words from that first night in Velaris, when Rhys had been too numb to hear them: 

“We love you, Rhysand. No matter what. You’re not alone.”

Chapter Text

When Rhysand returned to the cabin three days later, he found it like he always did—with a sense of stillness and quiet, like it was a vessel waiting to be filled up with the life they would bring. 

Cassian and Azriel had not pressed him to speak about his outburst in the woods. They’d managed to coax him back into the cave for the night, but only after offering repeatedly to stay outside with him and build a fire and fight off whatever creatures were foolish enough to amble their way. 

It was stupid, but they would do it. It was dangerous and illogical, but they would do it. For him. They would do anything for him. 

Two months ago that thought would have scared him away, under his feelings of unworthiness. Two months ago he would’ve fled from them, after being so exposed and vulnerable. He would have left rather than let them see any more of his brokenness.

But being in Velaris and visiting the library and talking with Clotho had begun to work on him, and while he couldn’t prevent the nightmares or the panic or the gut-clenching despair that occasionally plagued him, he was at least learning—slowly—how to deal with the aftermath.

So he hadn’t fled, and he’d forced himself to go back into the cave that had triggered him at first, and to breathe through the discomfort in his chest until it washed past him. He let his brothers build a fire and make food and talk quietly, and none of them spoke of it but he knew he could. If he wanted to, he could. Azriel and Cassian would understand; they would listen.

But he wasn’t there yet, and every time he tried to open his mouth—to explain to them what it was he felt and why he feared and what terrors woke him at night—he found the words caught in his throat. He could talk about it with Clotho, but not with them. It was different with them; his family, it was too close.

So they had gone back to Windhaven and reported their work complete, and Devlon was grimly satisfied, spitting on the ground beside him in a silent curse to the traitors of his people. Rhysand hoped that he had gained just a little bit more respect for Cassian and Azriel after that. Just a very little.

When they returned to the House of Wind, exhausted and heartsore, Rhys had realized what day it was—-what date had crept up on him while he had been hunting in the Illyrian steppes—-and that crushing despair returned with a threatening force.

Azriel was making the rounds of checking in with his spies, he had to leave immediately the following morning to winnow to the border of Day. But when Rhys suggested that Cassian join him at the cabin to get fucking hammered, his brother did not hesitate to accept with glee.

“What, solstice wasn’t enough for you?” He said jovially, and Rhys forced a tired smile.

“No, I just have to practice my snowball technique to try and beat Az next year.”

Next year. The future. When Feyre would be married and gone for good, and he would be just starting his long immortality alone.

He squeezed his fists tightly to maintain the mask of tired amusement.

The cabin welcomed them in the way only it could—somehow seeming dusty and quiet and cool in just the right way, the way you want a place to feel when you’ve been gone for a long time and have just returned, so that you can warm it up and bring it to life.

Cassian trundled through the door with a case of wine and mead and other Velarian delights, saying noisily,

“Some in the camp said there’s fine Elk passing through to the west; we might get a little hunting in while we’re here, get ready for next fall.”

Cassian grinned, and Rhys offered back a tired smile, mentally checking the position of the sun in the sky. It was almost mid-day. The wedding was in the evening. Five hours more and she would be gone. Five hours more and she would belong to another male, forever. 

No, not belong, Rhys corrected himself as he put away the food and alcohol that Cassian continued to bring in from the town, She belongs to no one but herself. And this is her choice. This is what she wants. What she deserves. She will be happy with him. He will make her happy.

He had to place his hands flat on the counter and squeeze his eyes shut a moment to prevent the sting in his throat from turning into tears. 

Rhys sniffed and continued his steady work, as Cassian called,

“Do that thing with the music!”

Rhys huffed a tired laugh and flicked his hand, using magic to recall the sounds of a Velarian orchestra and let it play throughout the cozy cabin.

Just like you did with Feyre, when she needed it…

No. No thinking about Feyre, not today. Feyre was gone. It was over.

It took every muscle of self-control not to slither down that bond today, not to peek into her mind, to touch it one last time, to whisper in her thoughts how he yearned for her, how he missed her, how he… loved her.

Rhys sat on the comfortably-worn couch, and held his head in his hands, tired beyond belief, and knowing this was just the start of a long and arduous existence without her.

Not without her, He corrected again, She’s alive. And that’s what matters. She and her beauty and her light exist in this world, and will continue existing for a long time yet. She’s alive because… because of you. You helped her survive. You did that. You did something good.

Rhys lifted his head, his brow furrowed and his lips thin, looking out the picture window onto the gorgeous sloping, snow-covered hills. 

If he did only one good thing in his life, he had done this: saved his mate. Saved her from certain death. And though it would be difficult, Rhysand thought he could live off of that knowledge for a long while yet.

“Care to get started?” Cassian said, suddenly standing above Rhys and holding up an amber-colored bottle, a commiserating look on his face. Cas didn’t know what day it was—Rhysand had asked Azriel not to say anything—but his brother wasn’t stupid. He could tell this was more than just a day to get shit-faced and laugh at the world. 

Which might’ve been why he lingered there, holding onto the bottle, just out of Rhysand’s reach, watching hesitantly.

“Look, the others told me not to say anything—”

“—Cas—” Rhy closed his eyes; he couldn’t do this right now.

“—I know, just…” Cassian put up his hands in defense, waiting a moment before continuing, “In the woods the other day…”

He sighed and shook his head.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But I need you to know that… you have nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever it is. Whatever she…” 

Cassian looked down at his siphoned hands.

“...and if you want to tell me with your fists, that’s fine. I’m always here for a fight. But you can also tell me with your words. I can take it. You won’t scare me away.”

Rhys finally lifted his head to look at Cassian, who was gazing down with a softness that was rare, for the Illyrian who’d grown up brutal and cold and hard. 

“I can take it,” He repeated, and Rhys just held his gaze, his expression bleak. He believed his brother, but he didn’t have the strength for it, not today. 

He couldn’t explain it all. There was too much. It would have to wait.

But he breathed, and he let himself believe Cassian's words; because he always believed Cassian. His brother could take it, whatever dark, uncomfortable things crawled beneath his skin. His family could take it. They had proven it over and over again. They would not run away.

But not today. He couldn't talk about it today.

"I know," He said, nodding to his brother, "Thank you."

Cassian nodded back, and held out the amber bottle with a look of solemn understanding. Rhys drank.

***

They went out that afternoon—at Cassian’s insistence—and flew above the snowy slopes searching for the elk that were supposedly prize-winning. Rhys felt pleasantly dulled by the time they took to the skies, having drunk more than his share of the bottle that Cassian had proffered. 

He swayed on the cool winter breeze with a strange feeling of weightlessness that had nothing to do with his wings. He hadn’t gotten really drunk in a long time, not while Under the Mountain at least. Though losing himself to drink would’ve been the most desirable during those fifty dark years, it would’ve been too dangerous to lose his senses there; he’d had to be alert at all times.

Now it seemed he was more of a lightweight than fifty years ago, because in his youth one measly bottle wouldn’t have even touched the reserves of power that caused his mind to be constantly renewed from anything that tried to dampen it—even intentionally. 

He was content to float behind Cassian, hardly searching for the Elk and hardly caring, just aiming for oblivion, and chasing away any thought of Feyre or Tamlin or the fact that the sun was tilting in the sky. 

It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming, His mind chanted, but he tried to pour all his thoughts into the hunt, into the pleasant buzzing in the back of his head. Not that, anything but that. He couldn’t think about it. He couldn’t let himself.

“Down here!” Cassian called back over his wings, and pitched forward, picking up speed. Rhysand followed, pumping his wings and angling down towards the earth, trying to find what sign of elk Cassian had spotted before he—-

HELP ME.

Rhysand’s wings went wide suddenly, and he jolted awake with a sudden blast of thought that froze every cell in his body and stole his breath.

SOMEONE ANYONE PLEASE, HELP ME.

He was going too fast, careening towards the hard-packed earth, his mind and body spinning out of control as a flood of emotions crashed into him like a great wave. Panic, fear, despair, sorrow. 

Cas shouted as Rhys frantically tried to course-correct, flaring his wings to slow himself as his legs hit the earth and he rolled, crashing through the sticks of underbrush and grunting in pain as he cut a deep furrow in the ground. 

He slammed against a tree and stopped short, the wind being knocked from him as he gasped for air.

“Rhys!”

Someone please save me.

Rhys wheezed, his eyes wide and wandering, the sky wheeling above him. He was stone cold sober.

Feyre. That was Feyre, this was Feyre, these were her feelings, this was her thought…

And suddenly he was there, in her mind, through her eyes, seeing a sun-drenched field and a thousand flowers and a hundred fae, and Tamlin, and Lucien… a wedding. She was there, it was the wedding, and there were rose petals, red rose petals, red like blood, like the blood of those faeries she’d killed, like…

Help me….

Rhysand gasped and his eyes shot open to find Cassian landing before him, gripping his face and searching his eyes. 

“What is it? What happened, are you hurt?”

“Sh–she–she….” Rhysand gasped, sorting through his frantic thoughts, grabbing at Cassian like he could keep him from hurling down that tunnel.

“She’s trapped. She needs… she needs to get out, she’s scared…”

Rhysand flung himself to his feet, stumbling through the woods, whirling in a circle, sorting out the images flickering in his mind, flooding the bond now with Feyre’s mental gates wide open and his own in tatters.

Save me.

It was like stars bursting to life in the night sky of his mind, and suddenly everything was clear. She needed him. She was asking him. She didn’t want to be there, she wanted to get away, she wanted someone to help her. She wanted him to…

“Tell Mor to meet me at the Moonstone Palace,” Rhys said to Cassian breathlessly.

“Wh—”

But it was too late, Rhys had stepped into the shadows, become immaterial, closed his eyes and thought of Feyre and willed himself to go to her. Because she wanted him to. Because she needed help. 

In the frantic few seconds between moments of existence, Rhysand reordered his face into that mask, he vanished his wings and fixed dark, trim clothes on his body. 

Feyre, Feyre, Feyre…

She needed his help. But she wouldn’t trust him. He had to play his part.

So he calmed his frantic heart and silenced his racing thoughts and opened up the chasm of his power as he felt the light of Spring Court growing near, felt himself re-forming, heard the screams and felt the minds of a hundred frightened fae, fleeing before his presence, before the darkness that rippled outward from him.

He barely leashed his rage—Feyre was afraid, Feyre needed help. What had they done to her?

But then it was all silenced, all turned to shadow, except for her. 

His mate. 

He felt the tether of her like a rope tied between them. 

Feyre.

Her back was to him, her delicate hair hanging in careful curls, a monstrosity of a white dress enveloping her oh-too-thin frame, drowning her in tulle.

Feyre.

It was like he was taking a breath for the first time in months, even as the screams continued and faeries winnowed away from him in fright, even as her wide eyes turned in fear and shock to him, her whole body quivering.

Rhys had to fight to keep from either laughing or crying with joy. He was so close to her. He could touch her. He could hold her…

But there was work to be done. 

So, with the practice of centuries, Rhysand maintained his cold cruel smile, as he flicked his gaze up to Tamlin, who was waiting at the altar for her, next to the priestess Ianthe, the sight of whom caused a twist in his stomach.

Feyre.

Rhysand refocused himself on the only person who mattered, the person he had come to save, because she’d asked, because she’d wanted him.

His lips curved in a smile that wasn’t entirely fake.

“...Hello, Feyre darling.”