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Cassian had been in many forests. The unforgiving mountain forests surrounding the Illyrian camps, the dazzling beauty of the frozen forests of the Winter Court, the lush, vibrant forest of Autumn. But none of them held a candle to the mortal forest. The wall pulsed against his consciousness, a buzzing energy constantly directing his attention to the North, even with all the miles between it and them. Even in the Winter court, there were paths to follow through the woods. But human paths skirted around the dense landscape, with not even a foot trail to guide them past the treeline.
Feyre walked a thin line of fractured underbrush, a game trail barely discernible from the snow-covered forest floor, if he hadn’t known what he was looking at. The width of the trail compared with the height of the remaining brush spoke of something large. Large, and tall, as its body did not drag through the brambles that came up to his knees. The only indication it had passed through at all was the twin lines of forest floor peeking up through the disturbed layer of powder and thickets, mapping the movement of its legs through the landscape. They walked on one of those lines, while the other was at least three feet away. Whatever the creature was, it was massive.
“Feyre, what the hell are we tracking?” he called, raising his voice only enough for her to hear. He’d barely managed to catch up with her when she’d left that morning, if it could be called morning at all. They had been out for hours, and the sun was just now rising over the horizon.
“You don’t want to know,” she replied with a tight voice. Cassian paused, his wings flexing subconsciously.
“Then why are we tracking it?” he demanded. Feyre turned to him and met his gaze, her own face impassive. While it came up only to his knees, the thicket they waded through came up almost to her hips, and it made her look even smaller than she was. Despite the ample diet she’d had for the last few days, the years of malnourishment had taken their toll on her, just as much as the months after Amarantha. Even with her elongated fae bones, the top of her head barely matched the height of his shoulders.
“Because,” she said with firm resolve, “It’s better to stay behind it, and downwind.”
Something in the way she said it made the hairs on Cassian’s neck prickle, and the muscles of his shoulders bunched as his wings tightened against his back. Standing in the trail of whatever beast she was following, he could see the ghosts of the child she’d once been in these forests.
Fourteen. Only fourteen when she’d first come here.
At fourteen, he’d still been training to hold a blade and keep the wind from ripping him out of formation during the stormy seasons. But Feyre? At fourteen, she’d been a starved wisp of a girl trekking out into these woods alone, with nothing but an unfamiliar weapon and a determination not to let her family starve.
“Why are we even out here?” he grumbled, not for the first time that morning. Feyre had been giving only cryptic answers thus far, but this time, she only turned her head from him.
“Because I couldn’t stay in that house for one more moment,” she said quietly.
Cassian assessed her. The tightness in her shoulders, the clench of her jaw, the white-knuckled grip she kept on her blade in its sheath. This was no leisurely stroll, no morning walk to clear her head.
“Why?” His voice was gentle, as soft as the breeze teasing the hairs from her neat braid. Those gray eyes flicked up to his own, and Cassian wished it were Rhys here. Or Mor. Or even Azriel. He wasn’t unfamiliar with navigating difficult conversations, but this woman was hardly more than a stranger still. He knew of her strength, and the little parts of her history he’d gleamed from her mannerisms and the vague details she’d told them all that night at the House of Wind. Feyre was a survivor, like him. Unlike him, there had been no Lady of the Night Court to guide her. Everything she was, everything she had accomplished, had been done through sheer force of will. Through a self-reliance that could put any Illyrian bastard to shame.
“Everywhere I look in that manor, I just see him. ” He didn’t need to know who she was referring to, not with the venom and pain in that one word. Him. The High Lord of Spring. The male who had taught her how to hope, how to open her heart to love and trust, only to twist those words of love into a prison she still struggled to escape from. The manor, no doubt a gift from Tamlin, was just an extension of that prison. Less than a week. Less than a week since Rhys and Mor had whisked her away from whatever horrors happened in that house, and the echoes of it still showed in the sharpness of her cheekbones, the shadows beneath her eyes. Yes, she’d filled out a bit, but not enough to erase the months spent wasting away. “Everywhere I look in that manor, I’m reminded that he did for them what I never could. I look at that house, I look at them , and all I can think is about how ungrateful I am. He gave them everything, and I couldn’t even…” Her voice trailed off, something broken and ugly strangling the words in her throat, and Cassian didn’t care that he barely knew this woman. He didn’t care that she tensed when he took her hand. He didn’t care that she looked at him with something sharp and bitter in her eyes, even as tears streaked out of them. He didn’t care about any of that, because there was no denying he cared about her . One week, and already she’d dug her way under his skin. He could understand Rhys’ near-obsession with her. Feyre was an enigma. And so broken, under that mask of spite she wore. So young, to bear so much hurt.
“No matter what he gave you, or them, Feyre, it wasn’t worth your life. Your happiness. Your freedom. Loving someone should ease your burdens, not become the cause of them. It’s not ungrateful to choose yourself- to choose your life , even if he no longer has a place in it.”
She looked at him, swallowing around the knot in her throat, and Cassian squeezed her hand. Her fingers curled around his own, trembling and cold. So cold- that house, that family. He knew that chill intimately, as intimately as he knew the sting that came with experiencing warmth after a lifetime of it.
“Those things he gave were decisions he made, his choices. And making them doesn’t mean he gets to take yours away. You owe him nothing. You owe them nothing. Your life is your own, and how you live it is a choice only you can make.”
Her face crumpled. Just for a moment, for a single second, he saw the words in her eyes. What if I don’t want to? And his chest ached, his heart cleaving in two for the pain written in that gaze. If he could, he’d fly to the Spring court himself and burn it to cinders, just to erase the guilt and despair threatening to tear Feyre apart right where she stood.
“Your life is a gift, Feyre Archeron. You are a gift. Don’t squander that,” he murmured, bringing that hand to his chest as if the conviction of his heart alone could warm her.
For a long while, Feyre just stood there, her hand curled in the fabric of his shirt, eyes transfixed on their joined hands over the center of his chest. As though she could see straight through him, measuring the worth of his words against the weight of the rest of him, and wasn’t sure what to make of it. Finally, just when he was reaching to find more words to soothe the ache in her soul, she relaxed her hand. It dropped from beneath his own like water slipping under a bridge, and the mask of indifference she favored tightened over her features. So pale, it reminded him of when Rhys had returned from under the mountain. He wondered, hopelessly, whether it was truly her trials that had broken her -or the weight of whatever happened afterwards.
“We should keep going,” she said, voice clipped. Sighing, Cassian just signaled her to lead the way. Whatever they were searching for out here, she hadn’t found it in his words.
They walked another hour. Through the trees above them, Cassian could see the sun rising further and further into the sky. Still, they walked, and Feyre remained silent.
Cassian, a voice said in his head, restless and agitated, It’s been hours. Where are you?
While he could understand Rhys’ frustration, he found he had no patience for it. For whatever reason, Feyre needed this. And for all his words earlier, he’d be a hypocrite if he made her walk away now. Back to the safety of his High Lord. Back to what she would only see as another prison.
We’re fine, Rhys. Give us some time.
Something like a sigh flickered through his thoughts, and he bit back his huff of irritation, just as Rhysand’s voice cut off his next words.
Alright, but if you need me, I’ll be there.
He nodded, forgetting Rhys couldn’t see him, before organizing his thoughts enough to respond.
I will, but I think this is something she has to do alone.
You’re there, Rhys’ reply was a little petulant, like a child being told to go to bed, and Cassian swallowed back his laugh.
I hardly count. I think if she could, she’d blast me right back to the manor.
Amusement wafted down their link, and he could almost picture Rhys’ smirk.
Take care of her.
With my life , he replied with no hesitation. The link quieted, and Cassian pushed ahead more to catch up with Feyre, who for some reason had quickened her pace.
Ahead, something large was meandering through the forest, trees shuffling and branches snapping as it moved. Feyre’s pace didn’t slow as she neared the noise. Instead, she broke into a near-silent run and scaled the nearest tree as quickly as a chipmunk, not even shaking the branches as she climbed.
Cassian watched her for a second, entranced. He wondered how many times she had fallen, before she learned instinctively what branches might hold her weight. Then, he remembered how far they had walked, and tried not to picture a much younger, much more fragile Feyre dragging her injured body back through those miles and miles of trees.
“Get up here,” she hissed just barely above a whisper, and Cassian leapt onto the branch beside her with a mighty flap of his wings, sticking much closer to the trunk as his feet found purchase on the ice-coated surface. The branch beneath them groaned, and the movement of the creature ahead of them froze at the noise.
Feyre sucked in a breath, and knelt down on the branch, creeping along it until she could peer between a break in the cover of the trees. Cassian watched all the while, assessing her agility with a General’s eye, cataloging the potential uses of such skills. If she committed to her training, even without magic, Feyre could be a formidable warrior. He shifted closer, intent on joining her to lay eyes upon the creature she seemed so driven to find.
Crack .
Below him, the branch snapped, cleaving itself from the tree under their combined weight. Without thinking, he grabbed Feyre and flared his wings, gritting his teeth against the twigs and branches that snagged against them, slowing their descent with desperate flaps until they crashed into the tangle of grass and roots below them.
No sooner had they landed than Feyre was rolling, on her feet before Cassian had even folded his wings. There was little skill in the way she rolled, digging her elbow into the dirt for leverage in a way that would leave it aching later. The motions that had her rising quickly with a snarl were not training, like his own, but instinct. Instinct and pure grit, the refusal to face whatever was coming laying down. Oh, all the ways he could hone that instinct into a weapon, forge her into something fierce and unbreakable.
Cassan, while slower, was no less agile when rising to his feet. He’d spent decades training his muscles exactly how to flex, where to position elbow and knee so he could rise ready, weapon in hand.
The sigh of his blade as he freed it from its sheath was deafening in the sudden quiet of the forest. Feyre had gone still, and even the breeze seemed to stop its movement through the branches around them. For in a small clearing, just a few wingspans from where they’d landed, a creature straight from his childhood nightmares stood watching them.
A single red eye peered at him from the face of something that resembled a horse, though there was no skin covering it. Layers of hard, dense muscles were swirled with thick veins pumping a sickly yellow fluid. From this distance, Cassian was eye level with the creature’s horrible gaze, its single eye blazing like a coal fresh from the fire. Astride it, those muscles converged into the shape of a man, also devoid of flesh. Absurdly long arms dangled from its sides, almost brushing the forest floor where its fist clenched around a heavy wooden club. The eyes of the humanoid half were black, but its head followed the path of Cassian’s blade as he brought it across his chest.
Quickly, he chanced a glance to Feyre, to assess her position and how he might place her behind him should the creature lunge, but the look on her face made the blood in his veins turn to sludge. She was peering at the beast with a determined clench of her jaw, not an ounce of surprise stamped upon those delicate features.
“Cauldron, Feyre, you planned this?” he growled, but the sound of his voice snapped whatever spell of silence had frozen the creature in place. It charged, that gruesome club raised to its side. Cassian barely had time to register the hand on his arm before he was being dragged back through the trees. There was no clear destination as they dodged branches and jumped over clusters of roots and vines coated in a fine layer of snow. Behind them, the creature crashed through trees and brush with little care, its weight crushing heavy boughs underfoot like twigs.
“What’s the plan here?” he gasped, clutching onto Feyre’s arm even as her fingers dug into his wrist, desperate not to lose her as their momentum threatened to tear them apart. Without taking her eye off whatever invisible path she followed, Feyre conveyed her annoyance through her tone.
“Run,” she said simply, and despite their circumstances, Cassian huffed. So, run they did. Behind them, the creature snorted and snarled, its hooves slamming against the ground hard enough to shake snow from the trees in their path.
As they approached a break in the trees, he heard the trickle of water against rocks, and Feyre’s hand on his clenched to the point of pain.
“The water,” she panted, “it’s not frozen. We need to get across.” Wordlessly, Cassian nodded. The second they broke from the cover of the trees, he yanked Feyre to him, and launched himself off the bank. His wings flared, flapping wildly at the sudden takeoff, and Feyre clung to his neck as the swell of air from the clearing buffeted them.
They landed in a tangle of limbs and wings on the other side of the stream, rolling a few feet at the impact. Cassian groaned, tucking his wings against his back with a wince. He’d be feeling that stunt tomorrow, and perhaps through to the next day too.
At his side, a shrill noise sent him scrambling for his weapon, hauling himself gracelessly to his feet in his haste, but the noise wasn’t a sob of pain or fear. No, beside him, Feyre was curled in the frozen mud, laughing so hard she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
Across from them, the creature paced back and forth along the shallow bank, its eye gleaming under the bright morning sun, muscles glistening with a fine sheen of sweat even as it bellowed loud enough to send a shiver through Cassian’s wings. Yet, despite the small size of the stream, the beast made no move to cross it. Feyre’s laughing eased with a final wheeze, and Cassian lowered his weapon only long enough to throw a hand towards her. To his surprise, she clasped it without hesitation. He barely felt the weight of her as he hauled her to her feet, but his eyes stayed fastened to the back and forth movements of the creature. Feyre paid it no heed, brushing the snow from her as though they hadn’t just been running for their lives from that horrid thing.
“It’s alright,” she said, and her voice was breathless, heavy exhalation misting in the chill of the air around them, “It can’t get us.”
Finally, Cassian looked at her, and found her eyes bright for once. Feyre looked alive . There was a flush to her, bringing a color she was sorely missing, and the pale blue of the winter sky behind her made her eyes almost gleam with something like excitement.
“And you know this because?” he replied, quirking an eyebrow in her direction even as he allowed his arm to relax, the blade lowering slightly.
“Because it can’t cross fresh water, for whatever reason,” she replied, and the look she gave him was pure mischief. Mischief and exuberance, and for a moment, she reminded him so much of Rhysand before everything had happened that he couldn’t help but return her grin. Sheathing his blade, he stretched out a hand to her. He wanted Rhys to see her like this- vibrant and giddy on the adrenaline of their adventure.
“Well, if that’s done, are you ready to return?” he asked, and almost regretted it. The light in Feyre’s eyes dimmed, though didn’t fade completely. Still, she nodded grimly, and let herself grip his palm. He squeezed her fingers once in encouragement, and then drew her into his arms. Unlike their trek into the woods, Feyre’s silence didn’t feel disdainful as they flew. If anything, it felt contemplative. The flush on her cheeks remained, fed by the wind whipping against them.
“So, I think you owe me an explanation,” Cassian mused, “since you dragged me all the way out here.”
In his hold, Feyre scowled, looking at him with something like exasperation.
“I never asked you to be here,” she said sharply. Despite himself, Cassian grinned.
“No, but I bet you’re glad I came along,” he teased.
“I’d have been fine.” The dismissive tone of her voice gave him pause, chewing over the intent behind her words before he replied. This was no overconfidence or arrogance. No, it was just indisputable fact, spoken no differently than she would state the weather.
“Sounds like quite the story,” he prompted. Feyre’s scowl melted, whatever memories were flashing through her mind softening her features with weariness.
“It was years ago. Maybe four or five. I came across it while on a hunting trip. Game was always scarcer in the winter, so I had to venture further than just a day’s walk to find it. I was stalking a deer, and somehow that thing crept up on me. It chased me to a river, and I’d swam halfway across it before I realized it couldn’t follow me,” she shrugged, the motion settling her in closer to Cassian’s chest. His arms subconsciously tightened around her, pride and horror settling in his chest at her words. He didn’t know, exactly, how young she was. He’d never been a good guess at human ages, even while fighting alongside them. But he knew enough to understand that she’d still been a child just a few years ago. A child who’d outrun a monster by swimming across a freezing river in the middle of winter, while warmth and shelter still remained a several days’ journey away afterward.
“So what?” he asked, aiming for nonchalance but falling short against the anger rising in his throat, “You came out here to gamble with your life again? For what? Just to prove you could?”
Feyre swallowed back something bitter that flickered across her face, then looked away from him and let silence settle between them. He almost thought she wouldn’t answer him, but then she spoke.
“It was never just my life.”
He stilled, wings flapping to keep them falling out of the sky in reaction to her words. Feyre looked back to him, too much swirling in her eyes for him to name, but she suddenly felt so much heavier in his arms. As though the weight she carried had suddenly manifested physically. A weight he was familiar with. Rhysand had ascended his throne a little over two centuries ago, and dragged Cassian with him into that responsibility. He’d gone from worrying only about himself and his little group of friends to taking on the role of keeping people - his men- alive. He didn’t want to think about how old Feyre had been, when she’d taken on the mantle of her family and the burden of preserving their lives. Once again, he thanked the Mother that her father hadn’t been present when they’d decided to pay her family a visit. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to restrain himself from throttling the man.
“Feyre…” he started, only for her to cut him off.
“I’m tired.”
And he could tell she wasn’t lying. Exhaustion dogged at her words, her very bones, no matter what dark thoughts had pulled her from her bed that morning. She’d allowed him, however begrudgingly, to tag along on this quest to prove something to herself. Whatever it was, it was something she’d sorely needed. He wouldn’t punish that vulnerability now by forcing her to drag it out into the light of day.
“Then let’s get you back,” he said. He didn’t say home, for that manor with its lavish furnishings and polished walls had never been that for her. He hoped, one day, that she might find a place that could be, though. She deserved that much.
“Cassian?” she asked softly when the walls of the manor came into view, gleaming in the afternoon sun. He looked at her, lifting an eyebrow in question, and her breath escaped her in a heavy exhale. If he didn’t know any better, he would almost say it was contentment.
“Thank you,” she breathed, and gripped his shoulders tighter, something soft flickering in her gaze. He couldn’t help the warmth that spread through him, or the fond smile that tangled itself in his lips.
“Don’t mention it.”
She nodded, her grip loosening as he landed lightly on the grass inside the walls, setting her down gently. Before she could walk away, he grabbed her arm in a tender but firm grip.
“And Feyre?”
She looked to him, face unreadable. Her eyes searched the lines of his face, and widened when he gave her a shit-eating grin.
“Let’s do it again, sometime.”