Chapter 1: A Blaze on the Mountainside
Chapter Text
Far away in the distance above the treeline and the mountain peaks, beyond the clouds that drifted across the sky, millions of twinkling diamonds lit up the night. In lieu of the deepest black there were swaths of purple and pink, midnight blue and indigo, all stretched out from end to end. Clusters of stars scattered about made up vague shapes that the inhabitants below turned into animals or individuals, fables told to children just before bed. Stories like the Hounds just rising off the eastern horizon to chase the moon as she races across the sky, tips of their tails winking along with the other constellations overhead.
Falling back from the stars towards Prythian, down into the Night Court and deep into the Illyrian wilderness soft paws padded across a mountain trail. Among the boughs of evergreens, owls hooted low and quiet, a brief break in the eerie silence. Closer to the ground small creatures scurried, rustling in the leaves to search for nuts or late berries yet to be found. Smaller still, as small as could be noticed, there was the tiny clicking of insects as they made their way across the forest floor, climbing over leaves and sticks in search of food. A whole magnificent world all around.
As Nesta laid on the cold dirt she found herself thinking again of all that occurred during her brief life. Nothing had gone according to the plan that had been laid out for her at birth; her education and society training to bind herself to a prince useless after they had lost their standing, years in the hovel and the hostility that festered, then Feyre’s traumatic departure. She couldn’t even speak to the horror of being turned fae and various disasters that followed. It was all deserved in her mind, all to pay an unforgivable debt to her sister. Lying there next to a small boulder, she considered all the plans and choices disappearing from her life like dandelion fluff in the wind, and she found she no longer cared. She had this same conversation with herself before at numerous points in the last year but this time she meant it.
It felt different. Previously it was a weight in her stomach, bringing her down mired in misery and guilt. Now though, that was no longer an issue. Her shoulders that had always been so tense, her spine as straight as a bar of iron, the imperious look she kept on her face to hide her true feelings - those had all been chains crushing her beneath the weight of her hurt and failures.
Now? Those restrictions she put in herself were forgotten as she used up the last of her shame and grief. Now she felt weightless, less substantial. Like she was an apparition doomed to walk the earth from this day forward.
With that new weightlessness her power roiled beneath her skin, the stranglehold she usually kept on it slipping away like sand. Finally giving up on her feelings meant she also gave up on that iron vice containing her flames. Silver zipped along her veins so brightly it illuminated the night. She curled in tighter towards herself to hide it and avoid waking Cassian up, but the silver glow grew.
The darting flashes beneath her skin became dashes, then lines, then thick rivers of silver. Goose flesh broke out and her teeth began to chatter. A pounding like a bell rang in her head. She whimpered at the strain of her magic and stuffed her first in her mouth, praying to the Mother Cassian wouldn’t hear.
Please don’t let this happen. Please just make this stop. She repeated the words over and over, the mantra soothing her in small ways as her skin cooled to ice and her blood froze despite the silver fire sluicing through her veins.
Are you certain? a voice said in her head. Not Feyre or Rhysand. Still familiar somehow.
She considered. This would be for the best. Her sisters would be disappointed but would ultimately accept it, as would Cassian. She couldn’t deny them that chance. As for the others… Well. Her loss would not be their loss. In fact they would likely rejoice once the cause of their broken family was gone for good, relishing the opportunity to move forward as the family they wanted to be.
It wasn’t long before she responded yes with determination.
Then let go. Burn as bright as you need to.
A muffled sob of relief escaped her lips as she released the grip on the silver fire coursing through her. She squeezed her eyes tight as the silver glow emanating from her skin burned brighter. Flames licked up her arms and down her legs. Like a raging sun she burned.
As the bonfire that was Nesta Archeron grew to an astounding size, the forest around her went silent just before all that light and energy and power caved in on itself for the space of a heartbeat then exploded out of Nesta in a blast that shook the mountains.
The last thing she thought was of her family. Keep them safe. Keep them hale.
The only thing that remained was a crater.
Agony. Blinding, white hot agony ripped through Cassian as he jolted awake at the first signs of pain. A twisting, jagged knife slipped between his ribs prying apart the bones. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he slapped his hands blindly across himself looking for signs of physical injury. It was dark in the tent and he twisted around hunting for anything that could be the cause of this wound but saw nothing, only the interior. No gashes or slices anywhere on his body, no bruises or areas of hurt. Battle readiness coursed through his veins as his body and mind fought to catch up to one another, all the while the feeling of knives ripped through his insides.
After far too long of blind panic overwhelming him, wondering what may have happened snapped into place. What the fuck had woken him up if there wasn’t an intruder? Then, Nesta. He tried to tug on the weak thread tied to their ribs but when he reached for it he found ash, not even a snippet of the connection linking them together.
Cassian knew he had to move, to take action, to find Nesta and bring her to safety but the pain lancing through him froze his muscles. He couldn’t breathe, trying to get air into his lungs but stopping far short of relief each time. His mind urged him to whip away the tent flaps, seeking whatever threat was out there that could be harming Nesta where he had left her in the cold overnight. But the bond. He wasn’t feeling her fear, or her fury, her guilt and self-loathing. He didn’t feel her exhaustion or sadness. He wasn’t feeling anything at all except that what had once been whole, albeit small and thin, was now gone and replaced with a stabbing, twisting emptiness.
His anxiety grew as he finally found the strength to open the tent and look across to where Nesta was curled against the rock where he had left her last night.
There was no rock anymore. Everything in a hundred spans was gone. A deep divot remained in the earth where the rock had been. Grass turned dead and grey, stones and boulders disintegrated, and trees that stood for millennia looked like husks that could blow away like dust in the breeze. By all rights his tent should have been obliterated given the destruction surrounding him.
How could I have slept through this? Cassian thought as he fell to his knees in the clearing, the void in his chest begging for his attention. Not only did he miss his mate disappearing right from under his eyes, and a blast that could have taken down Ramiel itself, but it had all happened silently.
But why? Why would she do this?
This couldn’t have been some cruel trick she crafted to get back at him for punishing her. She couldn’t have known that Feyre requested she come home, that there was no anger towards Nesta for what she had done. There was no chance this was outside forces either like Briallyn, no one except the Inner Circle had known they were here and he trusted his family with his life.
But could he trust hers with them? he asked himself.
Shame filled his guts, he knew it was possible. It was why they were out here in the first place. Rhys said he would kill her. With a shaking breath Cassian pushed that line of thinking down - his brother would never hurt him this way, regardless of how he felt about his mate’s sister - and concluded that Nesta must have done this herself.
All the feelings he had noticed over the months through the bond came back like ghosts floating within him as the rest of his body began crashing. Too much, it was too much. Deep sorrow. Confusion. Guilt. Grief. Shame. And rage. Rage like the torrent of the Sidra after the first melt of winter snow off the mountains. He could no longer tell what were memories of how Nesta had felt these last few months and what was his own reaction to the fact that she was gone. Possibly dead by her own hand, and he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late.
As it caught up to him he could feel his heart dropping into that gap where the bond used to be. Too much. Still too much.
Scrabbling for the few siphons he wore when sleeping he tore them off and flung them away. The beast that slumbered within him, held fast by the power of the stones, rose its head and began clawing its way up and out of him. Without them his power thrummed. It rose and rose, digging its nails in and ripping its way through his chest, his throat, his entire being. Animalistic sounds tore from his lungs as it continued rising up and up and up and out.
Finally, when he could no longer see through the tears and could no longer scream with his raw throat. Finally, when that power inside him burbled up and over the rim of that empty hole in his chest he exploded. Waves upon waves of red magic unleashed themselves upon the destruction Nesta had already caused. It felt endless. It felt freeing. It felt claustrophobic. It felt like chaos as his magic continued pulsing along with his stormy emotions.
Ten minutes or ten hours later his power began to ebb, finally dwindling down to the dregs of his reserve. Sweat covered his body and something dripped from his nose and cheeks. Something salty. Were those tears? His hair hung in dank clumps along his jaw as he stared into the ground not actually seeing. His wings drooped further and he had no energy to lift them. In his line of sight the dead trees were now gone, and the circle of destruction was even bigger.
Should any Night Court enemies happen to wander by, Cassian could be gutted with ease. He was adrift, knowing on some level that he needed someone, anyone, to help him. He knew he should call for Rhys, for Feyre, for anyone in his family to come and plan for what comes next, but only one thought kept running across his mind as he stared into the dirt.
How could I let this happen? What have I done?
Rhysand leaned back and took in his desk. A tall stack of reports sat to his left and a much smaller stack to his right. Cups of tea had been discarded for a bottle of his best whiskey and a glass whose condensation dripped slowly onto the table. Scraps of paper were scattered about and the glowing fae lights cast shadows in the corners of the room. Still in proper order to anyone who came looking, but at odds with how he felt.
His mind had been fraught over the last few days in the aftermath of Nesta’s meddling. Despite his best efforts to distract himself from Feyre locking him out of her mind and muting the bond he found he couldn’t focus on the growing concerns of the Night Court while his home life imploded. The only thoughts drifting across his mind were his fears – for his Court to be left without a leader and heir, for his son should he also pass with his parents, and for Feyre, Mor, Amren, Cass, and Az. What would happen to his family once they were ripped apart? All this worry that he had been handling as best he could alone until that witch opened her mouth and spilled secrets that were meant to be kept. He grabbed the glass and took a sip, staring off into nothing.
It was late. The in-between time where it could be the night before or the early hours of the morning. Rhysand sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Exhaustion had been a dear friend these last few months but even he knew he was reaching his limits, experience and power be damned. Without being able to share a bed with Feyre upstairs he had forced himself to work to stay distracted. He glanced at the left-hand stack again and found he didn’t care as much as he should have. What were trade reports and council meeting minutes when the fate of the Night Court was so precarious? He sighed again and picked up the sheet on top of the stack and began to read.
After only a few paragraphs a tremendous tremor rocked through the wards from the North and East. From somewhere near Illyria, which was concerning given the only things that should have been in Illyria were the war camps, some scattered mountain clans, and Cassian and Nesta. No one in the camps would have had that much power to be felt from Velaris and the mountain clans certainly never drew attention to themselves, leaving only his brother and Feyre’s sister. As he pushed away the haze of his tiredness, he reached out tentatively to Cassian’s mind and was surprised to find no mental shields.
Cass, what was that?
No words came through the other end, only a mess of images and feelings and chaos that were pushed his way with an overlying tint of grief and rage.
Rhysand startled, mind sharpening at the unexpected intrusion. Was that tremor of power coming from the mountains an attack? He felt his body begin waking with a keen alertness as he reached out to Cassian once more.
Cass, tell me what’s wrong. Do I need to go there?
Another onslaught of memory and emotion was sent back through the mental bridge, just as murky as the first but much more concerning. The images flashed quickly through his mind, over and over and faster and faster, all with the taste of deep loss and anguish bitter as anise. He recognized the mountain they were on and saw flashes of grey brittle trees. There was the shifting red magic of Cassian, but unfocused as it usually was. He saw boulders the size of cabins thrown back and down the mountain. And still the overwhelming feeling behind the memories was anguish.
Rhys spoke to Cassian again – Stay where you are, we are coming to you – and began moving out of the room and down the hall.
He didn’t have fucking time for this. He tapped on Feyre’s mental walls to let her know he was handling a matter but she ignored him, likely asleep given the late hour. He tried Az next and had better luck, informing him that he was needed at the River House immediately for a quick departure to Illyria. Within moments Shadowsinger and his pets pooled into existence in front of him darkening another corner of the already dark house.
“What’s got you awake at this hour? This is normally my time for work,” Azriel asked as he took in Rhysand’s disheveled appearance, shifting in and out of vision as his shadows circled him.
“Cassian’s got me awake at this hour. Something happened in Illyria but I can’t get a straight answer out of him – did you feel it?” he asked as he began pushing the thoughts and feelings Cassian had sent down the link to Azriel. His body and mind continued to sharpen as his concern grew.
“I felt something, like a burst but wasn’t sure what. My shadows reported a blinding light that burned through them like fog, some were quick enough to escape while the others were destroyed. Maybe Cassian and Nesta had a breakthrough with her power?” Azriel asked as he tightened his siphons, looking up at his High Lord.
“In the middle of the night? Maybe but I doubt it. We leave now,” he countered and then winnowed away.
Cassian felt one thump, then two behind him as he continued staring aimlessly into the distance. Shuffling came next as Rhys and whoever he brought with him turned in a circle taking in their surroundings. Cassian couldn’t bother to look over and see who was here to share in his despair. He heard murmuring coming from somewhere but the ringing in his ears was louder.
“Cass, what happened? This is… not what I expected to find.” Rhys. His brother had come but didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. “Cass, you have to tell us what’s going on.”
He glanced back at his High Lord then back towards the peak of the mountain. He didn’t respond. Nothing mattered right now. The only thing he cared about was the wound in his heart where the bond was missing. Like the piece to one of Amren’s stupid puzzles, lost in the world and he would never be complete without it. A talon scraped down his mind, requesting entry but he kept it locked out. Cassian heard more murmuring behind him and then felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Brother, what happened here? Where is Nesta?” Az. Az had come along with Rhys, likely thinking there was some threat to the Court that must be dealt with. The mention of Nesta’s name from someone else’s mouth snapped something within him, like a shock to the brain.
Quick as lightning he stood and whirled to face Rhys and Azriel, tremors running through his body and exhaustion had him swaying on his feet. He glared at his brothers, those he would have died for over and over again. Those he nearly had died for. On several occasions. The family he had surrounded himself with after Rhys’ mother had saved him. All he could think of now was blinding rage at his High Lord for causing this situation.
“YOU! You happened! I took Nesta out of the city like you asked. I brought her here to get her shit in order after what she did to Feyre. I followed your orders, High Lord,” he sneered, “and now she’s fucking gone!” stalking closer to Rhys with every word until they were nose to nose. He could feel the anger and frustration leaking out of his skin as he shoved Rhys’ chest.
Night mist drifted off Rhys in response but he found he didn’t care. Let Rhys end him. Let him be misted like so many Night Court enemies over the centuries, it was what he deserved for allowing this to happen. He shoved hard into Rhys’ chest again as his anger built from his sorrow. At least if Rhys killed him he could join Nesta in the eternal land of milk and honey. Faster than he could see, he punched Rhys in the face and his brother stumbled backwards.
“Stand down Cassian, where has Nesta gone?” Azriel’s siphons pulsed while Rhys and Cassian fought, anger and defiance spilling off the other, growls and snarls cutting through the silence of the area. His instincts were taking over as he dodged and kicked, throwing jabs where he could while Rhys danced out of his way. His movements were sloppy and he couldn’t land a strike.
“She’s gone, she’s dead! Just like you fucking wanted you bastard! I can’t feel it anymore, the bond. I can’t feel her anymore. It’s gone and there’s nothing there to fill it. I did exactly as you asked, got her out of the city so you wouldn’t fucking kill her and she’s dead anyways.” Saying it out loud like that brought clarity through the storm. “Was this you?!” he spat as he flared his wings and encroached on Rhys’ space again.
His mate was dead. The bond was nonexistent. With his magic reserves depleted from his outburst Cassian did the next best thing and punched Rhys in the face then tackled him while he recovered. A berserker rage took over him and whatever restraint he had been showing vanished, and he pummeled Rhys relentlessly until the bastard remembered his magic and threw a blast of it in his face to send him reeling. Recovering quickly he used a powerful flap of his wings to close the distance but was sent back with another magic shield.
Belatedly he noticed Azriel was doing nothing to defend their High Lord but had crossed his arms and stepped back into the shadows of the dead trees on the perimeter. Good. Let him wait on the edge. He would deal with Az next.
Skidding onto his feet from the third wave of magic that forced him back, Cassian snarled and started charging again. This time Rhys was quicker and instead of a shield he invaded Cassian’s mind and forced him to his knees. The command of the High Lord was in play now, and a growl ripped through his teeth as he thrashed against the invisible restraints holding him in place. Despite knowing he couldn’t escape, that did nothing to stop his efforts to do so.
“What do you mean Nesta is dead?” Rhys asked, voice tight, as he observed Cassian continue to fight like a caged animal.
“I mean she’s fucking dead you asshole! Do you feel her? Can you sense her fucking mind anywhere near here?” He ground out, giving another useless push against the power that held his bones in place.
Rhys’ eyes glazed over as he searched, keeping Cassian in stasis and leaking stars and mist while he did. A few moments passed and then his face hardened to stone. Cassian roared again knowing he was right, knowing that Nesta was truly gone from this world and not some cruel trick. Rhys shot a sharp glance to Azriel and then a moment passed and Az winnowed away. Coward.
“Can’t find her can you? Are you happy now, now that your problem has disappeared? You fucking asshole,” he howled as Rhys continued staring at him blankly, for once at a loss for words.
No, calculating. His eyes were too sharp, with a steely glint to them. That’s what Rhys was doing. Calculating his next move, probably figuring out how to tell his mate that her sister had vanished in a blast that could wipe out a village.
“Cass. Cass! You need to calm down. We will find a solution but you need to talk to me. What do you remember?” Rhys stared at him, not letting up the shield that kept Cassian pinned to the ground. He tilted his head, asking if his brother would be still so they could talk but Cassian gnashed his teeth and grunted as he tried to stand again. “Do not make me force you.”
He felt new bonds tighten around his chest and his arms, bringing his knees together so he was immobile. Incandescent rage flashed through Cassian as he thrashed harder against his invisible bonds listening to his brother’s words. How can Rhys be so calm? Did he know what was going to happen? Lightning thundered through his veins.
“I woke up in pain and she was gone, what’s so fucking hard to understand Rhys, ” he snarled at his brother “I can’t feel her anymore. I can’t feel her!”
Quickly losing the thread of sanity Rhysand forced on him with his High Lord magic Cassian’s own flared in response as he tried to break his invisible chains to fly, to set up a perimeter so they could look for clues. Anything to not lose Nesta, whose scent was overpowered by the smell of ash and smoke.
“Cassian, we will look for her to see what happened. Az is sending out shadows as we speak and he’s searching himself through the rest of the mountain range. We will learn what became of her,” Rhys soothed as he clasped his brother on the shoulder.
Vaguely, Cassian registered that Rhys didn’t sound hopeful, but as quick as it came the thought was gone. He groaned instead as he felt his power begin welling up again, increasing with his anguish. He didn’t notice Rhys edge closer, encroaching on his space.
Cassian’s mind was a maelstrom of emotions, but as Rhysand placed his thumb and index finger against his temples he felt the storm calm. The loss and anger and misery begin to ebb away. At first it was soothing, to have his mind free and his body still, but he felt the memories of his waking also flowing out of him, like water running downhill. He flailed again weakly trying to force Rhysand’s hands away from but he was frozen, unable to do much but wriggle. He tried to hold onto his memories and emotions, that righteous anger at Nesta’s disappearance but they continued to bleed away. Soon he collapsed on his side, still bound, but no longer fighting body and soul. An empty shell of whoever he had been upon waking up and finding Nesta gone.
As he felt Rhys’ talons scrape the last memories of the morning from his mind, all Cassian could do at that moment was think of Nesta before his mind went blank.
Fuck, Rhys thought without an ounce of irony at the current situation he had found himself in. On one hand, the problem with the eldest Archeron was now solved. No longer would he have to see her sharp features, her cold eyes, her ruthless tongue snapping at him whenever they disagreed. These days that occurrence felt like it was all they did whenever she deigned to make her presence known. He would no longer have to fret over her attitude and grievances against the life he had so generously provided after her and the other sister were Made. On that hand, he felt nothing but relief, glad for the disappearance of one of his biggest problems.
On the other hand, now Rhys had to figure out how to break the news to Feyre, who was still upset with him for trying to keep her safe and happy. And keep Cassian contained. Somehow.
“Fuck!” Rhys shouted, running his hands through his hair.
“Well, I can’t say I’m disappointed,” Rhys muttered under his breath as he strengthened the bonds on the unconscious Cassian laying at his feet. “That bitch has been nothing but trouble since she exited her mother.”
He had said to Feyre once that he would never forgive those who wronged her, and for one of the main perpetrators of her suffering to be mysteriously gone? It was nearly perfect.
What wasn’t perfect though was how he was meant to solve this now. Nesta was well and truly dead, that much was accurate. He couldn’t feel her mind anywhere, nor that enormous well of power she tried to keep hidden. Looking at the destruction she had to have burnt out, ceasing to exist in a bonfire of those silver flames she couldn’t control. But why? And how to inform the family? He couldn’t have Feyre more upset than she already was, not in her fragile state.
With Cassian incapacitated and Azriel looking for pointless clues, he pondered the best way to manage his General and his highly emotional mate. Both would be devastated to learn the truth, and Rhysand did not intend to give them that. Not when this incident was a boon for his Court. Surely the loss of power would be missed, but with Nesta unable to control it anyways was it so great a loss? The lack of direct opposition to his family and their decisions anymore was worth it.
He looked around at the destruction surrounding him again.
“An unfortunate training accident,” he started, after an hour or so of running through all possibilities.
“They came here to teach her a lesson…couldn’t control her tongue or her temper…
“Without me here to smother her… no way to stop the inferno...” Rhys began to pace, tapping his chin as he walked and talked more to himself than to silent Cassian laying on the ground.
“Only us and knowing no details… easy to contain…” he continued, spinning more ideas into plans as he kept pacing. He stopped suddenly.
“Feyre and Elain can only know the bare minimum, let them assume the rest, yes that will be safest. I can’t do anything that will put further strain on her…” He turned and nudged Cassian’s cheek with his boot, watching his head loll back with the motion.
“You won’t keep quiet though,” Rhys murmured low to himself. “No, I’ll need to do something else about that. I cannot lose my General to bond madness, even if…” he trailed off, thinking of all the things he had done for Cassian since these sisters arrived in their land.
“I am sorry for this brother, but it will be for the best.” He kneeled beside Cassian’s head and placed his thumb and finger along his temples, brushing away Cassian’s shields. A smattering of stars filled Cassian’s mind as Rhys lay the root of a new memory somewhere within.
Minutes passed, then he dropped his hand. Hefting the Lord of Bloodshed’s enormous form over his shoulder, he took one last glance at the grey, lifeless field and winnowed away.
Feyre laid in bed going over the last few days in her mind again and again as the dawn broke outside her window. Nothing about the memories changed, but it was all she could do as she waited for the energy to get up and start her day. Despite her efforts to shut him out initially, she was beginning to miss Rhys. It was hard to be upset with him for keeping her in the dark about something so important when all she wanted was for him to soothe her aches, listen to her fears, and to use his brilliant mind to find a solution that will save them all. Now that she knew what was at stake, they could work together and use the full resources of the Night Court to find a solution. They could reach out to their allies and combine forces. She had to believe there were options remaining. She didn’t have the luxury of thinking otherwise.
There was also the frequent and annoying pounding at her mental shields now that she raised them, but she chose to ignore that for now.
As she thought about whether to open a mental link to him, a soft knock came at the door and Elain quietly entered. Looking a bit nervous in her lavender dress and fidgeting with the bracelet on her wrist she told Feyre that Rhysand had summoned them and was quickly out the door again.
I guess since he couldn’t get through to me he used her. He could have at least tried and come to me himself in person though, I’m not that far.
She turned heavily to lift herself off the mattress and felt a nudge somewhere on her right side beneath her ribs.
Hello little Nyxie, good morning to you too .
Even in her fear of the future, all she felt when thinking of her babe was love and affection. She hoped that some way those feelings would travel her blood to her son, to nourish him and prove just how loved he was. She wouldn’t let her nerves impact her child while he was still growing. Who knew what kind of lasting effects negative thoughts could have to an unborn child of two daemati? Would they be nervous and afraid before they even entered the world if that’s what she shows them?
Slowly she dressed in soft leggings and a softer blue sweater, groaning as she reached and stretched then walked her way down to her mate’s office where the rest of her family gathered. Rhys looked calm and collected, a change from his disheveled appearance earlier in the week, though he appeared bruised in some places. Cassian looked blank. Az was nowhere to be found, and Mor and Amren were sitting on the couch, arms crossed and heads together, whispering. Nesta was missing from this gathering too, but why? She should have been with Cassian. The last person, Elain, hovered beside the door waiting for her sister to enter, hands fluttering against her skirts.
What is this? She reached out to Rhys mind to mind for the first time in days.
There’s been a development with Nesta , he responded and immediately her hackles went up. On the best days Rhys and Nesta didn’t get along, on the worst she worried that a clash of power between them would leave Velaris destroyed in flames and shadows. Today he sounded particularly aggravated. She lowered herself into the armchair across from his desk and waited, tattooed hands smoothing her sweater against her belly and wondering what her sister had done now.
“Last night during Nesta’s hike an accident occurred,” he started with a sigh. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, taking the time to look at each member of their assembled family, looking to Feyre last and lingering on her. She felt a flutter near her stomach, but couldn’t tell if it was nerves or Nyx.
“Cassian and Nesta were attempting to focus her power and things got…heated between them. As you all know there has been tension in the family for the last few days since her outburst and emotions have been running high.” At this his jaw clenched, and he breathed out. “From what we can gather, Nesta burned herself out during the encounter.”
What? Burned herself out? How? she thought as she looked at him, confused. Did she reach the limits of her power?
At this he paused and his eyes gazed into hers. “Feyre darling, I am so sorry but Nesta is gone.” A tendril of darkness and starlight slipped down the bond to her as he said these words.
A sliver of fear slid down her spine. “Gone? What do you mean gone we have to go find her what do you mean?”
She tried to rise from her chair but Rhys put an arm on her shoulder and kept her down. She looked up at him, frowning. She knew he and her sister didn’t get along but at the very least he would want to find Nesta for her sake.
Slowly Rhys came to kneel in front of her. “I mean Nesta is gone from this plane. I cannot find her mind and there was a large amount of devastation where they were camping. This is hard to tell you, but I promised no more lies. I fear Nesta may have burned herself to death with her power.”
No.
He looked at her with such pity, his words didn’t land for nearly a minute before she inhaled sharply. More darkness slithered down the bond and to her mind, attempting to soothe. To placate her while she panicked.
“Show me.”
He obliged and sent an image down their link of devastation in the mountains. The details were slight in the still dark scene, but a great crater in the mountainside was visible, the size of a field. Everything was rubble and ash.
“You- you mean my sister is dead?”
Her breath hitched and she could feel tears lining her eyes as she took in her mate’s face. Eyes like starlight. She pushed aside the night mist and felt down the bond for the truth of his words. She searched and there it was, sadness and comfort rolling towards her on that invisible thread tying them together. There was something else there too, small enough that she barely noticed it over the dark, but it felt thick - like the fog that rolled in by the Prison - instead of refreshing. She felt it slip away as quickly as it appeared as her mind threatened to spill over.
She looked to Elain, who had tears running down her cheeks and her hand to her mouth. Her shoulders shook slightly as she tried to muffle her sobs. Mor and Amren seemed slightly unsettled but were not having the reactions Feyre had expected. She was surprised Mor didn’t look happier to be honest, and knew Nesta and Amren had fallen out months ago but she had thought there would be something. Azriel appeared stoic as always, although she noticed a tic in his jaw. He must have just got…
As she turned to Cassian, his expression made the least amount of sense. She had heard how males reacted to a lost bond, and had felt it herself when she lost Rhys during the war. It was supposed to be madness and pain. They all knew what was between them even if they wouldn’t admit it to each other. At least Nesta wouldn’t. Cassian should be raging, lost to his anger and grief. But he seemed empty instead. Hollow. Like with the disappearance of the bond his own soul had disappeared too.
Feyre looked again to her family, but aside from Elain none seemed to want to provide her comfort. None seemed to understand her pain.
“We can’t do anything?” she asked the room, remembering how she was brought back, how Rhysand and Amren were brought back. “She’s just gone, like that?” The tears continued to fall as she looked back to Rhysand for comfort.
“I am sorry Feyre darling, but nothing can be done. There was no body, there were no signs of conflict. She’s just…gone.” He brushed away tears with his thumb while her mind continued to reel. More night sky seeped down the bond to her, almost suffocating at this point.
“I need- I need to leave. I need to go lie down.” She answered flatly and forced herself off the chair. They had fought, she has just seen her days ago, all ire and steel. Nesta couldn’t be gone. Rhys only stared at her, not offering to accompany her back to their rooms despite trying to for days. Elain rose instead and helped her down the hall back to her room, rubbing small circles along her back as they walked.
She muted the bond again as they went and raised her mental shields. Her limbs were floating, her mind detached from the rest of her body, totally numb. Entering her room, Elain pulled back the covers to the plush bed and fluffed the pillows then helped Feyre in. Dithering for a bit she looked to Feyre then the door, then back to Feyre and crawled in on the other side.
Facing each other and clasping hands like they did when they were children Elain sniffled and asked “Feyre I want her back, it can’t be just us left. She can’t be gone.” Elain’s voice was hoarse, whether from whispering or sadness Feyre did not know. She blinked and more tears fell. Elain gave her hand a comforting squeeze but it felt weak. “What do we do now?”
Feyre felt a flutter from her belly and cradled her free hand against the life inside her. “I don’t know Elain. I don’t know.”
Both sisters fell silent, lost to their thoughts. Lost to the memory of the oldest of them who was always frigid and calculating, cold as ice. The only thing that felt cold now was the empty space on the far side of Elain. The space Nesta used to sleep in when they were in the cabin. Which, Feyre realized just now, had been between the door and her sisters. Where Rhys would now sleep to keep her safe.
In her own small way Nesta had tried to protect them then, and now she never would again.
If any fae living in Prythian turned their eyes towards the Middle in the darkest hours of the night - that desolate, awful place where monsters prowled through an abandoned forest - they would have seen a silver avalanche crashing down from the top of the mountain and out towards the rest of the Courts. Since most fae didn’t care to think on that place though, no one noticed the shimmering wave of power that extended across the lands.
It flew silently south over mountains and glaciers, across rainforests and coastlines, through forests burnished in red and gold, past fields of wildflowers and a small pool of starlight. It gathered speed through lands where humans were born, lived, and died all in the span a fae grew from birth to adulthood. It flew north as the sun rose in shades of gold, pink, and purple and raced across hot stone and hazy horizons. It soared above a mountain stronghold and rumbled down into the valley to a hidden city, and then through the steppes and mountains. That silver wave spread itself out through all of Prythian covering every man, woman, fae, and creature that called the island home.
Of the few living in Prythian who knew about the Dread Trove, those magical objects that could wreak havoc or win wars, they did not notice them disappear in the middle of night. A golden mask gone from a room few could get to. A golden crown vanished from the vanity box of a queen whose looks betrayed her youth. A harp that hadn’t been seen for millenia faded away with no one to notice, except maybe the other powerful beings who had an idea of what lay within their Prison. But they couldn’t be sure. Such mysteries were simply added to the list of strange happenings as they remained trapped in their cells.
And three weapons, two swords and a dagger, so new in their existence, would not be found. They were simply gone without a trace.
If any fae had been paying attention to that silver shield that spun out from that sacred peak, they would have also noticed the faint rumbling from the land at the same time. As if something great and powerful had awoken suddenly. Gone just as quickly as it came, the world continued on like nothing had happened, although now a god once ancient was reborn underneath that mountain.
Fae continued sleeping awaiting the coming dawn. They stumbled home from bars and brothels and gambling dens. They kept watch out into the night, not seeing the importance of what had just happened.
Shadows, however - the shadows looped and danced and skittered and frolicked, for they saw all.
The land wakes! they crooned.
She walks again! they sighed.
We see, we hear, we know! they whispered.
The shadows shivered and slithered and darted and jumped on their way back to the Conductor. So many exciting things in one day as they raced to him.
They wondered what monumental thing would happen next.
Chapter 2: Rituals
Summary:
Murmurs of rituals are heard in Prythian, ancient magic thought to be abandoned making appearances. Feyre comes up with a plan and Cassian grieves.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The snowflakes meandered in the weak sunlight and danced through branches on their journey to the ground, sparkling like so many scattered stars. Piles of snow shifted and morphed, creating cresting waves and deep valleys then shifting again into a different form as the wind blew down the mountain. A small stone cabin on the outskirts of Whitebell far in the north of the Winter Court was shadowed beneath the mountain range, a stone’s throw away from a crystalline forest. The cabin was not large, but at a glance outsiders could tell it was well tended and loved.
Within the cabin, however, that love was struggling to warm the home and its inhabitants through the miasma of illness. An odor hung in the air - a bitter scent that wouldn’t dissipate even when the windows were thrown open during howling winds. Bundles of dried lavender, a rarity from Spring Court hardly available where they lived, did a poor job of covering the smell. Not only the smell of bodies, but also the smell of sorrow. For this was the home to a family of frost giants, an ancient line of fae as old as glaciers and mountains and the sky itself hidden in the shadow of the mountain. True elementals with the powers of snow and ice, who could manipulate the cold and create glass-like ice sculptures or freeze blood within veins. This family of frost giants had inhabited this cold corner of Winter for centuries and the youngest child was dying.
Sheltered in bed, with blocks of ice surrounding her shimmering snow-white body, the small female was sweating. Her blue hair which normally clattered about like icicles when she laughed was limp, strewn about the lumpy pillow and her chest rose and fell rapidly as she whimpered in her bed. A frozen cloth was placed over her eyes, and several more lay in the snowdrift just outside the door, ready at a moment's notice when the current one was warm. The time between switching cloths was alarmingly low.
A large male and smaller male were outside cutting new blocks of ice. The larger swinging an ice pick methodically to break off small boulders, the smaller using a chisel to turn them into even smaller bricks. Sweat shone on them as well, but from honest labor.
Inside a female was busying herself with a tincture - yarrow for the fever and mint to cool - to provide her youngling. They had tried for so long to have a second, they could not lose a youngling in this Court. Not since so many were slaughtered during the Terror, and fae children were already precious enough. Frost giant children even more so with how few of their kind remained. She sighed and stirred the mug, hoping and praying to the Mother this would work. She poured her love and hopes and wishes down her arm into the spoon as she stirred, trying to imbue the beverage with whatever small amounts of power would take. This had to work.
With the consistent thunk of the ice pick as percussion and the whisper of wind and snow as strings, Linnea grabbed the mug and turned towards her daughter. Brave Hedda, her darling girl. A gift from the mountains and the ice who had already brought so much joy to their harsh life here in the frozen forest. Placing a smile on her face, she lowered herself to the edge of the bed and brushed a hand along the damp edge of the cloth and pulled it off her daughter. She would need to replace it along with the blocks surrounding her child.
“How are you feeling, my flake?” she murmured, continuing to stroke Hedda’s face as she rearranged the larger blocks of ice to touch more skin. She watched as gently, so gently, eyelids fluttered open, tiny crystals of ice melting off eyelashes onto pearlescent skin. Hedda didn’t respond, only whimpered some more and turned her face towards her mother, leaning into her caress.
“I have something for you, it should help you feel better,” she said as she brought attention to the mug in her hands, hoping her daughter would notice through the fog of her fever. They had been lucky to keep her safe this whole time, hidden here in the desolate north. She could not be lost now. “Tiny sips, my darling.”
Hedda groaned and tried to lift herself up but only got as far as raising her head. Linnea reached behind her daughter's small shoulders and pulled her closer. Hedda sipped lightly, stopping every so often so her brow could be wiped. Her clothes were damp yet again, from both the fever sweat and ice rapidly melting around her. Within minutes the mug was drained and Hedda had flopped backwards into the melting ring of ice.
Smiling at her daughter, Linnea gave her a swift kiss on the forehead then walked out of the cabin to her husband and son. At the thud of the door both males looked up at her and she shook her head sadly. Her son, Magne, wilted at the gesture and went back to chiseling, a new frown etched on his features. Her husband, Fjor, rested the pick against the block and came her way, stomping his boots and shaking the stiffness from his gloved hands.
“She is not getting better?” he asked, running his hands along her arms as she leaned into his touch.
“No, the fever just rises. She’ll need more ice soon but I fear if we can’t cool her down she’ll steam away. It only takes hours for the blocks to melt now.” It was rare for fae of any kind to get sick, and rarer still for a frost giant to suffer from a fever, even a youngling. They were meant for winter chills, frozen ground, and icy rivers. Not this fire that seemed to be consuming their daughter from the inside out. “It’s been weeks, Fjor. We cannot hope any longer. We have to do something…greater.”
He looked at her askew, and she wondered if he knew what she meant by greater. Did he know the stories her Amma would tell her? The legends that said wishes would be granted through piety, yes, but also sacrifice and belief? They had to try something new, and she found herself willing to make that jump. Their eyes met and she urged him to understand just how far she would go to save Hedda.
He closed his eyes and pulled her close, waited for the space of a heartbeat, then sharply nodded.
Linnea spent the rest of that day and the next gathering supplies. Ice taken from the river nearby, fished out with great hooks by her husband and son, cedar boughs from the forest by their home, and blood from Hedda to complete the trinity. This was old magic she would be working with today, ancient magic from the beginning of their people.
At midnight she walked to the edge of their land where the moon shone on a great stone that would be the altar for her ritual. She placed the ice in the center, carved lovingly by Fjor earlier to be a rough likeness of Hedda, wreathed by the boughs of cedar arranged just so. With shaking hands she pulled out the small vial of Hedda’s blood from her pocket and went over the chant in her mind. With shallow breaths she unstoppered it and shook the contents over the rock making sure drops splattered on ice and branches alike. With one last look to the moon, Linnea steeled her nerves, took a calming breath, and began to hum.
A deep sound came from the back of her throat, a low note that shivered in the air before her as she raised her hands towards the moon and lifted her face to bathe in its light. It was mournful, the breaking of her heart given voice as she began to ululate her sorrow to the stars. Her tears froze against her cheeks, tiny diamonds glittering on her luminescent skin. She cried for her child and sang for her salvation, calling upon the goddess to look for her daughter among all the fae of Prythian, one small snowflake in a blizzard. Linnea howled with the wind, begging for help to keep her alive. As she cried her despair, her shaking fingers thumbed at the wide belt against her waist, her hand brushing past the cold hilt of a dagger before grasping it and pulling it from its sheath. Closing her eyes, she sang and sliced the blade against her palm allowing her own blue blood to drip onto the altar. Gingerly, she did the same against the other, raising her hands once more, blue streams running down pale white arms. Her song crescendoed and as the last note left her throat, she slammed her hands down onto the ice with an almighty crack, smearing the blood across it and the boughs.
The first bit of silver light shone over the horizon, over this land of eternal winter, and a chill descended on the land. It came down the mountains and passed through the forest towards the altar, stirring up silver snow as it rushed by on its way to the cabin. It seeped beneath the door and around the windows, through the small drafty spaces. The temperature plummeted. Fjor and Magne rose from their vigil in squashy chairs near Hedda before the door burst open and Linnea entered, hands wrapped, eyes frantic and immediately seeking out her child.
They all waited, not daring to breathe.
Moments or hours, they weren’t sure, her daughter slowly opened her eyes and turned towards her family. Her eyes were clear and bright, though still shadowed underneath from weeks of sweating and tossing around in bed. She also seemed to be emanating a faint silver glow as for the first time in nearly a month she smiled weakly and exhaled frost and flakes instead of steam.
Outside the moon glowed just a little brighter, a corona flaring from her cratered face. It almost seemed as if she was pleased by the outcome.
Well done.
For the first time in weeks, Feyre was looking forward to her day. The Day Court representative was due to arrive shortly to help Feyre with a project she had come up with. While she still had hope that her family would find a solution to her problem, she wanted to be realistic about the alternative and had begun preparing other options.
When sitting in the lounge one evening with Rhys, curled into him and staring into the fire she had a small thought. That small thought niggled and nagged at her until it became a larger thought consuming her days before she finally told Rhys what she wanted to do.
While reaching out to Day to ask for any research they had on winged births she also added a request for someone with the skills to help insert memories to paintings. They lived in a magical world, didn’t they? There had to be some kind of magic that would allow her to transfer her thoughts into the paintings she had made decorating her home. She knew the request was odd but if it gave her son something more substantial to remember his parents by she was grateful for the chance to try.
Helion, of course, sent word back swiftly, amused by her question. He was going to send a member of his Libraries, a researcher in the ancient arts and entertainments wing, to assist her. He wrote that Feyre may appreciate having someone to discuss her pastime with while they completed the work together.
She did, and had more of a bounce to her step than she had in weeks. Since becoming High Lady she learned hardly anything about Prythian and each individual Court. She thought it smart to start her education with something she was passionate about. Earlier in the week she requested her family join her at the River House so they could all be together as they created this gift for her son. The idea was that each member of her family had a portrait or were included in the paintings that decorated their home in some way. She had asked that when the Day Court scholar arrived, they would make time to stop by and bring up a memory of Feyre and Rhys. The researcher would then bind the memory to the canvas itself, laying it over with a ward of several locks that Nyx would need to puzzle out in order to receive the memory inside. Each lock would be attuned to whoever was providing the memory as an extra bit of fun to learn about the rest of them too. Feyre would assist with the mental link to draw out the memory and put it back into the art and the scholar would handle the enchantments.
To help the process before their guest arrived Feyre walked room by room to see where all the paintings that included people were, she wanted to start with those first. There was the portrait in Rhys’ office, several of him and his brothers scattered about in various rooms along with others of the entire Inner Circle. The paintings with her human and fae families in them, and then a few individual portraits. If they had time they would move on to the landscapes but they weren’t sure how long the process would take. She supposed it depended on the memory.
She was searching for a painting of Nesta, crossing into every room to see where it may be hiding. She had thought she had placed her into one of the family portraits but her mother was there instead, gazing somberly towards her. As she moved through the house guilt curled sour in her belly. There had been nothing resembling her eldest sister anywhere.
That had to be impossible. Feyre remembered painting one of Nesta in that dingy tavern - The Queen Without a Throne. But anywhere she looked was more of her family or her favorite places in the Night Court.
Lost in her thoughts she heard the door knock and made her way to the foyer. One of the wraiths - she still had trouble telling them apart sometimes - had answered and a short fae with wiry fur covering his arms was waiting for her in the entryway.
“Welcome to our home! I’m grateful for your arrival and help with this task. I hope it isn’t too much of a bother for you to be here.” She greeted the male with a hand on his arm, ushering him further into the house.
“I can’t say everyone gets the opportunity to enchant the personal residence of a High family,” he responded cheerfully as he looked around. Rhysand had been wrought with concern over letting a stranger into their home, and only allowed it as long as all rooms were locked until a member of the Inner Circle or Feyre entered with their guest, enchanted for the day. She tried not to think of the other limitation, that their guest’s mind would be wiped afterwards to keep Velaris hidden. Even though their home was known by name, there was no need for this fae to know where it was either.
“At the least I hope it’s an interesting task for you. Would you like anything before we begin?” The wraith returned with a silver tray, tea set, and various snacks and waited patiently, silently.
The fae hummed in agreement and started toward the tray, mentioning that his name was Nico and while he studied ancient art his specialty was in protective enchantments to keep them pristine, similar enough to her ask that it made him perfect for their task. He’d spent several centuries at the Thousand Libraries already, and was genuinely enjoying spending the rest of his days there. Conversation flowed naturally over the hours while various family members of hers appeared.
Since each transfer would take time, everyone could pop in whenever they wanted throughout the day. Feyre had plenty of memories of her own to include and could pass the time working on hers while waiting for the others.
Cassian arrived first, having already been up for hours in the habit of a career soldier. While he looked more drawn than usual, Feyre could tell he was trying to put on a happy face for her benefit. He had chosen one of him, Mor, and Rhys at Rita’s, one of the gambling nights from their youth where they were deep into their cups but laughing uproariously. His arm around Mor’s shoulder while she leaned into the touch. Rhys to their side, hand on his chest and head thrown back. He spent about fifteen minutes with them before quietly saying thank you and taking his leave.
Feyre was a bit bewildered that he hadn't wanted to share more as well as hurt that she hadn’t been included, but supposed he was still grieving. She sent a mental note to him about what his lock should consist of. Probably something related to her son’s physical prowess in a training ring.
Amren came next with Varian in tow, catching Feyre up to their time spent in Summer. Varian inquired how she was feeling and if she was looking forward to the holidays and her birthday. She answered mostly honestly but tried to steer the conversation quickly back to the task at hand. Amren selected a self-portrait. Silver eyes and silver gown, throat dripping with the blood rubies her partner’s family had threatened them with. Elegant and statuesque in the painting despite the actual female's true height. She requested her lock be made of the jigsaw puzzles she loved so much.
No one arrived through lunch so Feyre and Nico worked on her own memories of Rhys until Morrigan came in a woosh and a bundle of scarves shrieking about how difficult it would be to choose.
“You don’t have to pick just one,” Feyre laughed, “there are plenty and we have time.”
They made their way through the house, totaling four paintings that Mor added her memories to. One of her and Rhys as children, based off a memory he had shown her of games they had played together when younger, the weight of the High Lord mantle far off in the future. The second was of Rhys alone, soaring across the skies above Velaris, wings stretched fully to catch the updrafts. Another was of Feyre and Rhys together at their favorite restaurant in the Rainbow, the water of the Sidra shining in the background. The last she chose was of herself and Feyre together in a designer’s shop, trying on dresses with miles of fabric and featuring the most brilliant shade of red Feyre had in her set.
Mor’s memories would be locked behind honesty. Given her power was truth, in order to reveal what was hidden inside Nyx would have to give several truths to the spell in order to see them. Feyre was particularly impressed, being reminded of her own experience with the Ouroboros.
As Mor was leaving Elain and Azriel arrived in a swirl of shadows on the front lawn. Elain ran to her while Az stalked behind, looking grim as always as they entered the home. Feyre worked with Elain on the family portrait while Az circled around the paintings in the hallway, opening and closing doors seeking out something specific. He returned shortly after so he must not have found what he was looking for.
“Are there any of Nesta?” he asked bluntly. “I looked everywhere but didn’t see one. I would like to include something to remember her by, too.”
Heat rose in Feyre’s cheeks and Elain turned to look at her, gaze darkening more the longer the silence stretched. She hadn’t even considered doing the same for Nesta as a way for Nyx to remember his aunt, only herself and her mate. Nico politely pretended he couldn’t hear anything as he worked on the spell - the enchantment for Elain’s paintings would be found with knowledge of the human lands, where part of Nyx’s family came from. She cleared her throat.
“There, uh, aren’t any,” she kept her eyes on Az, staunchly avoiding her sister’s gaze which was boring into her skull.
“What do you mean there aren't any?” Elain asked with a bite of frost to her voice.
“I never painted any of her. I could never get it quite right, could never get it to feel like her…” she finished lamely. It wasn’t untrue, she never could get the feeling right. But she also hadn’t tried much either.
“Feyre-” Elain scowled but Azriel interjected quickly that he knew which paintings he wanted to use and made his way through the door and to the adjacent room. Feyre patted her older sister on the arm and drew Nico with her as she followed the Shadowsinger out.
On the wall in the room Az entered was a painting of Rhys, wings unfurled and darkest night in his eyes. A snarl upon his face and holding a sword gleaming with starlight, her rendering of the legendary Made sword of old, the star sword Gwydion. She had intended her mate to exude power and glory but it came out a bit too intense - what it would be like to see him from the perspective of an enemy. She found it an odd choice as something to provide for her son.
She glanced at Az, questions in her eyes, but he shook his head. “I’m ready,” he said, glaring at the image before him.
Of everyone that had joined her already, the Shadowsinger was taking the longest by far. For nearly an hour Feyre held the bridge of his mind while Nico cast the spell. She was curious what he was saying that would be so lengthy but kept from intruding despite her curiosity. They had been brothers for five centuries, of course there was much to tell over that length of time.
When asked what Azriel would like to do as his protective enchantments he wanted to ask questions and if Nyx answered honestly and correctly he would see the secret inside. As resident interrogator, it fit Az and would be a fun test for her son.
The second painting’s enchantment was the same, but this painting showcased a self portrait Feyre had completed. She was perched on an outcropping of rock in the Steppes, broad wings protruding from her back. Wings she had mimicked from Az, she remembered with a start. In the background were the mountains, Ramiel stretching towards the sky in the distance, the shadows of dusk approaching and three stars glowing above the tall mountain peak.
Again, this painting took much longer. Not as long as the prior one but still close to a half hour. Curiosity surged again inside her but she held it at bay. She had entered minds before without consent and was doing her best not to do so again. The longer it took though the more curious she became, and she couldn’t help herself and took a small peek.
He was telling a story of a quiet conversation he and Feyre had shared in the House of the Wind, about what it meant to be a leader. She exited the bridge and left Az to his thoughts again. She remembered that day herself, feeling down that she was meant to rule by Rhys’ side but with no experience to draw from to know where to begin. Az had told her she had much to learn, but if she kept her good heart she would be fine.
Finally, after Feyre had completed her own set with Nico her mate returned. She was exhausted from sustaining magic for so long - it wasn’t challenging on its own so had been allowed by Madja to act as the bridge, but they had been at it nearly the entire day. She kissed Rhys, feeling heat curl in her lower abdomen as she did, and they walked to the office where the large portrait of her hung.
“Feyre darling, this is brilliant. I hope we never have to use them, but just in case it was an inspired plan. Thank you for coming up with it.” He wrapped an arm around her as they turned to stare up at her larger than life face, looking down with cool indifference. “I will have to be sure not to wax poetic about your beauty and ferocity the whole time.”
She smacked him playfully, and he kissed her just above her ear.
“You’ve been at this all day, go have dinner and I’ll work with our guest on this one. You should rest. I’ll come to you later to enjoy my time with you.”
Rhys gave her a searing kiss then turned away to slide his hands into his pockets, waiting expectantly for her to leave.
Surprised, Feyre nodded and backed out of the room. She had thought they would do this together, sharing their hopes and dreams for their son in a possible life without them. She had so many stories to tell of the both of them and how they grew to love one another over the last couple years.
As she turned to open the door, Rhys’ expression went from pleasant to somber for a moment right as she was turning. Just a flash and then gone.
Blinking, she made her way down the hall.
Even as winter chilled the air and frosted the ground elsewhere on the northern end of the island it was always hot and humid within the borders of the Summer Court. The sun shone high in the sky causing shimmering heat to waft off the ground, making the entire city look wavy. The trees lining the cobbled streets swayed in the breeze, and within the shadowed doors cool air blew through pushing the mugginess out and up back into the sky.
Broken shells sparkled off the beach and in the bay boats of all shapes and sizes rocked in the water as waves lapped the shore. Fishmongers could be heard calling out their catch to the fae wandering about along the docks. Sailors hauled up nets, checked for holes or catches, and flung them back into the water in easy repetition. A few small younglings raced from one end of the beach to the other, following a water nymph swimming with dolphins along the coastline.
Summer was rebuilding. They had suffered much from Hybern’s attack, but under the leadership of their young High Lord the Court was pulling itself back together piece by piece. It would take time and there was guaranteed to be conflict along the way, but High Lord Tarquin was determined to not just replace what had been lost but improve on it. He had to atone for his own failures that led to the destruction of his Court and his people after they had been freed from that monstrous mountain.
That was a never-ending future task. For now, he was just pleased to be invited to such a rare and momentous occasion. Today was the death rites for the greater sea fae Nera, who had protected the bay of Summer for as long as could be remembered by those living today. As ancient as the ocean itself, she had watched over their home from all enemies and foes, a truce brokered between the primordial fae that lived in the depths off the coast and High Lords going back millennia. Nera had seen much, had been a great font of wisdom - a goddess in her own right - and now she was gone, her position passed along to one of her sisters.
Tarquin was here to observe and assist with one aspect of the rite, an honored guest to one of Prythian’s most secret ceremonies. It was rare for one of the greater Vily to die, let alone one so prominent. He was blessed to be granted this chance. For Vily, death was not the end, but rebirth as they passed through the waves to continue their journey to the deep to become part of the cycle of the world yet again.
He leaned over the rail of the schooner he was on, carrying a dozen or so fae from the land deemed worthy enough to be present for this occasion. They were traveling some unknown distance away from shore to a place where a deep canyon sunk below the waves, thousands of spans under into the dark and murky depths. This was where Nera would be laid to rest. As the vessel continued its path Tarquin could feel the massive power of the ocean beneath the boards, begging him to hold onto its energy and use it, taunting him with the rush that could be had from drawing so much magic from the sea itself.
Another hour of sailing and an eerie sound carried across the waves, haunting music that swooped and dove in his ears like the seagulls along the harbor. He noticed other guests looking around trying to determine where the song was coming from. He did too, until he leaned over the railing again to look below.
Beneath the surface were hundreds of sirens, mermaids, and nymphs escorting the ship further into the blue. Fins of blue, purple, green, and silver flashed through the water as the song continued, crescendoing when a handful would jump in the bow break as the schooner cut through the rolling waves. Massive ripples were left in their wake as the group twisted through the water along the break.
Off to the left a pod of whales jumped and crashed, spinning their massive bodies through the air as the sea rose up like a fountain when they landed. Smaller dolphins and sailfish were scattered in the group, adding a pleasant harmony to the thundering of the waves. The fae on the boat around him began to murmur excitedly, they could feel they were getting close.
From the depths to the right rose a pair of cecaelia, creatures that had not been seen in over three thousand years. Tarquin was astounded at the number of other beings who were here to say goodbye to Nera, the greatest among them. He could feel his own skin crackling with energy, desperate to release his beast form and join them surfing through the sea.
A soft hand on his shoulder, and a silky voice said “We are nearly there.” Cressida had joined him for this trip knowing more of the Vily and their fellows than he did, and he appreciated her guidance through this strange ceremony. She had never experienced rites this grand before, but she had attended rites for nymphs which was similar enough, though on a smaller scale. She gently pulled him from his location on the deck to the bow where the ceremony would be held from.
As the other fae gathered with them another Vila stood prominently at the front of their assorted group. Hair like seagrass and aqua skin with scales that shimmered like sunlight on water, the Vila’s voice joined that of the sirens in a hauntingly high soprano. A few more bars and the song became slower, moved more sluggishly like a trickling stream, and after another few heartbeats each held a low note, long and rumbling like the waves crashing against the shore.
“Welcome,” she cried, raising her webbed hands and turning to face the sea. “We come humbly and we come graciously to thank the ocean and show our gratitude for giving us such a divine being. For allowing us to spend our brief amount of time with her. One of the demi-gods of old, she was tasked with a sacred duty to protect these waters and the creatures in them against enemies both foreign and within.”
Her voice was clear and carried over the waves, heads popping up only a few at a time at first then dozens, hundreds, more than Tarquin could count. He had no idea so many fae and creatures lived in the seas of his Court. Had anyone known or did they just not tell him?
“We celebrate Nera, the greatest of our kind. First daughter of Morskoi and Moryana, raised to move the tides and currents, to protect the seas and all its creatures, to be an ally to Water-Swimmers and Land-Walkers and Air-Flyers alike, to work together to create a peaceful world, a better world. We thank her for providing us with sustenance and ensuring we are kept whole and hale. We grieve her loss which will be felt for millennia as a new protector rises to take her place.”
The Vila let out a lilting note, high and undulating, echoed back by the thousand voices on the surface - rumbling baritones that sounded like surf breaking against cliffs, high sopranos that reminded Tarquin of seafoam floating on the surface of a turquoise cove. There were even animal cries included in the response, dolphins chirping and crabs the size of carriages floating and clacking their claws wildly. A kraken had arrived and was waving its tentacles in a mesmerizing pattern in the distance, an artistic backdrop as the ceremony continued.
It was an astonishing display among creatures and fae he didn’t even know existed. This was what he wanted for the Summer Court. This cohesion, this clarity, this… this unity he had never experienced, even when gathering forces to fight Hybern. His own tears dripped down his face, the salt of a fae mixing with the salt of the sea.
“Our grief is the world’s grief, but we will not be shaken.” At this another cry from the beings in the water, rising and rising like a tidal wave. “We will honor her memory, we will hold her alliances, and we will make that better world in her name and the name of all those who gave their life in the pursuit of good.”
The singing was all around them as more and more creatures appeared. Schools of fish flashed by in a rainbow of colors, sea animals dipped and dove around the boat, mermaids had begun to splash their fins riotously, and still the song rose higher. Even fae of deepest black, bony from their time at the bottom of the sea floor where food was scarce, appeared, lurking just beneath the surface, too afraid to make that final break to air above. Tarquin could feel every note vibrating his bones, calling to him directly, asking him to join them in his beast form to truly understand the gravity of this situation. He could feel his skin begin to shift and tried to hold back for fear of breaking the schooner they were on. He focused on his tears, his sympathy, and his hope for the future to ground him.
Higher and higher the notes climbed, until finally for a long minute - lengthier than he could have imagined - the song cut off abruptly at some hidden signal and silence surrounded them.
“High Lord Tarquin,” the Vila gestured, bringing him next to her for this next piece of the ceremony that required his magic to fulfill. He rose, now nervous compared to awed, hopeful he didn’t somehow ruin this moment with his inexperience.
“We ask you to send Nera home, so she may become one with the sea and be reborn of the sea. In a never-ending cycle water gives life, and so we give Nera’s life back to the water to begin the cycle anew.” She took his hand and gave him a gentle smile, reminding him that he was worthy. He could do this. He was the only person who could do this.
Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Tarquin jumped into the depths of his well of power. He swam for the bottom, for this would take a monumental effort, and dove and dove and dove. Compressing all his thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams he went down, down, down. He felt the bottom - the dark, the soft silt, the deep currents that ran and turned the world, greater than what the Mother or the Cauldron ever should have gifted him with. Invisible rivers of strength and power that he hauled up on now. Like a fisherman raising a net, arm over arm he yanked and pulled and tugged.
He knelt down - he needed leverage for this next part - and held his arms out perpendicular at the elbow and palms down. He looked to the Vila again, waiting for her approval, and she looked at him with eyes the color of the ocean and just as deep, and nodded.
Tarquin exploded up and flipped his arms over like he was carrying a tray and heaved . He used all his strength to push up and then out . Ahead of the schooner the water suddenly dipped and then parted, widening further and further as he moved mountains worth of water, from the surface to the sea floor, out of the way to the altar hidden beneath the waves. He grunted and slid, the water having a mind of its own and wanting to move, not be held at bay. Cresseida put a supporting arm against his shoulder to stabilize him and he could feel the Vila do the same on the other side.
He had used his power before but nothing of this scale, not even during the war when drowning enemies, and he had been frightened to know if he even could. He felt like he was holding back thousands of stones worth of weight, which, he supposed, was accurate. Now that he was stable, the giant trench of water in front of him stabilized too. Between the two sides of the ocean he was holding back lay an altar made of coral, pearls, shells, and sea glass, hidden for centuries except for services such as this. Blues and pinks, aquamarine and yellow, lustrous like a pearl - nothing in the palace even matched the natural beauty of this altar. Two of Nera’s sisters made a small spout of water to bring her through, to lay her on her final resting place to let the ocean and time have their final goodbyes.
Once again the singing started, mournful and joyous all at once. Shaking with the strain of his efforts Tarquin was too focused to feel much, but he knew this moment would remain with him forever.
As the two Vily laid a burial shroud woven of seaweed and kelp on the form of Nera, something even more incredible happened. Both walls of water on either side of the dais shone with a spectacular silver light. Mesmerizing and beautiful, like seeing light catch the waves and reflect back onto a mirror, vibrant silver shone. He assumed it was part of the ceremony until he caught sight of the lead Vila and saw the awe on her face, tears streaming from her eyes as she raised her other hand to her mouth.
“Moryana below,” she breathed, and Tarquin made a grunt of confusion. She shook herself a little and said to him, not turning away from the sight, “You would say Mother above, we have only been blessed this way a handful of times since the birth of the world. This is unexpected and most holy. You are witnessing a true miracle, High Lord Tarquin, Master of the Tides.”
The Vily at the altar finished their care and swam slowly back through the spouts into the seawalls. Tarquin, as carefully as he could manage, lowered the water back to its natural position and collapsed on the deck. He was exhausted, and awe-struck, and so hopeful he could feel it moving in his chest. He sobbed on the wooden planks, Cresseida lowering herself to cry with him, sharing the moment and the burden.
“We have been blessed indeed, cousin. We must do what we can to prove we are worth it,” she said, leaning on him and holding him tightly.
Unable to speak, Tarquin could only nod as his tears fell and hold his family closer.
Quick as a minnow a small dark smudge streaked from beneath the boom and coiled along a rope and darted through a porthole into the cabin below deck. The light hurt and there was much too much of it here on the sea.
She knows the old ways! it sang.
And it swam like a fish through the shadows inside the ship.
Blood spattered the sand and a tooth tumbled towards the line marking the edge of the ring. The blood and tooth weren’t Cassian’s so he didn’t much care where they went. The only thing on his mind was fighting until the rest of his body was as broken as his heart.
He was on his eleventh spar of the morning with no signs of slowing down.
After the family meeting about Nesta’s training accident Cassian had flown straight to Windhaven. His mind had shut off, his body moving automatically from centuries of making the trip. He flew straight to his cabin and the quiet wind on his face soothed him as he soared through clouds.
A brief respite from the absolute misery he had felt for the last several weeks.
He kept trying to remember the last days before she died. If he had done things differently would she still be here? What was it he said that made her lose control? Or did he actually push her too hard and cause her to burn out? He had flashes of yelling and the landscape of the mountainside passing by through longer periods of silence. Very little of Nesta aside from various mentions of eating and sleeping as she wallowed in her shame.
Maybe he was trying to block it out.
Whatever Illyrian he was fighting landed a surprise hit that grazed his bottom rib. Cassian wheezed and threw a heavy uppercut from his hunched position that lifted his opponent off the ground. It was brutal, the vibration of it ringing up his arm.
The warrior was thrown backwards and landed with a thud before rolling nimbly to the balls of his feet, flaring his wings for balance. He snorted, then spit, then smiled at his General.
Cassian saw red.
Literally saw red as a burst of power surged from his siphons towards that stupid smirk on the other end of the ring.
“Cassian, NO!” he heard Az bellow somewhere off to his left.
“Fucking bastard,” another shouted from directly ahead.
“General, stand down!” Devlon called out somewhere beneath the roar of soldiers gathered near the ring.
Cassian grinned, blood coating his teeth. They wanted the Lord of Bloodshed? Now they had him. He circled the edge of the ring eyeing the crowd and the unmoving body across the way, bent at the wrong angle, waiting for his next opponent. He shouted “Who’s next?” when he suddenly had a face full of sand. Something slithered around his ankles binding them together as Azriel stalked towards him. Giving him a swift kick to the knee to bring him to the ground, Az stepped on his chest to keep him down and winnowed away.
When they landed wherever Az had taken them he got another kick to the gut before a heavy boot stepped on his hand, right on the edge of crushing the delicate bones. Cassian roared and tried to kick out with his feet as he rolled to his side to gain leverage. Azriel was quicker and gave him a boot to the jaw to knock him back.
Before he could raise himself up more shadows circled his arms and wrists to pull them back behind him. He lost his balance and collapsed to the ground, panting as he shot daggers at his brother. Copper coated his tongue as he thrashed against dark shadowy bonds.
“Cassian, you have got to get a grip. I’m half tempted to throw you in my dungeons to get you to calm down. You’ve killed three soldiers this week. Three! We do not have enough people for you to be cutting through them like meat. Get. Your shit. Together.” Azriel seethed, his own siphons pulsing rapidly in response to Cassian’s energy, shadows darting wildly around.
“Why should I fucking care. It’s not like it’s mattered before. Illyrians are bastards, remember? What’s another one lost.”
“Because you’re meant to be better than this! Better than the rest of us. You are taking down the wrong people. Owain was a decent male here and a good fighter. He was just proud to get a hit in on you. You had no reason to kill him, you're out of control.”
“I don’t care!” Cassian screamed. “I don’t fucking care! Nothing fucking matters, not anymore!”
“I know it doesn’t matter to you, but you cannot keep doing this. We’re going to lose the Illyrians. More rapidly than we have been if you keep it up.” His brother pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily as Cassian’s struggling slowed down. His adrenaline was crashing and suddenly he felt extraordinarily tired, laying there on the floor.
“I just miss her, brother. I miss her so much,” he whispered more to himself than Az. He had forgotten Nesta for a little this morning while his vision tunneled and bled red. Along with his adrenaline the weight of his failure crashed down too. His chest hitched.
A drop here, a drop there, then all at once Cassian found himself sobbing on the floor of a cabin. His brother stood guard silent and cloaked as Cassian let the tears fall. Nesta Nesta Nesta his mind chanted over and over as he tried pulling the bond that was no longer there.
“It hurts so fucking much,” he moaned, anguished. Like surf breaking on the shore during a storm, every emotion he had been shoving down crashed upon him then retreated. Bellows then moments of calm, then a fresh wave would wash over him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Az let him cry, no judgment from his brother as he finally released all the anxiety and devastation he had been experiencing recently. Occasionally a shadow scampered about his feet or looped around his ankle but otherwise Az let him be as he sobbed all his frustrations out, a steady presence nearby.
Once the weeping had turned to sniffling Azriel crouched down next to Cassian on the floor and tentatively released the magic that bound him. Az leaned his head down towards Cassian’s trying to catch his eye. He lifted them from the ground to his brother’s, hazel so similar to his own.
“You have to because you must. It will be painful but you will get through this. I’ll help you.” Azriel touched his forehead to Cassian’s and clasped his hand to the back of his neck, then swiftly stepped away in a swirl of shadows.
“Now, if you’re finished I have information.”
Cassian sat up, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes and jaw as he tried to pull himself together. Despite how terrible he felt overall now it was a little bit…lighter. Not much, but by the smallest bit.
“What,” he croaked, not sure what information would mean anything to him now.
“Things are happening out of our control,” Az said mysteriously as he took another step away to the one window in the room. “There’s also been more deaths here and in the Hewn City. Not the amount, that’s not changed, but more males. Accidents. Disappearances. Rhys hasn’t noticed, not with the way he’s been acting with Feyre and the baby.
“My shadows have also been picking up strange rumors, not just here but in other Courts. They’re anxious. They’ve been whispering things we haven’t heard of since before Rhys’ father’s father was born. Old magic.” He looked out the window, darkness creeping over his face as trees outside swayed in the moonlight.
“I’ve been hearing about sacrifices.” At this he looked at Cassian sharply then away again. “None of fae, but it’s concerning.”
He paused and turned his head to look at Cassian from the corner of his eye. Cloaked in darkness he cut an ominous figure, a portend of death. “Power has been waking across Prythian. I don’t know why yet but it’s greater than anything I’ve ever felt or seen, even Rhys.”
“Yea, Az, and why should I care?”
He turned around fully now to hold Cassian’s gaze, forcing him to pay attention.
“All these incidents…” he tapered off, anger in his gaze. As if he was trying to tell him something mind to mind like Rhys would. “They started the night Nesta died.”
Notes:
The first bits of this story I wrote were the one-shots of the other Courts and they're still my favorite parts. I wanted to explore how death was treated elsewhere in Prythian and what rites and magic would be associated with different places. Poor Tarquin needs a win, so being able to assist with something momentous likes this helps with a good confidence boost and confirmation that the High Lord's magic wasn't wrong in choosing him.
The Inner Circle is still coming to grips with what happened and grieving in their own way. Feyre tries to ignore it and move forward while Cassian can't seem to break the surface, and the others are caught somewhere in the middle. She is using her creativity to solve problems that aren't really problems and he's dealing with all-consuming guilt and rage over his failure to keep Nesta safe.
Chapter 3: Perfect Timing
Summary:
A mortal crosses into the fae realm by accident and power surges in Autumn. Rhysand makes a visit to his ally to seek help.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In the south where the land was drab and boring, not quite lifeless but not very bustling either, the inhabitants were coming to terms with their new reality. War had come, again, and they had suffered and survived, again, nothing more than a footnote in their long and macabre history with the fae. Now it was time for those survivors to dust themselves off and continue on with their lives, despite the fact that the upheaval had been so great. But, humans were resilient. They would find a new way to live and make peace with what had happened.
However, outside of the rebuilding and battle shock those closest to the Wall had pockets of goodness come out of the war with the other fae. Magic appeared and disappeared along the old border between their two worlds. A strange plant that had blooms the size of dinner tables, unusually colorful creatures that had looked like birds at first but had some uncanny aura to them - if one was lucky it was something truly wondrous, actual magic that shouldn’t exist but somehow, miraculously does. It was easy to forget how terrifying the idea of magic and the fae were when looking at an animal that seemed to be the cross between a cat and a chandelier with a tail split into dozens of gossamer strands.
Other times though. Other times the difference between humans and fae was once again too obvious to ignore, when dark creatures roamed the land hidden by shadow and something otherworldly. To counteract this danger, humans knew to not wander too close, and to avoid being out in the dark.
Unfortunately, it was dusk and Matheo was much too far from home.
He was out in the furthest part of the forest, very near the Wall here in the easternmost part of the Mortal Lands. Sparser trees than what he had heard of on the opposite side of the island, but by the peninsula on the coast where he lived it was much rockier. Wind usually battered the place, shaping the land and all that grew. It was difficult for things to live here, even when it was a perfect day.
It was not, however, a perfect day. Rain battered the stones and Matheo slid trying to find shelter further in the forest. The winter storms came upon so suddenly. He was desperate for cover, his boots squelching with each step and his heavy cloak doing its best attempt at strangling him. Why did I think there’d be any late game today? he thought miserably as he tried to throw the wet cloth over his shoulder.
It had been wishful thinking to even attempt this journey so late in the year and one he was now dearly regretting. As he climbed more stone to get a better vantage point he saw a dense thicket of trees only another mile or so ahead of his current location. If he could make decent speed he should be able to reach the copse before night had truly fallen. That may mean spending a night out in the wilderness, but at this point any cover would be better than what his current situation was. He clambered down the rockside and glomped his way closer to the forest.
Nearer and nearer he got, his sodden cloak snagging on branches and thorns as he marched his way along. Through the branches he could see the trees and bushes suddenly get much more dense than anticipated. He nearly lost his hat, as if a tree had reached out and plucked it straight from his head, and his quiver kept getting caught on barren limbs. He wrapped the corner ends of his cloak around his arms to try and protect them from scratches, pleased with his quick improvisation given the circumstances. He thought he heard the sound of pipes as he thrashed his way deeper into the woods but the storm had increased to a gale at this point, the wind howling in his ears. Anyone out here playing music would have to be an idiot or fae.
Oh fuck he thought. It actually could be fae.
He had no idea how close he was to the Wall but with how far he had trekked in his mad dash - to be maybe not dry but at least not wet - there’s a good chance he misjudged his location and could now be steps away from the Wall. Fear swelled in his heart while his stomach simultaneously dropped to his feet and he paused, chest heaving as he considered his options.
He could stay where he was and remain in a potentially dangerous situation, although the likelihood of danger in weather like this seemed slim. Or he could turn back around towards home and continue dragging his soaking wet carcass around, empty-handed and angry but alive and well.
He thought momentarily about his choices as thick splashes of water fell across his hat and cloaked shoulders. Looking up at the sky it seemed the choice was made for him. It was nearing full dark now and the storm was directly above him, a tempest of clouds and thunder and lightning with winds that were creaking the very roots of the trees.
Well, he thought , in for a penny and in for a pound. He drew his cloak collar tighter around him, pulled the brim of his hat down to cover more of his face and started walking again. This time though he wasn’t moving blindly, he was seeking out any kind of clearing to not be trapped in these blasted branches any longer.
As he used his covered arms as battering rams to punch through the forest Matheo yet again was wondering about his stupidity. Idiot.
It was precisely then that he smashed his way through a particularly nasty bush and fell into a hole in the hedge. Face first in a lush bed of grass with rain spitting on him instead of drowning him, he had to think that his circumstances had improved momentarily - even if this was a sure sign that he had somehow crossed through to the faerie realm. Rolling onto his back he looked up at the drizzling evening sky and inhaled the scent of wet earth, lightning, and strangely enough the most fragrant blooming floral scent he had ever imagined.
He pitched forward to a seated position in an attempt to take in more of his surroundings. He was on the edge of a meadow, tall grass swaying in the breeze coming in from the coast. In front of him was the hedge he had fallen through, but on this side it was covered in honeysuckle, so many blooms that it was more white than green. To his left off in the distance were the cliffs, so he hadn’t walked as far in from the sea as he thought. To his right rose a hill with a solitary tree on it, old branches twisting up like gnarled fingers. It looked fairly ominous the longer he stared at it, shadows dancing out past the branches like they were reaching towards him. Behind him the meadow continued though from where he was it looked like it eventually hit another forest, this one less dense than the one he entered from.
His current situation was much improved since he was no longer drowning on dry land, but the fear of the fae lingered. Although they were supposed to live together on Prythian, old habits remained at the forefront of his mind. Hopefully he was too far away from any residences to incur notice and could remain in the meadow through dark. He’d try to find his way back through the hedge in the morning.
Taking off his cloak he hung it off his pack, hefted his bow and quiver, and started towards the spooky tree hoping to find cover and dry branches to make a fire and a shelter. He was not keen on spending the night here but again, what choice did he have?
As he was trying to find his footing to go up the hill he felt more than heard the unearthly pipes again. This time it couldn’t have been imagined, it was far too clear and was echoing around his mind. It got louder as he walked until he finally reached the tree and to his surprise he found a fire and a man.
Or at least he looked like a man. Matheo knew where he was and he still did not trust the fae. Long lived tales die hard so he stopped still and hoped the man didn’t see him. Anything he could glean from this distance would help but it was too dark for much, the shadows increasing as night deepened.
His desire to be near that fire was slowly winning out the longer he stood halfway up the hill dripping onto his boots. If he did nothing he would catch a chill and die anyways, so throwing a quick prayer to the gods he continued his path up. The pipe music became louder still, a merry little tune that sounded like something played in the tavern in their village. It had a sharpness to it, and every so often the piper keyed a discordant note.
As he reached the edge of the firelight the man finally noticed him, cutting off his pipes abruptly at the intrusion. Matheo stood motionless trying with all his might to remember the rules of the fae. He subtly clutched his quiver of ash arrows a little closer as he straightened his spine.
“May I join your fire, and come to no harm if I do so?” he asked, warily looking at the man. Fae couldn’t lie, right? Though he appeared normal, Matheo had heard of the King of Spring, someone with the ability to transform into anything. Could he be coming upon the King himself?
“Aye,” the man responded pleasantly, “you may join my fire. And what can I call you if you join me this night?”
“My name is-” and Matheo clamped his mouth shut mentally shaking himself for his error. He was about to give a stranger, most likely fae, his real name!
“You can call me Theo,” he said instead, hoping he covered his slip well enough.
He didn’t. The man’s eyes gleamed in the weak light and he nodded his head, “Theo it is then. What are you doing out here on this lonely night?”
Matheo’s gut clenched, his instincts telling him to run, to flee, to hide and hope he was never found. This was a mistake. He tried to be truthful but vague. “I’m heading home and was caught in the storm, I intend to finish the journey in the morning.”
The man nodded again, and picked his pipes back up. “Well rest your feet, it should be a quiet night tonight.” And with that he began playing again, no longer melodic and cheerful but more soothing, like a lullaby.
He side-stepped to the opposite side of the fire and placed his belongings down, bow still strung even if it may be damaged later from the wet. He pulled his cloak off his pack and fanned it out carefully to dry near the flames, and reached back in for his provisions but found his hands wouldn’t move as they should. They felt so heavy, and his fingers were stiff and aching.
The rest of his body started to feel leaden as well, his head stuffed with cotton and his senses beginning to jumble. Dizzy and nauseous all at once Matheo collapsed next to his pack, his eyes barely able to open any longer. Hazily he thought he heard the pipes get louder, start playing faster.
All of a sudden he was blinded by a beacon of silver light and a few moments later from the shadows of the tree a wolf leapt out towards the man. No, it was a stag… his mind was muddled but those were definitely antlers. But it was snarling?
It did not matter. He was about to die at the hands of some terrible creature or this strange musician with his music of death. Matheo squeezed his eyes shut and hoped whatever it was ate his head first so it wouldn’t hurt. Screams rent the air then tapered into a gurgle, followed by an awful wet crunching sound as bones were crushed and flesh torn from a body. He trembled as he listened to the man’s demise hoping against hope the monster would be sated and leave him be. Please gods please.
Minutes later, still curled in on himself like a ball, Matheo heard a voice off to his right rumble. “You picked a bad night to wander across the Wall, mortal. What are you doing so far from home?”
“Got lost…” he whimpered, shivering violently whether from cold or fear or the rain he did not know.
“You are very lucky I saw that light you shone. He’s a tricky fellow, Amadan Dubh.”
He had no idea what that meant, or who this monster man was. He chanced a peek from between his fingers and went still yet again. Oh gods. This was the King of Spring - long golden shaggy hair, sharp teeth, and as broad and tall as the tree he stood in front of, but wearing the most ragged clothes he had ever seen. The shadows stretched behind him mimicking the antlers he knows he saw.
“I didn’t shine a light,” he mumbled stupidly as he tried to sit up.
“Like I said then. Lucky.” The golden haired, green eyed fae responded then hauled him up by one arm. The fire flickered and Matheo thought he saw a shadow jump in the wrong direction, but his brain still felt fuzzy.
“Think of home,” the golden king said and clapped Matheo roughly on the shoulder. His entire body squeezed into nothing and -
Next thing he knew he was standing in front of the stone path leading to his home, with a basket filled to the brim with provisions right next to his feet along with his pack, bow and quiver, and his cloak which was now pleasantly cozy. He spun in a circle looking around but saw no sign of the king. Again, stupidly, he looked up as if the man - no, one of the fae kings - had dropped him out of the sky. Obviously, no one was there.
So Matheo huffed, looked at the basket then at his door, and headed inside with his gift and a tale.
I should have been faster with the light, I left it too close.
You did well enough, but you still have much to learn.
Day was the antithesis to Night. Where his Court was all shadows and darkness, night triumphant and stars eternal numbering the millions twinkling above his beloved city and the rest of the land, Day was blinding. The sun shone too brightly and too hotly above for his tastes now that it was winter. He preferred the cold exhilarating air of Velaris with the bite of frost coming down the mountains. Instead there was a chill breeze that was at odds with the cloudless sky above, and it made him feel as if he should be sweating. He was counting down the minutes until he could depart. The drone of city and palace noises were in the back of his mind, a distraction from his turbulent thoughts.
Rhysand leaned out on the balcony of the tower he was in, waiting on Helion to finish a prior meeting. From his viewpoint he could see the palace and the Thousand Libraries stretching out below him into the horizon. Scholars the size of ants darted about, some pausing to chat and others striding purposefully to a different wing of the vast collection. As he watched he reflected on his previous visits to Day - various border and trade meetings with Helion and the preceding High Lord, the screams during Amarantha’s reign, Court functions and parties where he had to wear his mask, and when he begged and threatened on his knees for help for Feyre during the last trip.
Bells chimed brightly behind him, at odds with his dour mood. His thoughts now interrupted, he turned to see who was intruding on his suite of rooms. A servant dressed in sunny Day livery with a glum face waited near the door, clearly sent to escort him to Helion. The male eyed him and opened his mouth to speak but Rhysand cut him off.
“I know the way to Helion’s study, you may go.” He kicked off the railing and sauntered towards the servant, brushing his lapels as he made his way towards the door.
“Apologies my Lord, but you won’t be meeting in the study today. High Lord Helion has instructed me to take you to the medical wing of the Library for your meeting.” The male gave a short bow, most certainly not the correct depth that Rhysand’s status required, and gestured towards the door.
Rhysand stalled, schooling his features into annoyance with a hint of disgust as the male continued waiting for him to move. The servant continued to stare, unaffected by the dark power rumbling through Rhysand at his obstinance. Actually vexed now, he pulled down his cuffs and went through the door before continuing down the halls, the male sent to fetch him hurrying along behind to catch up.
Helion must have assumed he was here for an update on the research into winged births and his attempts to keep Feyre alive and thus himself and his son. Maybe the other High Lord had found new information that would save the future of their Court, though it didn’t matter now. Rhysand was moving past that option and onto other challenges, hence the reason for his visit today.
They had exhausted all roads into a safe birth for his heir. Thesan and his Peregryns had been worthless, as well as the other Dawn healers who specialized in the birthing chambers. When speaking with them he could feel their judgment, their minds loud with their thoughts, their scorn at putting his High Lady at such risk while she was so young. He had reached out to other Courts as well to see if there were successes with winged births for non-winged fae but they were few and far between. Most births did occur, yes, but usually the mother, the child, or both were lost. Only when the mothers weren’t High Fae was there success.
There had been one option remaining on the table but Rhysand refused to even consider it. He shoved it back into the darkest recesses of his mind.
Through passages, up stairwells, and down ramps they walked. Bright sunlight streamed through the window making the white marble walls shine, flecks of gold catching the light throughout so it looked alive. Outside the ants from earlier could be heard, discussions of wards and magical creatures and ethics drifting through as they continued their journey through the Libraries. The servant knew better than to speak again to Rhysand so there was an uncomfortable silence as they made their way deeper in the Library seeking out the master of this domain. They passed frescoes and statues depicting legendary moments from Day’s history, more balconies overlooking the hilly city, and finally slowed down upon reaching a white birch wood door emblazoned with a carving of a lotus cupped in two hands. The servant gave another small bow and opened the heavy door, waving Rhysand inside.
Immediately a loud, jovial voice boomed “Rhysand!” and the High Lord of Day himself came over to greet him. Crown shining with the light of the sun, they clasped forearms and he received a mighty thump on the back from his counterpart.
Helion grinned and steered him towards the stack of shelves he had been at. “How fares Night and your lovely Lady? I found an old text that, if the translation is correct, might be a way to-”
Rhysand cut him off. “I’m not here today for additional research, friend, though I appreciate your tenacity in helping us find a solution.” He gave a small dip of his head in gratitude at the help Helion provided thus far. Helion eyed him critically for a brief moment before his features shifted and he dropped his arms from Rhysand’s shoulders.
“What I’m actually here for is regarding bargains, and how to break them,” Rhysand continued, placing his hands in his pockets and staring back at Helion just as heavily. He continued “We know it can be done because Hybern broke a bargain between Feyre and I. I want to know if you can do the same.”
He waited.
Helion loosed a breath and brought a hand to his mouth in thought. Then he turned back to the stacks they were standing near, clearly still lost in his own mind to the question that had been posed. He hummed, appearing to be on the verge of answering before furrowing his brows and growing quiet again. Finally, he turned back and spoke.
“Can you describe what happened when Hybern broke the bond? I was under the impression nothing occurred seeing as you and your Lady are still together today.”
Rhysand regaled him with their expedition into Hybern’s home, of the King breaking their bond but carefully leaving out certain details of the sisters being Made and Feyre’s deception that night and the weeks following. No others needed to know all of her reasons for returning to Spring under the guise of coming back from enchantments, that it had been a ruse the whole time. Though they were allies, Helion had no use of such knowledge.
After several minutes of quiet, Helion shrugged. “I don’t know what magic may have been used, but what you’re describing doesn’t sound like anything I can mimic. Not without being able to see what was done in case you’d care to share?”
Rhysand smiled and shook his head, he wasn’t going to show Helion that particular memory, not without significant alterations to what actually happened. “I would like to keep my High Lady’s sisters’ privacy intact, and that is not a situation I think should be shared without their consent.”
“So what exactly is the bond you’re wanting to destroy?” Helion asked, crossing his arms so sunlight caught the golden band circling his bicep, brows furrowed as he regarded his counterpart. A quick glance towards his abdomen before looking back at his eyes.
Rhys paused. He was loath to admit this weakness to Helion lest something happen to both him and Feyre in the time remaining before Nyx was born, but a weakness admitted to an ally was better than being dead. And he could always convince Helion to remember differently if needed.
“Feyre and I made a bargain, to leave this world together should one of us go.” A glimmer of regret and pain shone in his eyes. “At the time it seemed romantic, although a significant lapse in judgment. It seemed reasonable even, given it was just after the war. But now with the babe coming we cannot leave Nyx without both of his parents should something happen during birth or before. He will be High Lord, and one of us needs to be there to teach him what that means.”
At this he turned to lean against the stacks, propping his head in his elbow so he didn’t have to look at that golden gaze boring into him. Though he had been High Lord for longer than Helion, his counterpart portrayed an inner strength and wisdom that Rhysand still desired in his weakest moments. He couldn’t meet his eyes, ashamed of how he had gotten to this point.
“And where is your mate in this? If you both agree to void the bargain it will vanish on its own, same as it would if it were fulfilled. Surely you know this, my friend?” Helion came to rest a hand on his shoulder, concern in his eyes even as his voice took on the tone of a parent telling a child something they already knew. A hint of suspicion as well at Rhys’s apparent lack of understanding of his own Court’s magic. He calmed the bristling he felt at being talked down to. He was High Lord just as Helion was.
Smoothly he responded “Bargains with Made fae appear to be stronger, so we are unable to do so ourselves. Feyre’s pregnancy strains her, she cannot travel and I can’t bear to put more stress on her and the baby. She is aware of this decision though and supports it. She would rather have me alive to care for our son than join her in her death.” A lone tear tracked down his face, she was so young and had so much potential, barely a chance to exist before being snatched away.
The High Lord of Day softened, his bright crown dimming with the somber change of mood. A mixture of pity and sadness rose and with a low voice Helion said “Then I will continue searching for some kind of solution, whether medical or magical. I like your spitfire Lady, and I do not wish to see her go so soon. If nothing can be done we’ll speak more to this… other option. There’s still time yet.”
Another tear down his own cheek, another pause. “Thank you. She will be happy to hear of your well wishes and persistence to our cause. I hope we are both able to come to a solution.”
His mind was racing, his hopes pinned on Helion being able to do something to negate their bargain. As they made their way out of the Library and back to the winnowing point they spoke of more mundane issues; trade, military might, upcoming Court functions in both Day and Night, what to anticipate at the next High Lords meeting. Inane small talk reserved for those of the highest station. He gave vague answers where possible. No one else needed to know the inner workings of his Court beside his Circle.
Turning to leave Rhysand gave a dip of his head as he entered the traveling circle. “Thank you, my friend. Feyre and I both appreciate you looking into this for us.” He brought a hand to his chest as well, another show of his gratitude. He stepped backwards and squeezed himself into darkness.
The cold hit his face as he stepped through the void and back into Velaris. A flare went through his bond with Feyre now that she was nearby. He turned to look at the River House and thought of the female who was inside. His powerful High Lady, who carried the future of the Court in her womb. She would be showcased during the upcoming Solstice ball in the Hewn City, Rhys already imagining how her swelling body would look draped in sheer fabric and twinkling gems. How her scent and his would mix to create something new, even more powerful than both his parents. Someone the Night Court and the other Courts could fear, just as they feared him and his father before him all the way back through their line. Someone born to rule over all.
Smirking at the thought, he brushed his shoulder and strode up the path to the door where she was waiting. There was still much to do before then, threads to be pulled and untangled then threaded again in a new pattern. He had to keep an eye on Cass, and on Az who had been acting unusual lately, and set a meeting with Amren to make fail-safe plans if needed. He would move oceans and mountains for his son, would invade as many minds as needed to ensure his protection, flog and maim and kill as many Illyrians and bastards from the Court of Nightmares as necessary to keep them in line for their future ruler. He would destroy anything in his way from the perfect future for his family.
Besides, he had done all this before. What was once more?
It was a perfect day in Autumn. The sky was clear, the air was crisp, and a hint of apples and wheat was carried along the wind from the farmlands near the home of the Autumn seat of power. Perpetually harvest time, ripe fruit fell to the ground sweetening the air. Apples of all varieties, pressed into cider then traded out by the barrel and smaller figs which would be turned into jam, all sold to their neighbors to the north. Adjacent to the orchards, bales of hay looked like boulders thrown by giants, taller than a person when upright. Fields of corn further still with kernels that looked like gems - green dent, glass gem, and reds of all shades - ready to be harvested, shucked, and eaten.
Leaves rustled in the forest, confetti of lustrous golds, fiery orange, and blood red dotted along the rolling hills spanning out to the north. Maples standing tall, their scarlet leaves fluttering down, hands waving goodbye to the world as they fell to the ground. At the center a patch of aspen of the brightest yellow, not the hundreds of trees it appeared to be but one system, ancient as Autumn itself. It was said if you plucked a leaf from the original aspen in the forest at midnight during the harvest moon your wishes would come true. Acorns plunked, bouncing away to be picked up by an animal for later use, even if winter would never come.
The river underneath Forest House roared, though from this distance it was a rumble that was felt rather than heard. Mist billowed up from the falls, rising high to the window before dissipating. Through the glass sentries could be seen walking the perimeter, the fall colors of their uniform cloaks blending in with the trees behind them, rendering them nearly glamoured. There was no traceable magic to notice, so physical senses had to be keen if you were unused to being near one of the famous shifting cloaks.
It was one of the best days to be had before the weather changed back to chill and decay.
If only Eris were able to enjoy it.
He was seated in a tall wingback across from his father’s desk waiting for the High Lord of Autumn to grace him with his presence. Pressed buff trousers, maroon velvet jacket, boots polished to a mirrored shine and his auburn hair tied back, not a strand out of place. Eris cut the perfect figure of the Heir to Autumn. Nothing less than magnificence was required from all of Beron Vanserra’s sons, but especially the first born. Even without the cold disdain of his father hanging over his head, Eris always did his best to not disappoint.
Woe be to the fae that forced the High Lord to wait, or an even worse punishment to those with requests or complaints that wasted their High Lord’s time. Eris did neither. He always arrived ten minutes early with bulleted reports of the Autumn armies movements and training, prepared solutions to solve any issues, and vague secrets from the Night Court and others to appease his father.
He had been struggling these weeks since finding out about Nesta Archeron’s untimely demise. He had intended to go to the Hewn City’s Solstice to make a connection with her, see her fire up close and personal, possibly arrange a marriage if she could hold her own and wasn’t tied to the overgrown bat. To be informed of her unfortunate training accident was disappointing to say the least.
She had been wasted in the Night Court. He wanted to offer her the chance to burn as she deserved. Righteous fire and vengeance all wielded with a silver glow.
But alas, plans within plans. The loss of such an interesting character as Nesta, even if personally he wanted the chance to know her better for she intrigued him and forge an alliance to use her flames for his Court’s needs, had thrown his plans off kilter. He now had to find some other method of killing Beron - sooner rather than later - and immediately manage the inevitable turmoil that followed any changing of the High Lord. They happened so rarely but the histories lay out much conflict that Eris was eager to avoid.
He had hoped Nesta would have helped him keep his Court from burning and smoldering from within during the transition of power. Not only her magical force which was nothing short of a forest fire but her cunning mind. He remembered how she argued for human lives at the High Lord’s council. The facts and plans she brought ready to the table, the numbers all crunched. It was the perfect situation to see her strength and intelligence, her deep heart for those innocents who were thrust into another war they didn’t start.
She and he would have made excellent partners. What a heartbreak.
The door slammed open and Beron strode by in a flurry of scarlet velvet. The High Lord had arrived and Eris stood and snapped to attention at once, not an inch out of line. He remained so until Beron had thoroughly looked him over, nodded, and taken his seat behind his desk. The fireplace behind him flared then crackled merrily, at odds with Beron’s fierce personality.
“Report.”
“Yes, High Lord. We have our cavalry along the banks of the Moselle training for deep-water crossings. Seems we have quite a few soldiers who are unable to swim who will be removed from their troop and reassigned elsewhere. Our scouts also participated in a skirmish along the border with Spring; there were several Hybern brigands roaming about who believed they could enter our territory. Our soldiers taught them otherwise. Supplies are low in our camps near the Winter border so we will reroute the next train to their location if it doesn’t impact the other factions. Lastly, we’ve had a breakthrough with the Infernos. A happy accident from the agricultural division has crossbred plants they believe can enhance firepower twofold when taken in the right dosage by our soldiers. I have them working with our healers to fine-tune the substance and determine any long-term effects of regular usage before beginning with trials.
“Good. Keep them at it. Times are fraught still even with the glow of peace on the horizon. We must be prepared for every possibility.” Beron began to look over the paperwork on his desk, not sparing Eris a glance as he asked “Any new intelligence on the Night Court?”
Eris had his response ready and waiting. “No, sire. The Night Court has been strangely quiet and acting oddly since the death of the eldest Archeron. They continue work as if nothing had occurred instead of announcing any requests for privacy while they grieve.”
Here Eris paused for effect.
“What I have gleaned through observations though, is that their Court is in shambles.”
At this Beron perked up, looking Eris head on and leaning forward. There was a wicked glint in his eye that Eris was deeply familiar with, a flash of desire smothered quickly. Eris leaned forward conspiratorially.
“Rhysand is panicked. He hides it well, yes, but he’s extremely tense. More so than just what a pregnant mate would incur. Something’s got him fraught. Whispers abound of his frequent disappearances during this taxing time. The Lady has no mask to speak of. She is pregnant and grieving but trying to act the part. It’s difficult to read anything further from her.
“His Circle are out of sorts as well. The Shadowsinger was only there for the briefest moment, which isn’t unusual for him except this was an official Court function. He tends to lurk about longer, sniffing out secrets and menacing others. When he did appear he was only shadows, so he or they must be agitated.
“Cassian and Morrigan weren’t all over each other for once. It seems the loss of his own suspected mate has made him have regrets and changes in behavior towards his sister.” He sneered at this. He had found it strange, the incestuous relationship between the two. Particularly when the brute had Nesta Archeron, goddess made of moonfire, as his equal instead of the blonde liar.
Others always assumed he disliked the pair for the ruination of his planned marriage to Morrigan, always forgetting he had been a child at the time, hardly able to do anything to help her further than he had. Even less remembered that it was her own family to torture her, her incessant bleating of his behavior over the centuries overshadowing the truth of the situation. Ironic, given the claim she made of her powers. Nevertheless…
“Morrigan looked tired and barely less glamorous than normal. I assume she recently returned from whatever business is on the Continent. Otherwise they performed their roles admirably, socializing and antagonizing in equal turns as expected.”
Keep it new and enticing but ultimately benign. This report could come from anyone with eyes as long as they paid attention. The fact no one else noticed the bizarre behavior of the Night Court was more a detriment to their skill than a compliment on his own.
“The second was silent, she remained in one place the whole night. Again, not unusual for her but she lacked her usual air of indifference. I believe her and Rhysand may be up to something but I cannot tell what yet. I’ll continue seeking information there to infer his plans.”
Beron stared at Eris and steepled his fingers beneath his nose. He looked contemplative and Eris silently thanked the Mother. It appeared he would not be beaten tonight.
“I wonder what of the middle sister, where was she?” Beron asked, leaning back and moving his hands from face to desk, tapping them in a rhythm. “She, too, is Cauldron-born, correct? But they keep her hidden. What are her gifts?”
Eris blinked and recovered quickly. She had meant to take Feyre’s place during a customary dance and had drifted towards him before her eyes went a little vacant and she gave a sad smile then walked away with no word or warning. After the insult, he had not thought to look for the supposed Seer any further. His little brother’s mate. He lied. “Adrift, she seems more lost to her Sight than before, if it’s true she has it.” He hadn’t suspected anything, just another Archeron grieving a loss.
Beron considered for a long moment, looking at Eris critically. He felt not dissimilar to a cut of meat at the butcher's market being sized up for purchase and consumption. Eris willed himself not to blink, not to show any weakness. He had been playing this game for centuries, he would not break now.
Beron smirked and leaned back. “Since Nesta Archeron died, Briallyn has been quiet. It seems with the death of that Cauldron-born bitch and the Crown vanishing she also lost her thirst for vengeance. But only momentarily.” He smirked at this. “She has set her sights on the middle one, Elain. If she can’t have one then the other will suffice.”
Eris’ heart plummeted. This was disastrous, he could not fail Lucien again like this. Elain would not survive this Court as it stood now, let alone whatever the Crone Queen’s plans were. Lucien would never survive her death, accepted bond or not. Not after Jesminda. He had to do something. He threw up another prayer to the Mother to keep his face blank as he thought quickly. Plans within plans.
Eris crossed his ankle over his knee, placing his hand on his ankle just so. “Will we support this new endeavor?” he asked coolly.
Restraint, he couldn’t let anything show on his face. An odd flicker in the firelight behind his father nearly broke his concentration.
“We will. At this point I don’t know if anything will come of it but I am not opposed to any action that will hinder Rhysand and the Night Court. If we use Briallyn and the girl it may actually be possible to find the Trove. The reward would be worth the risk.” Beron tapped his fingers again, this time in a faster staccato and looked down at this desk, lost in thought.
The flickering in the fire grew more frequent and distracting. Did driftwood from the coast get into the wood stores somehow? He couldn’t tell due to the shadows of the brick but the flames behind Beron looked to be burning blue or purple. Or was this his father letting loose on his power in some small way? Some strange display of dominance. Blue fire did burn the hottest, after all.
The pause drew on but Beron started again. “We will call Lucien home, rescind his exile. If he returns by my authority, under Autumn Court law his mate must come with him, and Prythian’s law will favor keeping mates together. It would be the simplest way to get the girl in our hands. If she refuses we could invoke the blood duel and be done with it by combat.” Another drumroll of his fingers. Beron’s gaze on Eris was stifling. More flashes of colored light came from the fireplace.
“In spite of their disarray the Night Court will not let Lady Elain go easily.” Even if Feyre was too far in her pregnancy to do anything about it, at the very least Azriel wouldn’t - he was fond of the dreamy one. Mother help me, think you fool!
“No, but if we execute the command soon they won’t be in shape to fight it at their strongest. Have Otto draft a copy tomorrow for my review before sending it out.” With this Beron clapped his hands and grabbed a stack of papers. “You are dismissed.”
The fire behind Beron was roaring, but it hadn’t been blue, it had been silver. Beautiful silver flames licking the wood, curling up the brick, and reaching out, out, out…
The flames were reaching towards Beron, who was entirely oblivious to what was occurring behind him. Outside Eris did his best to hide the shock on his face, to remain aloof and unfeeling.
Inside, Eris’ mind whirred as fast as it ever had. If he let the flames continue they would reach his father shortly. As to what would happen once they touched Beron Eris had no idea, he had only seen flames this once before but if the reaction was the same… Well, Eris would be High Lord sooner than expected.
If he warned his father then nothing would change and his plans could continue to another day. More likely, in response his father would assume this to be some bizarre assassination attempt and would kill him instantly. Well, the old male did say the reward would be worth the risk.
Quickly, with the tiniest motion he could manage, Eris threw up a shield around the room, warding against sound and entry. He pushed his chair back to stand, and gave a quick but perfect bow to his father. “Thank you, High Lord” as he turned towards the door.
The second his eyes were off Beron was when the screaming started.
He whipped around quickly knowing his shield would hold. His father, his father was…
Beron Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn and Master of the Flame, was screaming so loudly and so shrilly Eris thought his eardrums would rupture. His father’s hands slapped at the flames but everywhere he touched turned to ash. Burning, burning, burning, the silver flames expanded and contracted and licked their way across Beron’s body consuming his flesh. Within seconds the remains of the male were on the floor and could be scooped into a small dustbin to be tossed in the hearth with the other ashes.
Eris could barely comprehend the thought that Beron was dead before he was brought to his knees by a torrential onslaught of magic. A bonfire erupted over his skin, the flames golden, all shades of red, yellow, and orange and reaching towards the ceiling. His muscles strengthened, his senses somehow got even clearer, and oh Mother.
His well of power had always been large as the first son of a High Lord but gods. The depth of magic he now had was astonishing. His very veins were fire, his blood was boiling. He felt like he could reduce the entirety of the Forest House to cinders in a snap. This was marvelous. Never would he have to live again in fear. No more would his mother cower behind another.
A golden second skin drifted down through the flames, layered itself over his own to seep into his flesh. It healed the mess of scars that littered his back, his legs. He could feel old broken bones snap and straighten entirely - impossible to do after being broken so many times, even with royal healing.
The Court itself was another thing entirely. The land chooses the High Lord and he could feel it. Every leaf that dropped was as light as a feather in the back of his mind. He saw the forest through the eyes of a pheasant picking its way through the tall trees. The rivers that crossed the lands rumbled in his ears as a pleasant drone but he could still hear an acorn drop. The scent and taste of apples and squash filled his remaining senses, and elsewhere he could smell the smallest hint of decay. Is this what every High Lord felt when bestowed with this glorious power?
Breathless on the floor, fists to the ground and hunched over Eris wondered if this rush had affected his father after he had killed his own father to assume the Forest throne.
Fuck…his father. He had momentarily forgotten the minutes before as the avalanche of power came over him. He looked under the desk at the dust pile that was Beron.
How the hell was he going to explain this?
Then, with joy - It will not matter.
Vibrating wildly in a corner, a shadow slithered behind the desk and along the wall to the space under the door.
Another secret! it trilled.
Notes:
Poor Matheo running into Amadan Dubh, or the dark fool from Celtic folklore. Lucky that Tamlin was there to assist! Once we lost Feyre-as-human and all her insight on human/fae relations, humans stepped off the plot entirely which is a shame. I was intrigued by the idea of them needing to work together but hating having to do so. Matheo believes all the superstition about the fae, but it didn't quite help him here.
As Rhysand seeks out a solution, is it to save Feyre and his son or to save himself?
Chapter 4: Guardian
Summary:
Mysterious figures roam Dawn and Day. Cassian makes a long overdue visit.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Birds shot towards the sky from tall grass, brilliant feathers flashing in the rosy light as they flew upwards towards the clouds. Long plumes splayed behind them in all manner of pastels - blush pink, sky blue, dusty mauve - and their topknot feathers were tiny jewels that bobbed with each flap of their wings. In their wake a herd of golden hinds pranced, leaping gracefully down the hills towards the river just beginning to break through the ice. They slowed and made their way to drink delicately from the shore, their fur gilded in the light. Statuesque herons stepped carefully through rushes, pausing occasionally to tilt their heads in interest towards the minnows darting through the water. Larger fish of stunning iridescence swam mindlessly along, making their way down river towards the docks where younglings threw crumbs and the fish jostled about trying to gulp the biggest share.
From the village hammers could be heard clanging, all different notes from various sizes and metals. There was the high tink tink tink of the clockmaker, tapping away at brass cogs as he repaired the mechanical aspects of a magical clock. A louder and heavier clonk thundered sporadically from a workshop towards the edge of town, the sound of a bellows settling into rhythm in the background. Fae of all kinds chattered in the village square, saying hellos and stopping for conversation as they made their way back to their homes.
Further upriver, an offshoot stream veered west and meandered its way to a large piece of property where several bishish cattle grazed tiny, fat, and happy in the field. A barn cat, nearly the size of its namesake, rolled over and kept napping, lazily opening a bright red eye every so often as the small cows made their way around her. She flicked her tail and nearly batted one of the creatures into another, which gave an incensed grunt and trudged further afield. Chickens pecked in the shade of the small orchard, squawking angrily when a different cow got too close.
A white home with a red roof and bright shutters rose above a garden, where an elderly fae sat watching the sunset. The patriarch of the family sat on a plush red cushion, his feet kicked up on a matching ottoman, hands resting on his belly. Next to him sat a low table with two candles burning and a book splayed open facedown. He had gotten a hundred pages in then gave up, setting it down to instead look at the world.
Despite the Court he lived in, Cutu loved the hours of dusk the most. The morning sky of reds, pinks, and golds - the words were too small to describe the beauty of a dawn in his dew-kissed home. A splendid blend of colors awakening the morning to bring the new day. Lavender grey the base of the canvas, a deep color that slowly leeched to a pearly sheen with the barest hints of purple along the edges over the early morning hours. Purple became red, staining the sky like a daub of watercolor spread over a parchment. The first rays of the sun would rise over the horizon and that pastel red would blend to a lovely pink, all gentle softness before brightening even further to a stunning gold, joyous and hopeful each time. Each sunrise was nothing short of majestic, a new masterpiece every morning. Cutu considered himself immeasurably lucky to live long enough to see so many.
But the hours of dusk had grown on him over the centuries as he neared the twilight of his own life. He still appreciated the beauty of every glorious dawn, no doubt about it, but had grown fond of the daily encore of the sun returning to her home beyond the sea on the western side of Prythian. It felt like a good bookend to every day, to appreciate the beauty that he’d been witness to over his long, long, life. Nearing his 18th century, he supposed that he felt a certain kinship to the dusk, hoping that his own passing would be as gentle as the slow sink of that celestial body.
He gazed out from the balcony, taking in the view and listening to the sounds of the evening. If he closed his eyes and strained he could still hear the small scratches of mice in the field or insects chewing their way through plants in the garden. Things he hadn’t noticed for most of his life because he’d been moving too quickly to pay attention. On the very edges of his hearing, a few hundred yards or so away but still impressive given his age, he could hear the stream that marked the edge of his property burbling. A tiny thing compared but good enough for the few animals they kept, it bubbled and ran happily along down to the larger river it connected to.
Smiling softly, he opened his eyes and looked out towards the meadow near the small barn. From this distance he could see two small fae running, braids streaming behind one and the other missing a shoe. It appeared the shoeless one was chasing his older sister to try and lock antlers, but she was doing an excellent job of escaping. She danced away from him each time he came close, shrieking and giggling through the grass.
This newest generation of younglings were so happy, having not understood the true terrors Prythian had undergone in recent decades. They simply knew love, kindness, and compassion. The worst things imaginable they had faced and could remember at this point were not getting a snack they wanted or having a fight with their sibling, memories of the Terror murky in their minds. He sent a prayer to the Mother so they wouldn’t lose that spirit - joy, kindness, compassion, and most of all, love. They would face a whole slew of various emotions over the course of their own hopefully long lives, he knew that, but he hoped they could keep this laughter around them for as long as possible.
He thought of all his descendants and their various accomplishments, how proud he was of his lineage right down to the young siblings currently flinging clods of grass at one another. His family was magnificent when it came down to it. Sentimental in his old age, it’s something always mentioned when encountering elder fae but it was true. He had grown fond of nostalgic moments and spending time with his family knowing his journey was so close to finishing.
If he could take anything with him into the afterlife, let it be memories of them.
He sipped his lemonade, effervescent on his tongue and tasting of sunshine. The sky beyond the horizon smoldered from rusty orange to a purplish maroon and the first stars peeked out in the distance. A female’s voice called and the younglings scampered from the meadow back to home to turn in. He enjoyed the quiet as the last sliver of red finally passed the line where the land touches the sky.
He leaned over to grab a blanket. He was so chilly now most of the time, his skin thin and his hair thinner around his antlers. He needed all the extra warmth he could get whether from blankets or hot drinks to keep him warm from the inside. The wool was soft, knit by one of his many grandchildren and enchanted to not fray or loosen despite its many years. There were many of these laying about the home, one always in easy reach.
As he looked across the fields, his small herd of animals returning to the barn with one of his grandsons he caught a ripple in the corner of his eye. Turning, nothing was there except a wave in the air - like heat rising off the street and creating that illusion, not magic but something else that was both natural and not. It was still winter even if spring was soon coming, and besides the stonework balcony would be cool to the touch this late in the day. He tentatively reached a hand over towards the space and waved it through, but there was nothing there. He frowned and leaned back again, staring at the empty chair for a moment before turning back to the view.
There!
Again Cutu saw the hazy ripple in the air and turned fully to the chair opposite the small tiled table from him. It was more noticeable this time, a larger patch in the air affected by this strange phenomenon. If he squinted it looked vaguely like a female but the edges were blurry, and his vision wasn’t that bad yet. He quirked his head hoping that if he caught the last rays of light at the right angle it would let him see better before the rippling turned into a wispy female for a moment before disappearing entirely.
“I apologize, I am still new to this and have yet to figure it out exactly,” a disembodied voice stated from the general direction of the chair.
Cutu spooked and sucked in a breath. He thought he had skipped the memory distortion that affected some fae as they aged but perhaps it came on without warning. He reached out a hand again to what was clearly air when he heard her voice.
“You are of sound mind, though my telling you that probably doesn’t help much.” A low chuckle sounded, which was not reassuring at all.
Now the ripple was back, small tendrils appearing occasionally before disappearing again. The wavy patch remained longer this time before fading out.
Well, if something was going to happen to him, he was indeed old so this likely would not be some terrible incident which would cause the downfall and ruin of his House. He may as well see where this conversation takes him, perhaps it would be an enlightening insight to his own mind in the form of an odd spot of air. It was, at the very least, something new and interesting in what had become a pleasant but mundane routine.
“I do promise you’re quite safe with me though. I’m here to talk with you, and provide you with guidance.” Curls of smoke appeared across from him that formed the outline of shoulders and a slender neck. The vague form of a hand rested on the table, a short length away from his lemonade. He looked at it for quite some time before responding.
“You’re-” he coughed, “you’re here for my company and to help me with something? These days I need all kinds of help, so do be more specific,” he responded, a slight pout to his mouth at the mention of his own decrepitness. He knew he was and he felt it most days but he didn’t need to tell others that quite yet.
“No, not in that sense. This is something I help all fae with. The beginning of their next journey, I suppose.” The wisps darted upwards to frame a face then flowed like a waterfall down again to form a belt around a narrow waist.
Cutu had seen many curiosities over the centuries - once there had been a wyvern flying low over the mountains, barely a speck in the sky but there all the same - but he had yet to have an encounter with a being who was both inexplicably there and also not.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Cutu responded, unsure what journey he was expected to take at his age, especially from whatever magic had created this…shade? That seemed to be the closest thing to call it, not quite a ghost but a creature made of something intangible, like a shadow. The wisps swirled around in a spiral before flaring out down thin arms to the table again, floating across the surface like mist on water.
“I have had many names, but to you I might be a dear friend you have called upon numerous times before.”
He had never heard this voice before in his life.
“Here, let me try… ah, just earlier today you asked for help keeping Semni and Larce’s spirit from today as they grow and change, that they always experience moments of profound happiness. While I make no guarantees, I will do what I can.” The wisps grew to shadows now, filling in more of the gaps of the body, providing it more shape.
As he took in her words the glass of lemonade he had raised to his lips began to tremble, the weight of what she was saying finally locking into place in his mind. He quickly set the glass down and swiped a hand through the thin hair remaining on his head and circling his fingers around an antler, an old habit from when he was a child himself. He also spluttered, undignified, before composing himself again. He rested his hands in his lap, fingers twisting the blanket gently. The soft stitches grounded him as his mind raced.
This must…this must be the Mother! But what was she doing here with him? Weren’t there more important things, like guiding the world?
“I’m quite good at multitasking, it was part of my training.” The voice said, reading his thoughts again and responding directly. He couldn’t feel her in his head though, like a daemati would be, scratching and poking around in all the nooks and crannies from what all the tales told. Nor were his mental shields down, though admittedly they were very weak when here on his property.
“I am a goddess, and you live in my land. Shouldn’t I know what’s going on?” Again another chuckle, but warm, as if they were sharing a secret or an inside joke. He felt calm, only a little surprised, as he began to get comfortable around his bizarre houseguest.
“As I said, I’m here to speak with you. I’d like to know your stories.” The smoke-filled outlines of hands laced themselves together on the table, mist swirling around inside them. “Would you please share your favorites with me?” The patch and hands waited patiently.
“Well, I suppose I can.” He settled into his chair and pulled the blanket tighter around his legs, warding off the evening breeze that still carried the breaths of winter with it. “What kind of stories would you like to hear?”
The haze tiled its head, considering. “Could you start with a love story?” One of the hands came to rest upon the being’s face before they both disappeared again. Smoke swirled near the stomach and then floated away. “Romances have always been my favorite.”
So he did. He spoke for hours of the times he fell in love. The childhood crushes of his youth, the more tempestuous relationships of his growth and new adulthood when he was trying to figure out who he was and how to be. The mistakes he had made that helped him become a better person even if it took a couple tries to get it right. Even now he still felt the flutters of love he had for those individuals on his path to who he was today.
He told her about finally meeting Pevtha, bumping into one another at the market and the subsequent years spent wooing her and sweeping her off her feet, then building a spectacular life. Loving her so fully and completely, more than anything else in this miraculous world and grateful to the Mother every day for crossing their paths. Through the ups and downs, wars and peace, he had been reverent towards her, the very being that had been the seed of his entire world.
She was as radiant as Dawn.
He spoke of the dozens of times he fell in love in the centuries that followed, when each new member of his family arrived. Seeing their small squashed faces and thinking their shrieks and crying were entirely too loud, but their nubs showed promise of many points. His heart burst with love every single time another addition came along. The love that had been fostered over the centuries from every family dinner, holiday, and the quiet moments together dispersed throughout.
Dusk turned to evening turned to night, the time spent laughing and crying in equal turn as he walked the Mother through the best moments of his life. He would hear gasps, sighs, small laughs, and empathetic murmurs. Not once did she interrupt though. This being made of smoke was the perfect audience. She let him talk and talk and talk until he had exhumed every important memory from his 1743 years. An incredible collage of moments was bouncing around the walls of his mind, scenes from centuries ago he had nearly forgotten until they were brought to the surface by the very goddess he worshiped.
As the night sky lightened just a smidge to a charcoal grey, Cutu found himself surprised that the entire night had passed so quickly. He had barely noticed time running by, too caught up in memories to truly notice. He reached for his glass to wet his tongue and found it still full from earlier. Shaking his head, he looked at the Mother across from him.
She had become more solid as the night progressed, still translucent and hard to see but she spent more time as a shape than smoke as the sky lightened. Never in his nearly two thousand years would he have expected to have a conversation with the being who created their entire land. This was a dream come true.
As another dawn began to creep up the horizon, Cutu’s jaw cracked with a giant yawn. This was quite possibly the first time in centuries he had stayed awake the entire night. Unused to the feeling, he began to get up from the chair, the blanket discarded as his feet. Pins and needles shot through his legs as he shook them out and took them off the ottoman.
“Yes, I believe it’s time for us to get going isn’t it?” A haze shimmied up higher in the air than it was previously, the female seeming like she had scooted her chair back to stand if she had been solid enough to do so. A smoky hand reached towards him waiting for his own to join it.
“This has been a lovely visit, I thank you for gracing me with your presence,” he responded, placing his hand in hers as they walked off the balcony back into his home.
“You are welcome, and I thank you for the conversation. Now you and I are going to begin the next journey together.” The ghostly shape next to him guiding his hand disappeared entirely for a moment, then reappeared in front of him near the door.
But not entirely. The most visible thing ahead was an elegant hand, nearly opaque this time, with dainty rings on her fingers and nails buffed to a shine.
The next journey? Did she mean? But she couldn’t…
“That is indeed the one I mean,” he could hear her say from all around him, voice chiming like bells in a soft breeze. The hand swirled a little then drifted away. “I thought it would help to reminisce on the many wondrous moments of your life before stepping away from it. From what you told me it was a very lovely one.”
The hand reappeared again, beckoning him forward.
Cutu hesitated, a hundred thoughts running through his mind before they all emptied out and only one remained. With it, he took the Mother’s hand with a smile.
It was a very good life.
I hope that went well, he seemed accepting of the whole concept, didn’t he?
He did, although next time you can ease into it a bit more.
Not all of us have eons of practice.
What do you think we’re doing?
Hmm.
Cassian climbed the hill on the outer edge of Velaris, a bouquet of wolfsbane, bright orange lilies, and roses so deep a violet they looked almost black clutched in his hand. A cold wind snapped the edges of his cloak and he cradled the flowers closer to his body so the blooms wouldn’t get damaged. As he reached the crest, kicking rocks along the way, he was met with the sight of two monuments nearly of a height to one another. The larger of the two had been built right after the war as a way for Feyre to keep her father in her life even after he was gone. The smaller a more recent addition and the reason why he was here. He walked towards that monument with heavy feet and an even heavier heart. He had attempted visits every so often when his shame and sadness forced him to go and try to get a few steps closer. He knew of this place, and had walked this path before. Today would be the day he finished the journey.
Reaching the top of the knoll, he knelt at the base of the monument and gently placed the flowers down, an artfully done arrangement by Elain tied with grey ribbon. Everlasting love, she had told him. It was the least he could do, his first gift back to Nesta since her monument had been built. Even though he knew her body wasn’t here it was one of the only things he had to remember her by. Something bright to cheer up this desolate hillside.
Going into her room at the House of the Wind brought back too many memories, her scent still faintly clinging to the sheets and the curtains. Fire and steel faded more with each passing day and soon he wouldn’t be able to scent her at all. He couldn’t bear to go in and mar it further, the last place any tiny ember of her still clung to. Instead he convinced himself that if it was avoided altogether he could still pretend she was there at the edge of his vision and the corners of his mind.
The House itself had gone silent with her disappearance too. No longer did it drop items related to the desires of its residents or listen to them much at all any more. Cassian had even found himself locked out of the House several times between Nesta’s death and now, having begged at least twice for entry before finally being granted it. He was tempted to leave and return to his room in the River House if the House of the Wind wasn’t the last place that still held any memories, good or bad, of her.
But to be truthful, she had never made a home at the River House, refusing to spend time there and resenting it when she was a guest during the visits that were forced on her. He thought of her old apartment with its unreasonable number of locks in the door and threadbare furnishings. A place long since demolished so the new home for war refugees could be built as Rhys and Feyre intended. He couldn’t even go there to wallow in his misery while surrounded by her. The rubble from the old building was just now being cleared so new construction could begin. There was nowhere to visit.
In reality there was next to nothing of Nesta Archeron remaining in this world aside from memories from those who loved her. Truth be told, most of them didn’t have good ones. And none of them cared enough to even feel badly about it.
But an argument could be made that anyone even loving her was untrue, as they had discovered when magicking the paintings for Nyx to remember his family by. Of all the portraits and landscapes Feyre had painted to decorate the palatial home, none of them featured Nesta. They had fallen silent once Feyre told them, hints of guilt crossing too few of their faces, before Mor broke the tension and conversation started up again. No one had noticed before. Not even him.
I’m so sorry, he thought. I am so sorry I didn’t do enough. Since I did not give you time in this life, I will keep my promise to find you in the next.
Reaching out a hand he brushed the words in the white stone, hoping that by touching this memorial he could somehow reach her through the veil that separated the living and the dead. Find her again and bring her back to their family. To him.
Nesta Archeron
Human - Fae - Kingslayer
Cassian pushed all the emotions and feelings he could down his arm and through his fingers then on further into the stone. It felt a little warmer. Or he could finally be showing the first cracks of madness. But it may just be from the prolonged contact as he runs his thumb along the shadowed letters.
For a long time he sat there staring at nothing, his thoughts a vortex, until he heard soft footsteps behind him in the grass. Not heavy enough to be a threat or his brothers, and probably not Feyre given the distance. Mor and Amren would rather brawl than be caught here. That left Elain, and he angled his head to see if he was correct. He sniffed and scented honey and the barest hint of jasmine. As she walked up to the resting place of the late Archerons, she scowled a bit, the look severe compared to her natural femininity.
“She would have hated this place,” Elain whispered after joining him in silence for a few minutes. Her hands reached towards the small bouquet she had made earlier, twisting the flowers so the bow was more visible. Her voice sounded more gravelly, as if she too had been full of renewed sorrow earlier after creating the bouquet at Cassian’s request. An unwelcome reminder of what happened to her sister.
“Why do you say that?” Cassian grunted, still not looking at her fully. He had wanted to spend this time alone with Nesta, but couldn’t begrudge the middle Archeron from joining him given her involvement in his plans for today. He supposed she had lost one sister already and was on the cusp of losing another. There was no need to snap at her for this.
“She hated Papa, and I do not believe she was fond of our mother either, nor our mother’s mother now that I’m able to understand things a little more clearly. Something happened to her, when we were younger. Then we went through horrors you could never even begin to fathom in the-, and we are-, were- not you. Nesta, she,” she hitched in a breath before she continued on rapidly. “She hated being fae, how everything is so loud and wrong. To be wrenched from our beds kicking and screaming to become this, this-” she spit, gesturing to her own body, silver bracelet jangling merrily on her arm in opposition to her anger. “Even now you don’t remember anything about her. Or do you even know her at all? Who she was, the things she loved, the person she wanted to be if she had the chance to. Not truly. She’s only relegated to what she was to you. Human. Fae. Kingslayer. She was so much more than that.”
She growled the last words, an unpleasant snarl coming over her delicate face. This was possibly the most Elain had ever spoken to him or any of them except the Wraiths, let alone with whatever attitude this was. He never really sought her out, didn’t know much about her at all. She was so quiet and kept to herself and the twins, and wasn’t really lucid for that spell after Hybern. Both of the Archerons that weren’t Feyre were enigmas to him, despite his frustration at having to realize that about his own mate after it was too late.
Cassian hesitated before responding. Aside from lack of much familiarity between them, he and Elain had no part in the design or construction of this memorial. They weren’t even asked anything about it before it was erected overnight. Feyre was lost in grief reminding them all so much of when she first came to them when her sorrow was palpable in the air. Rhys tried to fix it. The High Lord came up with the idea and had it built so Feyre could visit her family that had departed their world already. At the time Cassian didn’t give it any thought, and had wanted no reminders of the fact that Nesta was gone from his life but now he was glad for anything at all. He found that with his limited knowledge of the female he had loved he couldn’t actually refute all Elain’s claims. It bothered him how much of his mate was a mystery.
“Will you tell me about her?” he asked. He had no right to, he knew that. That knowledge had been surrendered when he never bothered to ask while she was alive, squandering the opportunity to learn from her in person. He would never truly know her. Just the image he made up of what he expected her to be created by the thoughts and opinions of others but little of the truth from her own lips. Once again regret for her loss and his inaction rose in him like bile.
How little it meant that he promised her time on the battlefield.
The sounds of Velaris rose their way, buffeted on by the early spring wind. It wasn’t warm enough yet to be pleasant in any way, but the brighter skies would be here soon, a month or two at most. Maybe he would ask Elain to plant permanent flowers here, something Nesta would have liked. He waited patiently for her to respond, sorrow shining and his vision blurry from the tears he knew gathered there.
Elain stared at him long and hard while she considered. Though her eyes were so very different from her sisters, a brown to their blue-grey, he noticed she looked at him with an intensity so sharp that he should have felt knife pricks against his skin. The same intensity that Nesta had when her eyes blazed with silver fire, except Elain’s were dark pits drawing him in. They’re more alike than I thought .
“No. The bond is a noose ever tightening but you welcome the pain of it. The raven has pecked, and pecked, and pecked at your sight until darkness envelopes you. All will be lost.” Elain rasped, tightening her mint cloak around her neck. The way the fabric rippled in the wind made the embroidered flower petals along the hem dance.
Cassian had no idea what she was talking about. Bonds and crows? Now that he’d broken through the boundary of his grief that held him these last few months all he wanted was to talk to anyone and everyone about Nesta. He had assumed her sisters would be happy to share in the memory of the eldest and tell stories from before these three females stormed into their lives.
Neither had been interested in indulging him.
“Elain, what do you mean?” he asked her, his brow furrowing. Was this a vision?
“Listen to the shadows, Lord of Bloodshed. Look for the unseen meaning. You must bring it to light while you still can,” she responded cryptically. She gave him another withering look then turned on her heel and strode down the hillside, pink skirts billowing behind her.
Cassian stared after her, bewildered and sad. It was a long time before he made his own way back to the city.
The Thousand Libraries were a sight to behold.
Millions of books lined the shelves or were tucked away in alcoves, while hundreds of others floated through the air bound for other destinations within the enormous structure. Those that traveled high above passed through shadow and sunlight on their journey, occasionally bouncing off columns as they made their way down hallways and through doorways. Trillions of words written across parchment, leather, and sometimes even animal hide about anything and everything that made up the knowledge of Prythian, their world, and those far beyond. Some books so rare they could only be read by two or three fae across all the Courts, and luckily those rare fae were willing to make the trip if their services were ever needed and teaching new scholars the language too.
A far cry from the former glory of Day’s libraries, before the Terror and the Sacking
In one of the southernmost wings, tucked away right next to the much larger Spells: Defensive section, an annex was attached via a tight hallway filled with honeycomb shelves stuffed with scrolls heaped in neat piles that eventually opened up into a cavernous room that felt homey despite its size. Fae light burned in mosaic lanterns of yellow and orange, casting a warm glow on the mahogany shelves. Polished to a shine, sunlight reflected off the surface and glared off the plaques just above eye level. At this hour of day the curtains didn’t do much against the blaze of the sun here in the brightest Solar Court, but the enchantments on the window to protect the precious resources inside were strong, and had been laid one upon the other every year now since Amarantha’s reign and were growing steadily stronger.
Dust motes spun through the sunbeams lining the patterned carpet, catching the light here and there as a breeze came through the windows pushing them around in an ever changing path. From out in the garden songbirds fluttering around and hopping from branch to branch could be heard, sporadic chirps from different ones breaking the ambiance. There was also the whisper of pages rustling from an open doorway down the hall, and the cough of whoever was turning the pages.
Her own footsteps were muffled by her soft paws and the plush fabric beneath her feet, a scene of pegasi in a field; some grazing amongst tall grass, some prancing, and others in what appeared to be the run up towards taking flight. The colors were vibrant and flashes of silver thread caught the light as she walked, making the pegasi dance and move to her eyes. Her long trousers swished around her legs along with her tail as she made her way through the Library.
Ismeni gazed upon the small placards attached to the tall bookshelves, her eyes landing on various subjects and their offshoots as she walked further through the room. Curses: Alchemical, Bestial, Botanical… The lists continued on for all types of curses and malignant spells a fae could suffer. She had been through these stacks multiple times but wanted to try just once more. Maybe she had missed the book she needed the first time around - the title faded, the letters peeling, anything that could have caused her eyes to pass over them instead of the second option, which was that the solution to her current problem was nowhere to be found. The Libraries had never let her down, but she also never experienced this problem before either.
A month ago, a group of young fae were sent to them by the Dawn healers with quite possibly the wildest explanation they had ever received from their southern cousins. They weren’t exactly allies since Dawn claimed neutrality, but they had shared knowledge and skills for thousands of thousands of years, each court improving their own by working together where needed. Dawn healers and tinkerers and Day scholars and inventors naturally aligned to seek out information to improve upon Prythian. Generally they were able to help one another, their collaborations pushing forward innovation in both health and engineering. This case though had stumped her Dawn counterparts, and her team of researchers were brought in to try and find other methods of healing.
The story provided for the group of fae - too old to be younglings but not quite high enough in their decades to be considered adults, not really - had been strange. According to the babbling one of them had kept up as they were brought to the Dawn medicinal centers, they had gone to the Middle as part of some silly challenge to prove their courage to their friends, completely ignoring the fact that the Middle was off-limits for many extremely valid reasons. With the ignorance of youth came the brashness of executing terrible ideas and subsequently suffering the consequences that came from it. They had deemed themselves worthy to venture where High Lords dare not and had paid the price. While they were by all accounts of sound mind and body upon entering the Middle to those who saw them before journeying, they returned with scrapes and hives all across their bodies and speaking incoherently over one another. The only words that could be heard through the ruckus consistently were the words “curse” and “die” but nothing else.
No mention of other beings, fae, or monsters. No other explanations for the physical wounds on their bodies, and nothing could stop the incessant chatter of the young fae as they twisted around in fear, looking around suspiciously and flinching at any and all movement. The Dawn healers had tried delving into their bodies and minds to determine the cause, but aside from the rash could find nothing medically wrong with any of them. The bruising eventually faded, but the rash grew and their tongues wagged with ramblings.
Ismeni and her team were brought in to assist at this point, seeing as a curse was the only lead this mystery provided. She was assigned to the magical warfare library, specializing in curses, though she herself was at a loss of where to start. As her group was briefed on the situation, her overseer explained how little they had to go on so it was up to them to find as much information on curses from the Middle as they could. A difficult task considering that place was off-limits after the suffering Prythian had endured from its supposed High Queen. So they walked the halls, blew dust from covers, and scouted books, tomes, and reports. Anything that could be an inkling into the dissolving curse, and they had still turned up nothing.
The only clear information we have is a curse. A curse that does something to dissolve. The mind or the body? Or both?
As she stood there staring at the long rows of books before her, thousands of pages and millions of words, she genuinely had no idea why she was struggling so much. All the combined knowledge of Day and Dawn and they wouldn’t be able to save these careless, overachieving, morons because they only had three points of information to go on. Never had she felt like such a failure in all her centuries of research. Not even when she couldn’t protect her home and the Libraries from the horde during the Sacking.
At least then there was no expectation that she could stand her ground against the Mind-Killer.
She shook her head and went back to the task at hand of saving this gaggle of idiots, wondering Maybe we start over with a search for general information on the Middle?, when a faint silver figure turned into an aisle several rows away from her. A long train dragged behind and disappeared just as quickly, and then she was alone again.
What was that?
Ismeni rolled her shoulders back and walked off towards where the figure disappeared, having not seen anyone in this section of the Library for days, so few scholars still compared to before. Even stranger was how she thought she could see through the figure, although she may also be more delirious than originally thought. It had been more than a week since she’d gotten proper sleep after all, working so feverishly on this case.
She hurried along, hoping to catch the mysterious presence and see if she could help them find their way. In the distance that faint silver fabric curled around corners just out of reach, always just a hair faster than her even as she increased her pace to catch up. However quick she scurried, the being always kept ahead. Through different wings they walked, areas Ismeni hadn’t considered in her quest to solve this puzzle, but the being kept moving. Now concern was growing in her mind in addition to her curiosity. Surely they know I’m following?
Suddenly it was still. She hadn’t noticed until it disappeared but the desire to hunt, to seek that unknown figure, was gone. The sounds of the library rushed back to her as well, much louder even though it was still quiet by usual standards. She turned in a circle looking this way and that for the one she was following, but she was alone. Alone where?
A book on the fifth row up on the bookshelf to her left was glowing. A mesmerizing aura calling attention to it, so much shinier than the others nearby. She had no idea where she was but something told her this would be the book she needed. Tentatively she reached out and poked the spine, then jumped back quickly with a shield up.
Nothing happened.
Convinced, she stepped back towards the shelf and grabbed the book. No name, no embossing, just a regular book bound in canvas that looked centuries old. Drawn flowers and plants were scattered among the pages, both printed and handwritten, and based on the language used this book was ancient, older even than her initial guess. Millennia maybe? How did this survive the sacking of the city? The Nightmare? Why do I need an ancient botany tome?
As she flipped through the pages another motion from the corner of her eye caught her attention, the silver figure had returned and was toying with her again. Snapping the book shut she strode purposefully towards where it led, another journey through aisles to another book pulsing slightly with magical power, pearly grey misting out from the spine.
Six more times this cat and mouse game continued until finally when her arms were full and she was nearly staggering under the weight, Ismeni found herself back at their study room with no idea how she had gotten there. She looked left, then right, but saw no one. Shrugging, she waved her hand and the door opened to her colleagues and she walked in to drop the stack on the table.
“I‘ve no idea what these are or if they’ll help, but I just had the strangest experience and I’d be remiss to chalk it up to nothing more than odd paranoia. These books were shown to be by magic. Possibly the Libraries’ magic walking about, I don’t know, so let’s start hunting.” A little shrug of her shoulders to indicate she knew she sounded crazy to the others.
Passing around to her colleagues what she had accrued in her journey, they looked at her bewilderedly, but accepted the proffered tomes. Cassandra murmured something about old fae language and whether she’d be able to translate the text but that was the only utterance. Her butterfly wings fluttered softly as she scanned the pages as Ismeni returned to her designated seat. They dove into the books, all wondering whether this would be another fruitless effort.
After what had to have been hours, small conversations here and there discussing what they found and cross-checking information, Theron slapped his hand on the table and whooped. Immediately all eyes were on him as he read through the page. He pulled another book that had been sitting in front of Timon towards him flipping through pages clearly searching for something.
“I think I’ve found it!”
They all turned towards him fully now, hope shining on their faces at whatever he had to tell.
“Based on all these books your mysterious magic gave you,” - at this he waggled his fingers and eyebrows at her, - “it looks like this isn’t a curse at all.” Theron smiled widely, stretching out his back as he explained what he found and how it all came together.
“It’s a reaction. They must have walked into something from when the Middle wasn’t the Middle. They stepped through some kind of barrier that impacted their minds and bodies.”
“So not a curse but more like an allergy?” Ismeni countered, pulling the first book she had looked at, the botany book, over towards her from the center of the table. An allergy they could work with.
“Yes, I think it was an old fae circle of stones, bones, and plants - the kind you would use for scrying, yeah? No idea what it was actually used for, but they definitely must have walked through it. From what I reckon the circle was the boundary and anyone entering would be affected.” He turned some pages and snapped towards Helen, whose sparkling white eyes widened, to grab the book she was holding.
“Once they all walked through, the circle kept them locked in place, and there were these mushrooms that released spores upon entry.” Here he pointed at the botany book and it flipped to a page on luminescent fungi. “If certain bones are cast in the circle with the stones, it ensures the spores and their magic become attached to whoever enters. Our idiot youths essentially walked through an ancient, magical trap.”
Ismeni looked to her fellows, attention rapt as they all scrambled for the rest of the magical stack of books and began flipping through pages.
“Here, this says when the magic from a-” she squinted, “What is that, a Garavik? Have you heard of that? When those bones are in the vicinity, the spores attach directly to a being and seep into their blood via the skin instead of being shed after hours.” Helen turned a book around so the others could see the text, pointing with one of her talons. “Since this creature hasn’t been seen since the old ages we never would have known what to look for or ask about.”
Another book was grabbed and flipped through. “Mother’s tits, if this thing bites you you’ll hallucinate to death.”
“And if it was in their blood…it would have infected their minds as well, right?”
“Yes!” Theron exclaimed, getting more excited by the minute. “So they were never cursed at all, just a bizarre fluke of magic that probably would have eventually killed them. Mostly likely.” He considered another moment. “Or, perhaps hallucinating forever. Maybe.”
“It says here the effects would take a year to mature if someone was infected directly through their blood. With the stones and bones though the symptoms must have been amplified and expedited.” Cassandra flipped back a few pages of her book to read further descriptions.
Ismeni smiled, proud of her cohort and their success at finding a solution for their allies. As they made notes and determined the best next steps, she also sent a small thank you to the silver figure who helped them solve this case. Thank you, wonderful guardian of the Libraries.
A wispy shadow, thin and long like a snake, raced around the Library following the one who smelled like parchment and musk, who in turn followed the moon mist that was leader in this hunt. It flew along stacks and chased the light around corners, racing and racing and racing like a bird on the wind. It loved games and it had been so long since someone had played besides the Conductor.
She guides! it sang.
Notes:
Cassian: Elain, can you help me make a bouquet for Nesta's grave?
Elain: Rants, chants, and provides him a scathing review via flower language
Cassian: What
In floriography wolfsbane can mean beware of foes nearby or deception, orange lilies represent hatred, and black roses are sometimes associated with death and rebirth. So Elain's got some opinions.
Chapter 5: Contingency Plans
Summary:
Rhysand and Feyre make plans for Nyx's birth. An attack occurs in the Hewn City.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Amren sat in her designated armchair in his office, feet tucked under herself in her black column dress. The blood rubies from Summer lay tight against her neck looking ever so similar to droplets of blood trailing from a slit throat. Similar wounds he himself had left on enemies over the centuries. She swirled the wine in her glass as she stared levelly at him. She was not pleased with his decisions or this conversation and was making him well aware of it.
“It was foolish to make a bargain like that with the girl. I thought you were better than this.”
Rhysand sighed and brought his hand to his brow, another headache churning behind his eyes. He and his Second had variations of this same conversation for months now and he was tired of being berated. When making the bargain he had only two things on his mind, keeping his family whole and making sure none could ever stand against them, too fearful of the consequences. If he had Elain’s gift of foresight and could see what would happen once they started their family he would not have put himself in this position, poised on the cusp of losing his son, his mate, his Court, and himself. All of his dreams, gone in a wink. Obviously it was a foolish choice.
“I am aware, Amren, but continuing to tell me I’m an idiot does not help us find solutions. The other Courts are of no help, Madja has done all she can.”
“Send Feyre to-“
“This is not an option,” he hissed.
He shoved the thought away back into the caves of his mind where the dark writhed.
Amren cut him off with a glare. “You do not have the time to avoid it anymore. The future of this Court and Prythian are at stake if you don’t. Your options are to lose the babe, or lose Feyre and yourself. It seems like a simple choice to me, boy.” She took a sip and set the glass back on the end table, holding his gaze longer than other members of his family would given his recent state. She tapped a manicured nail along the rim as she waited for his reply.
“I will not risk Nyx or Feyre that way. The answer is no.” He applied more pressure to his temples, trying to force the knot in his brain out through sheer willpower.
“Then kill the child. Which you should have done to start with.”
“No,” he rumbled, forcing his power into his voice so she would silence herself and listen. The slightest tension in her jaw was the only sign it had an effect on her. Continuing this circular conversation would get them to the same place it had before, nowhere. “We are here to discuss steps that must be taken, not to retread errors made in the past. We look to the future now.” He leveled a glare at Amren, rarely having to use his power to bend her to his will.
Amren glared right back, toothless as it was now she had only ordinary magic, then gave a small shrug and reached for her glass again. She angled it towards him, as if to say ‘continue,’ and patiently waited for her High Lord to speak again.
“Helion is working on a way to break the bond and I have full hopes he’ll pull an idea from somewhere in that ridiculous bedsheet he wears. In the meantime, we need to make contingency plans for the rule of this Court. First the line of succession. The power will likely go to Nyx as heir to Feyre and I given our combined strength. And if it doesn’t the next person in line would be Mor.” He shifted sheets of parchment around on his desk until the sheet describing the lineage of his House was on top. His immediate family had been small, his parents and sister and then a smattering of cousins within the Hewn City. None he knew of from his mother’s side who were still alive. It was unknown if the power would transfer directly to a newborn; this was an unprecedented situation for what they found when looking at old historical records. Typically when High Lords passed the heir was apparent, and in most cases expecting the transfer of power, aside from the instances under the mountain. Another mark against his unusual lack of foresight.
“If the power goes to Nyx, you will rule as regent until he comes of age. However, you will not rule unilaterally.” His eyes guttered, violet to black, stars disappearing entirely from his irises.
“Morrigan will continue as queen of the Court of Nightmares as is her birthright with Keir continuing as Steward unless she deems otherwise. Cassian and Azriel will manage Illyria during the interim. Cassian’s role and responsibilities will not change.” He hummed, thinking deeper on the perpetual unrest of Illyria, whether they would use the death of their rulers to commit to their uprising and finally make their break from the rule of the Night Court. He wouldn’t be surprised if they tried it, probably praying to the Mother each night for their deaths after the losses suffered during the war.
“Azriel will need to pick up the slack in Illyria. He will split his duties between his role as spymaster and increase his time spent in the Steppes to keep the unrest to a minimum. I know he’ll hate it, but he will be the monster in my stead.” He looked to Amren for confirmation she had heard him so far, waiting for her to acknowledge the statement. She simply raised an eyebrow at him. “You can directly oversee and protect Velaris. If, if, there is some kind of rebellion that will impact the city I want you to put an end to it immediately.”
At this she scoffed. “How do you expect me to do that? When you dragged me out of that confounded Cauldron you didn’t manage to bring my true self back with us.” She crossed her arms and shifted slightly in the chair, sinking further back into the cushions as she stared at him, anger simmering in her eyes at the loss. “Despite how I feel about the girl, Nesta would have been the best to protect the city with her power. Who knows how deep her well went. It was already substantial without training. What a waste.”
“We’re not here to discuss Nesta again either,” he snapped. How that fucking female keeps getting brought up in every conversation… “I don’t care how you do it, but Velaris will be saved if the rest rise up.”
His Second looked at him for a long time, tension simmering between the two, the smallest spark could make it burst into flames. Finally, she nodded.
“Good. If Mor becomes the next High Lady-” at this his heart clenched. Feyre was the first High Lady in the history of Prythian and she would only rule for a scant couple of years. The things they could have accomplished together if given enough time. He swallowed.
“If Mor is the next High Lady you will follow her rule. Nyx will apprentice with her once he comes of age. That will provide him centuries of training before the mantle passes to him. He will participate in Illyrian training. He’s more Illyrian than I am, that will help him make inroads with the people there”
“And the Blood Rite?” Amren asked. Of course she would, given the time of year.
“He will not be dropped into the Rite.”
“You can’t be serious Rhysand.” She leaned forwards and pointed one glossy red nail at him. “You will lose Illyria if your Illyrian son does not participate and prove his worth.”
Illyria was his birthright, as heir. He wouldn’t put his own son through that, especially now with the harsh lesson of unknown succession.
“Mostly Illyrian, you know how they feel about half-breeds. We will force Illyria to bend as we always do. He will not participate.” They had other things to discuss and he had other preparations to make. He looked at her, a challenge in his eyes, waiting to see if she would defy him.
When she didn’t, he continued. “Many may think it opportunistic to make an attempt on Nyx’s life while he's there. Especially when our Court will be in such turmoil. That is why he won’t join. He is to be shielded at all times, and it can be up for discussion whether it remains on him once he comes of age.”
“Rhysand,” she breathed, shock written plain as day on her face. “You cannot coddle the boy, it will only make him weaker. I will not do it, he needs to learn.”
“Do not make me bargain with you.”
“Your bargain won’t matter since you are a moron and will be dead.”
Darkness enveloped the room. He was sick of her obstinance, especially now she had nothing of substance to provide this Court with. He could get her knowledge from a book if he asked the priestesses downstairs to research it. He was still High Lord gods damn it, let him remind her of that fact.
Night mist leaked from him coating the room in pitch-dark fog, thick enough to taste. His power rumbled and he pierced a mental link straight through her shields while sharp spikes were thrown over the walls of her mind. He poked and prodded, letting his powers go sharp within, felt her gasp in pain across from him. He rose and towered over her small form, and knew she was huddled on the chair, her bark worse than her bite now she had no teeth. A whimper came from somewhere near his navel.
“As long as I remain your High Lord you will do as I command. You pledged to serve and protect. You will serve me. You will protect him.”
A whip of night mist lashed out in the dark and the scent of blood was in the air. He dropped the hold on his powers, pulled back the fog, and left Amren’s mind. The last few tendrils curled out, stroking her face, caressing, as they returned back to him. She looked at him, rage turning her eyes quicksilver, a short line of blood angled perfectly across her left cheek.
“We will table this discussion until you’ve reconsidered your attitude and tone. You are dismissed.” He sat back down at his desk, pulled a ledger towards him, and looked at his Second and then the door.
Amren’s eyes - so like Nesta’s in color if not in depth, he thought - narrowed and her black bob gave an imperceptible shake. She rose slowly, refusing to acknowledge the small wound on her cheek, glaring daggers at him the whole way. Snatching her glass, she made her way to the door, shooting him one last sharp look as she exited the room.
As soon as he heard her footsteps padding down the hall he rocked back heavily into his chair and dragged a hand down his face. The headache continued gnawing at the inside of his skull, daemati powers useless for physical pain in his mind. There was still so much left to do still but if even Amren, who had always been on his side, was arguing against his decrees then how long would this process take? Time hastened on, marching ever forward, as he struggled to get his affairs in order, nurture Feyre and their unborn child, and keep his Court together at least for the next few months. At the rate Nyx was growing and the limitations of Feyre’s High Fae body he would likely come early and they needed to be ready by then.
Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he waited until multi-colored stars burst against the black. He allowed himself several minutes of reprieve from his stress, turning around to look at his mate’s portrait above him. Crown of amethysts and silver twinkling in her hair, her blue-grey eyes determined and powerful, ferocious, as she looked down upon him. Always with him. Always there..
He knew what she would want for Nyx and his education and training, but she didn’t know what it was to be a High Lord. Certainly he had made her High Lady, but that was different. She didn’t understand what their son was in for; the difficult path he would have to walk, always on alert and danger lurking around all corners. The only person who could give his son that training was him, and his family would be a poor imitation once he and Feyre were gone. Ruminating would do nothing, but he was loath to begin working again with drums beating within his mental walls. There were still several items on his list that required checking, and every hour counted.
He reached out to Feyre who had been busy with preparations for Starfall. There were seating arrangements to confirm, catering decisions to finalize, contacting guests who had yet to respond to their invitation, and she was already so exhausted from the pregnancy. He had recruited Mor to assist her, wanting her home more frequently given the circumstances but she had declined. Important business. Nothing was more important than an order from him.
He stroked a talon against Feyre’s mind, night mist encroaching upon her shields then tendrils rising up the walls and over the border while he waited at the door. It didn’t take long for her to answer, her lovely voice filling his mind.
Yes?
Can you come to my office please? There’s something I wish to discuss.
I’ll be there in a moment she purred, reaching her own link to his, and they twisted tighter together as his mist continued to creep over her walls.
He left her mind, but some tendrils stayed behind.
Always watching.
Calling the sprawling metropolis beneath the mountains in the east a mere city was doing the place a disservice. As far as the rock above them stretched into the sky, the levels below that made up the Hewn City stretched just as deep into the earth. Level upon level of carved stone following striations in the rock, utilizing natural caverns to form the largest halls for their balls and meetings, for the city squares and markets. Rivers ran through the crevasses with carved bridges arching over the roar of water leading further into the deep. Tall towers with massive balls of fae light at their peaks lit the city with a haunting glow, adding to the eerie feel of the place. Some towers were topped with etchings, so the light glowed in beautiful patterns as it fell on those rushing about below.
The Hewn City could be spectacular if one could look past the gloom to see the beauty hidden in tiny details within the onyx walls. Small moths that fluttered from bloom to bloom carved into the stone and the eyes of great beasts polished to a shine, to look like the gleam of their living eyes when light hit them in the dark. Small recesses in the stone where luminescent fungi liked to grow, bright green against the shadows but enough light to read by if one knew where to look. The night sky outdoors etched into the ceilings of common areas, only a pale comparison to the sky most of the citizens envisioned when dreaming of it while in other rooms the mystical blue light of glowworms did their best imitation of the stars outdoors.
When living in permanent darkness, any scrap of beauty was cherished, even if it was manufactured.
There were not enough beautiful things in the Hewn City though, not enough to outshine the abject misery many inhabitants lived in in their tomb under the mountain. Trapped within walls of stone with no fresh air or natural light, no way to see the beauty of the night sky above them that gave name to their Court, the citizens of the Hewn City simply existed, either forgotten or reviled by their High Lord and others within the Night Court’s boundaries or outside of it. Pain and death lurked around corners everywhere at all times, though not from every inhabitant as the High Lord liked to believe. Only a loud minority were the source of such misery, and Anwen was running from one of them.
Her footsteps were loud as she sprinted down the black stone halls. Her heart raced, terror and fear taking over her mind as she moved as swiftly as she could seeking anywhere to hide. Indigo fae light flickered ominously, shadows darting and grabbing at the hem of her gauzy pants, tearing the fabric into tatters as she careened around corners desperate to escape. She knew he would find her, knew what he would do to her when he did. Knew just how easy she was making it by how loud she was being, her scent billowing behind her like a trail to her exact location. This did not matter in the face of sheer panic as she ran with speed she knew she could not maintain.
She kept on, pumping her arms to give herself just a little more momentum, desperate and wild as she darted down a hallway that led to a hidden storeroom. She has to find somewhere, anywhere, to hide and calm down enough that her scent wouldn’t give her away.
There were many places to hide in the Hewn City, and the smell of fear and anger was always heavy in the air. She hoped she could find one such place in time, and the overwhelming scent of the city would be enough to mask her own stink.
She chanced a glance behind her to see how much time and distance she had gained, only to stumble when she saw a billowing black cloud turn down the same hallway she was in, flowing towards her at a surprising speed.
“You cannot run from me forever. You’re mine now.” The cloud behind her pulsed and she doubled her efforts down the hall, stumbling a little as the remnants of her trousers whipped around her ankles. Two more corners and a straightaway and then she could hide, then she could be safe.
Or as safe as it ever would get here with her in the sights of the male that followed.
“Your father signed the contract, you belong to me. And you have many lessons to learn about being a good wife.” The voice was harsh, like rocks sliding down a mountainside, and her fear spiked as she turned the first corner. She was so tired. So exhausted.
“All those years spent watching you, and now you are mine.” A tendril of darkness stretched out towards her as she rounded the last corner and ran.
Almost there, almost!
And she smacked into a wall.
No, no, no!
She must have missed a turn in her desperation, not paying enough attention to what halls she had disappeared down and now would pay the price for her carelessness. She ran her hands along the walls, hoping for a secret compartment to appear. She had nowhere to go now, well and truly trapped, like a caged animal. Why would there be a hallway with nothing in it?
She faced the way she came, taut as a bowstring as she waited for the massive dark cloud to catch her, pick her apart, ruin her.
Cian had lusted after her for years, watching her from across the halls and from shadowy corners as she aged into maturity. Centuries older and close with her father, he thought that somehow gave him a right to have her. Predator’s eyes followed her every motion until she was too terrified to leave the house unchaperoned for fear he would catch her.
As she bled for the first time and reached adulthood soon after, her father deemed her ready for marriage, to be sold to one of the Darkbringers as his new toy. She had hoped for a betrothal to one of the younger ones, less set in their archaic ways. But her father had made a promise, and that promise was to his good friend Cian.
Cian, who now hunted her through the halls of the city she called home, the place she was trapped, a terrifying night beast following its prey.
Darkness bloomed in front of her eyes and surrounded her, thick and heavy. Cian was a strong Darkbringer. It pulsed and swarmed blocking her eyes and nose, filling her lungs with the scent of him - acrid and sour.
She slid down the wall and covered her ears with her hands. She was not brave, she couldn’t fight him. She wasn’t blessed like the Morrigan or the Cursebreaker either, plucked from their old miserable life to be revered in their new, favored as they were by the High Lord. Her only hope had been avoiding him until she could beg her father, or running and hiding in the hopes he would lose interest, but he came for her sooner than expected. She despaired as the tangible dark assaulted her.
Mother please, please if you can hear me. Make it quick. Make it not hurt.
Tears streamed down her face as she heard Cian say “There you are Anwen. You shouldn’t run from your husband.” She felt hands in her hair as she was dragged from her spot on the floor, feet scrabbling against stone as she scratched the hands that held her, blood tingeing the air as she screamed her throat raw.
“A hellcat you are, keep this up and I’ll have to tie you down.” She sobbed, another broken scream wrenched from her throat as she kicked and scratched and cried.
Suddenly a blinding light shone, so bright it burned away the dark surrounding them and the hand in her hair let go. She fell back to the floor, thunking her head against the hard surface, already hurting from her encounter with the wall.
“Not a chance, bastard.” A new voice said, feminine but powerful, layered with ancient magic that felt like a caress but sounded like fury.
Through watery eyes she lifted her head, vision blurry as she took in the sight before her. A female, tall and strong and powerful, dressed in a long gown and aglow in silver flames. A flaming sword as long as she was tall held at the ready in her right hand, a ball of silver fire in her left. She stood rooted to the spot like a tree, stance strong like nothing in this world could cut her down or push her back. Beautiful combs were tucked into her braided hair at the temples, shaped like the sun and the moon which held swaying strands of tiny bones that looped beneath her chin.
“Who are you to order me?” Cian snarled, blackness enveloping his own hands as he took in the threat ahead of him. Power rumbled through the hall, bouncing off the obsidian walls.
“I am the voice of those who suffer. I am the scales of justice. I am vengeance. But right now, I will accept being your executioner.”
Anwen must have been hallucinating or this was her mind’s way of keeping her safe as she was assaulted. Nothing about this made sense. A ghost was facing off against Cian and terrified as she was, she believed without a doubt the ghost meant what she said. She scuttled back towards the wall, fear locking her voice.
Cian threw a ball of shadow and dark fanned out for the briefest instant before it sizzled away as a wall of silver flame flew towards him with a roar. A mighty blast of shadows tried to push its way through the fire but it was scorched away easily, more silver flame rushing forwards until Cian was forced to concede a step. Then another. Then another. Blast after blast of silver fire was hurled towards him as he retreated and threw his own dark power back at the being.
The ghost stalked forward, spinning her sword in hand, now sparking with flames in her anger. “For too long this place has been left in the dark. I intend to drag it to the light.”
At this the being raised her sword and slashed, which sent another wave of flame towards Cian to push him back again. She moved forward, skirts swirling around her like a dancer’s as she spun. Cian backed into the wall she herself had hit only moments ago, trapped and cowering like she was by a threat that had cornered him.
"So long as Rhysand calls himself the High Lord of the Night Court, innocent blood shed here stains his hands. Let this be a message to him and his Court of Dreams.”
Wide-eyed Anwen watched helplessly as Cian tried to form a shield, but the ghost’s magnificent sword sliced through as if it was butter. Cian screamed, true fear in the sound as the ghost sliced again and lopped his shield arm off. Another slice and the other arm was gone. Tears streamed down Cian’s face and Anwen’s as this being of justice cut him to meaty pieces.
Holding her breath she waited for the ghost to make the final blow, blood pooling across the floor as parts of Cian bled on the stone. She couldn’t look away even though she wanted to with every fiber of her being. With a graceful turn, the ghost whirled and Anwen finally squeezed her eyes shut at what was coming. She heard a wet thump in front of her as Cian’s last scream echoed in the hall.
Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes. The ghost stood above the headless, limbless body of her tormentor. The flames on her sword and body receded as she kicked the corpse to be sure it was dead. Certain she had completed her job, she sheathed her weapon over her shoulder before turning towards Anwen, who was shivering on the floor.
Despite this being her savior, she cowered, the terror of the previous moments still flowing through her. It felt like years had occurred in what had to be the span of minutes.
“I am sorry. That’s the first time I’ve really done that.” The ghost was kneeling before her now, confusion on her face as she reached a hand out to help Anwen up, then quickly drew it back. Hesitant to touch her even though she had been a whirlwind of violence minutes before.
“Thank…thank you” Anwen stammered. She stood on shaky legs and tried to smooth her tattered trousers down, pat down flyaway strands of hair. Anything to look presentable to this ghost that had saved her life.
“Should someone seek knowledge of what happened here, tell them to look in the Veritas Orb, do not let them look into your mind. Do not trust Mind-Killer. Only the Orb can be trusted.”
With that, the ghost gave a single sharp nod of her head. A pillar of silver flames erupted where she stood and the next second, her savior, a goddess of old, was gone. Shadows danced in her wake.
That was a bit more forthright than you’ve been so far. Your power and control are growing quickly. Did you mean to be here so strongly?
Not at first. But I couldn’t let anything happen to her. I know what she felt, I know how it would kill her slowly, even if the act itself didn’t.
Well unintentional or not, well done.
Thank you.
The House of the Wind shone on the cliff side, laughter, music, and singing tumbling down the stairs into the city of Velaris. Above them in the sky, thousands of stars spun about falling gracefully towards the horizon. So many they rushed beyond the mountains like a river, winding their way through the inky heights so far from them on the ground. Cheers and the sounds of merriment rose from the crowd packed onto the balconies to watch the show and moments behind a wave of hurrahs rose up from the city further down below to meet them.
Every room in the House was packed; guests and friends, treasured artists and members of society, the odd advisor or counselor chatting to others in the corners all mingling and enjoying the holiday. Trays of small bites and drinks moved through the room carried by servants, required now that the magic of the House had faded away and then disappeared entirely. Within larger rooms entertainers were on platforms, performing for those in attendance. Dazzling displays of magic, live painters that Feyre had hired from her classes, and a small band playing in the receiving room as guests entered the space. Each room included something exciting and new, a talent in Velaris worthy of making their city proud.
Despite the merriment outside, Feyre was unable to truly enjoy herself today, this most celebrated holiday for the Night Court. She rested her hands across her stomach, the tattoos matching the lace pattern stretched across her swollen belly. She was too tired and achy to play the dutiful High Lady tonight. These last few months of the pregnancy were already difficult on her body, let alone her spirit, and as she progressed closer to her due date, the last thing she wanted to be at was an all night party, even if it was still magnificent.
She would prefer to be tucked under blankets with her mate, lying in the garden of the River House watching a torrent of stars fly in the sky above her as she narrated what she saw to her child. Out in nature where she could feel a crisp breeze, smell new shoots and the citrus and salt that made up so much of Rhys’ scent, and gaze upon the souls shooting across the sky. Rhys would be there too, resting a warm hand across her belly waiting for their child to move. A miracle each time, and something she cherished more and more as the days passed by. She wanted nothing more than to spend each moment with him, just the two of them. Not to share him with these fawning creatures dragging his attention away for the night.
She plastered a smile to her face as a handful of advisors came her way. She nodded, and smiled, and went through the motions but her mind continued meandering down its path of wants and wishes.
When she wrote to Dawn and Day all those months ago to ask for their help she was positive they would find a solution to her problem. They wrote back quickly that Rhysand had contacted them about it and they had been researching for months. The hope Feyre had deflated slightly - of course Rhys would have done that already. It was likely his first thought too.
She asked to meet with them anyways so she could hear for herself, and they agreed to see her at the Moonstone Palace since traveling in her state was difficult. Over the course of hours, the two High Lords and the researchers on her case tried to soothe her but there wasn’t much that could be done. Dawn was home to the famed Peregryns but they were of no help due to the fact that they laid eggs, apparently. Day was utilizing its vast libraries to research histories but were turning up short. Both promised they would keep searching into new methods on her behalf.
Feyre had been half-tempted to ask Rhys to enter their minds to see if they were lying, but he had let her down gently and confirmed they weren’t.
Any kernels of hope Feyre had were lost after that. And that was a month or two ago. There were a few updates - the babe could be cut out and Feyre knitted back together according to one healer. The words had barely left his mouth when Rhys had blasted him with a wave of power at the mere mention of slicing into Feyre. She was scared too and it was a long shot, but wasn’t anything worth a try? She was fae now, she could be healed even if there was a risk, her blood could do most of the work. The other outcome was much worse.
She had also asked about shifting back to being Illyrian but that was voted down as well, the reason being that using her magic in such a way may affect Nyx negatively somehow. After being denied so thoroughly, she had quieted down and tried to spend as much time thinking positively to her unborn child. Something about shifting stuck with her. How would Madja know whether shifting was or wasn’t good for her? She wasn’t a shapeshifter. And though she loved Nyx, she didn’t want to die again.
She came back to the present when she saw a flash of red hair turn around a corner. She hadn’t seen Lucien in months. Always drifting around the periphery of the Inner Circle, by the time the snow of winter finally began melting away Lucien had visited one last time to tender his resignation. Following Eris’ rise to the throne of Autumn after the winter solstice Lucien had been spending more time there with his mother, finally able to return home once his exile was lifted. More and more frequent visits turned into a permanent residency and work as their emissary instead. According to Azriel’s shadows he had been making frequent visits out of Court, particularly to Day. Lucien had turned his back on her, Elain, and Night when he was needed the most.
And the Night Court was all the worse off for it, she thought darkly.
Excusing herself she made for the male heading to the balcony and grabbed his velvet-covered arm. Feyre casually steered Lucien towards a less busy side of the House, stopping for polite but boring small talk and accepting congratulations on her pregnancy along the way playing her part. Finally reaching two lonely chairs by a small desk within sight of plenty of guests Feyre relaxed slightly. Grabbing two glasses off a passing tray she handed one to Lucien and raised the other to her lips as she lowered herself down, scanning the room around them.
A pressure at her wrist from Lucien and he held her grip firmly but not painfully. Anger flashed in her gut at the nerve of him to grab her like this, like she was a naughty child to be dealt with. She ripped her arm from his hand, sloshing the fizzing cocktail a bit, and allowed her Autumn flames to shine in her eyes. A hint of surprise etched his features, one brow raised as he pointedly looked from her to the glass to her stomach.
Shame flowed thick and hot in her gut as she made the connection he was insinuating. Cauldron boil me . She almost downed a glass of liquor with no hesitation, hadn’t even considered requesting punch or at least asking for it to be watered down. And here she was meant to be protecting her child instead of harming him. She was more rattled than she thought from such a small mistake, berating herself internally for being so scatterbrained. She shook her head to clear her mind and Lucien let go and turned his hand in a placating gesture. She exhaled through her nose sharply and looked at her friend.
“I suppose now is as good a time as any to ask how things have been going for you but I believe I have an idea,” he remarked dryly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His russet eye looked at her appraisingly, trying to determine what was wrong with her simply by her skin. His metal eye whirled in place, continuing its scan of the party - something she wasn’t even sure if he was aware of as they sat together.
Feyre darted her own eyes across the room and as slowly as she could she raised a silencing shield around them both. With care, she tried to place it as close to their bodies as she could get so it would go unnoticed. The party was busy but she wouldn’t put it past Rhys to seek her out specifically if he noticed between conversations that she was missing for too long. He had become more clingy as of late, as if knowing their time could be cut short he wanted her with him at every moment of every day.
She reached out and patted Lucien’s knee, a fake smile on her face, putting extra emphasis on the movement, like friends catching up after so long apart. Which, she thought after, is what they were though it didn’t feel like it at the moment. A quick flex of her mental shields. No conversations mind-to-mind tonight though, not when Rhys might be able to hear them too. She smiled and whispered under her breath at him.
“I need your help.” A pause as her eyes checked the room again. “Specifically I need Tamlin’s help but as you can imagine, I doubt he’ll talk to me directly. I need him to teach me how to shift. Safely.” She clenched her teeth in that weak, false smile willing Lucien to understand without needing to repeat herself. With bated breath she waited.
Lucien’s head tilted down towards his boots and he sighed. Moments passed but he remained still as a statue, body tense, and her grin certainly had turned into a grimace at this point. After several minutes warring with himself, he raised his gaze to her, resignation on his face. “The delivery of the message itself will be hard, I do not pretend to know what will come after.”
Feyre didn’t let her shoulders rise, anxious at the idea this one last lifeline may not work. She knew it wasn’t likely, but she had to try. If not for her and Rhys then at least for her baby. My darling Nyx . She felt ashamed and sick that she even had to ask.
“May I ask why?” he continued. He held her gaze, russet and golden eyes locked onto hers now. She could not escape this, she could tell that if Lucien was going to do her this favor to go against Rhysand for her benefit it had to be a good one. Especially if he no longer worked for them. Even more so if it was to seek out Tamlin, whose friendship with Lucien she had so thoroughly ruined. Once again he was risking his life for her. She told herself it was the least he could do after everything she had done for him over the years.
“You are aware my child will kill me, I don’t intend for that to happen.” Her voice was a whisper and her eyes flicked around frantically for Rhys, Az’s shadows, the Wraiths... “I’ve exhausted all options I can think of except one, but Rhys won’t be happy when he hears of it.”
“Feyre…” Lucien started but she held up a hand to stop him.
“I understand the risk in asking you to do this. But I only ask you to deliver the message. I’ll figure out how to execute my plan if he agrees.”
“What makes you think he will?” Lucien settled into the chair and crossed his arms, leveling a stare at her. All hints of familiarity were gone now as his demeanor turned cold.
“Nothing, except that he told me to be happy once before. I’m hoping that sentiment may still exist.” Hoping and praying to the Mother it did, this was her last chance. The only remaining chance. Just on the cusp of her immortality with her perfect family only to lose it when it had barely begun. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought.
“Well,” he scrubbed a hand through his hair, pulling strands of red from the long tail he had placed it in tonight, and looking more determined now than he did a moment ago. “I will see what I can do.” He stood and gave her a shallow bow before walking back in the direction she had grabbed him from.
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. Her nerves were jangling around in her body like stones in a bucket. The glass in her hand trembled slightly, drawing her eye as she calmed her heart, the wine rippling on the inside. She set it down on the table more harshly than she meant and stood.
And now we wait, she thought to herself as she placed a smile on her face and made her way back to her mate. Belatedly, she realized she never asked Lucien how he was faring or what he had been up to in the weeks since she had seen him last. She would check in with him again later once he received an answer to her request.
Outside, stars continued crossing the night sky in a steady stream, unconcerned with their fate or the fates of those watching below.
If any fae in Prythian had paid much heed to rumors, they would have noticed a strange pattern appearing as more stories were told and legends were born. Tales of miracles from tight knit villages to growing cities, the meanest hovels to palaces that caught the sun like jewels. In turquoise waters and icy mountaintops fae whispered about incredible things happening, or they laughed skeptically at a story too wild to be believed. There were timely deaths of local villains, or a lucky pause before carriage crashes that would have splattered a fae in the streets, but unless someone was particularly well traveled they didn’t hear about the incidents outside their small territories.
Blessings from the Spring Court, where roses were beginning to bloom despite the neglect they had been suffering in the last year, and how the beast was being tamed as the Ballad of the Spring King was sung in mortal taverns. Belief in his kind, belief in him, the King of Spring himself, that was helping him to heal, and thus his land. The song made its way back across the broken border and the fae remaining there found a returning fondness towards their High Lord who had been such a sorrowful beast following his ruin.
Under the rising sun on the eastern horizon where healers, the best in the land, saved a Peregryn youngling who had been too confident in his soaring and not strong enough to match it. As they knit his bones together and splinted the too soft wings, they could have sworn they saw a silver glimmer among the feathers, but it may have been a trick of the light. Such damage, mentally and physically, should have turned the youngling into a ghost but he recovered swiftly, taking to the skies again months later once his bones were no longer broken.
The most strange occurred in the land of the deepest dark, whose rumors were few and far between. What was heard came from under the mountain of the hidden people, or their opposites who flew through the open sky and felt the warmth of the sun. Countless deaths but all befuddling, none making more sense than the other. Across the Steppes warnings were given of surprise gusts of wind under an icy silver sky and unfortunate Illyrians who turn into one such current and suddenly see branches through their body and wings where there should be none. Friends weep at the loss of their comrade, but wives weep as well. Not tears of sorrow but of relief. A flash of silver catches the light as their anxiety and relief is made liquid and falls onto the cold, unforgiving ground.
Across all Courts similar anecdotes were shared, the unthinkable happening - fae coming back from the brink of death, others dying in ridiculous circumstances. Even human miracles found their way north on occasion, told by the Children of the Blessed who believed and ventured into fae lands to seek out the miraculous magic. Families visited one another and told their kin of what they heard, and soldiers shared stories from home in their racks late at night, and merchants recalled similar happenings in past towns. Each spoken word morphed from truth to myth as it passed from lips to ears across countless places.
The more was shared, the more belief in them grew. Miracles had been few and far between the last half century until the Cursebreaker provided them their salvation. She had been the answer to so many prayers, whispered to the stars or muttered to the earth where the Mother might hear during the Terror. Those prayers had been answered, so why would more not be?
Attendance at temples grew, a trickle at first until the high holidays arrived then congregations flooded with fae and crowds continued coming week after week. Written prayers were left on altars and so many candles were lit inside marble halls in thanks to their goddess that there was a perpetual glow emanating from the doors that were now open every hour to those seeking comfort. Priestesses traveled more, gathering acolytes on their journeys seeking to dedicate themselves now they had proof their Mother had returned.
Or what they thought was proof, if one spoke to the right people and heard the right stories. Many were still rumors to most, and barely heard of at all in the most remote locales where new fae don’t turn up for centuries between visits.
But if anyone had been paying attention and took notes? Merchants would have been the most likely to find the patterns, but they had other things to concern themselves with as they counted their money and made trades, deals, and sales. They bargained and they laughed, slapping backs and arguing jovially as they recounted what they heard most recently, nothing more than a way to pass time in taverns on well traveled roads. They didn’t care about the uptick in miracles or blessings from the Mother that had been missing for so long from their lives.
Shadows, though - they lurked and snuck and hid and seeked, searching for every note that could be brought back to their Conductor. What music they could create as they sought the truth.
The scales align! they hummed.
She rights the ship! they whispered.
In Prythian there were shadows as large as mountains and as small as ants. They touched all as they sought the music, the songs that would make him happy. He would complete the symphony they were building.
He had so much of it written by now!
In the Middle where dark things lived and that caused fear in the hearts of others, in the ridges and valleys surrounding the Sacred Mountain, green things full of life began to bloom for the first time that could be remembered.
Notes:
From here on out it's all IC all the time, and their next stop will be the day of Nyx's birth. It's gonna get rough for them.
Thank you for joining this journey around Prythian and exploring the Courts with me! It felt important to have the last one occur in Night right in the IC's backyard with our spirit saving a forgotten female there. But is Nesta a ghost? Is she the Mother? The shadows think they know...
Chapter 6: The Heir Arrives
Summary:
The child of Night is born.
Notes:
TW: Tokophobia, fear of traumatic birth, body horror.
Nyx's birth is traumatic and described as such. If you wish to avoid, I recommend skipping the first Feyre section (Section 1) and then a little bit of 2, 4, and 5.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Feyre had died once before and while pain occurred when Amarantha broke her bones, at least it was over fairly quickly. The trauma of witnessing the aftermath of her death through her connection to Rhys was also terrible to experience, but still brief. Even gaining back her life along with the abilities of the High Lords hadn’t taken that much time. All told less than a half hour had passed from her death to being reborn as one of the fae. That horrifying day had been far more pleasurable than what she was currently experiencing.
For more than ten hours Feyre had been laboring. Her very bones ached and exhaustion was seeping out of every pore. Soaking hair clung to her face and she was as pale as the sheets that she had lain upon at the beginning of this ordeal. White no more, they were stained a deep crimson. She panted and gasped trying to suck down as much air as she could to halt the burning pain in her lower half. She was being tortured, and the one doing the torturing was the one she had spent nearly the last year loving more than anything else in the world.
It was funny how thoughts could immediately change once faced with enough pain. But she was strong. She could do this. For him.
Another scream broke through her clenched teeth as she pushed. Madja had been trying to use her magic to rotate Nyx in time to her contractions and bring him into the best position for birth. Waves of magic had been flowing over her body, but after so long even Madja was flagging. The pain was seeping through as the healer spent the dregs of her magic on her baby. Different from his kicks and punches that occurred earlier in her term, these full body motions warped her skin, pushing painfully against that thin barrier of muscle and flesh between him and the world.
That was hours ago.
Right now she was feeling her hips snap and crack, the sound loud in her ears. What could have been ages ago she broke at least one rib, maybe two. Even louder than the sound of her bones breaking was Rhysand’s yelling. Soothing with his voice and constant affirmations down the bond when she thought birthing Nyx still felt possible, he had departed her side an hour or more ago as the agony took root. Her mate bawled at his old healer to at least take away Feyre’s pain, and Madja was forcibly holding herself back from throwing the High Lord out of the room. She began ignoring her ruler in order to focus on Feyre but Rhys’ behavior and insistence on being here - even going so far as to using the High Lord’s command - was becoming increasingly distracting.
Madja’s thoughts were shouting into the mental void, shields dropped long ago, which only incensed Rhysand more and made her own head pound.
Another pop of bone, another scream ripped from her. An echoing scream came from Rhysand. She couldn’t do this anymore. She was so tired. She had given everything and been found wanting, and she was going to die. A grief-stricken cry burst from her cracked lips as the weight of that realization hit her. She, her love, and her baby were all going to die.
And to think barely a year ago she had wanted to wait for children. Had dreamed about spending time at Rhysand’s side loving each other, ruling together, creating a better world for the next to come. They had centuries after all. But as soon as she knew of Nyx’s existence all that mattered was him and her mate, her family.
She closed her eyes and thought of everyone she loved. She remembered how she had fought her entire life to survive; the woods, the mountain, the war that came after. Feyre did not accept giving up, she would not fail in this. If she could not save herself, if she could not save Rhys, she would still save Nyx. She would not allow her child to follow them into the endless dark.
Steeling her nerves and accepting her fate enough to get through the next few minutes, she turned to her mate. Her dark savior. “Rhys,” she called, yanking as hard as she could on the bond to get his attention. She pulled and tugged and hauled on that shining thread between them to get him to look in her direction. She needed him. Now.
He turned, deepest grief etched on his face, finally looking at her instead of everywhere else but her as he had taken to doing the last hour. “What is it Feyre darling?” he croaked, giving her a weak smile and drawing himself somewhat together. He came to her side and drew her hands to his chest, thumbs stroking the backs of the tattooed gloves she has grown to love so much.
“I am dying. We are dying, all of us. That is a fact. I can’t do this any longer.” She grunted in pain, tears welling in her eyes yet again before she swallowed and continued. Rhys’s beautiful face blurred and she looked up at the ceiling, trying to blink away the tears. A medallion in gilded plaster at the center of the room. Something for her to focus on. Another wave of pain rolled through her body and she shut her eyes and grit her teeth as it passed.
“I want you to go out into the hall and say goodbye to our family. Give them and yourself this chance. We’re lucky that we can even do that, even if it is terrible we have to.”
“No, I will stay here with you. We will go together as we promised.” His voice broke on the last sentence and he dropped Feyre’s hands to put his head in them, nuzzling against her.
“Rhys, I understand, but I am asking you to do this. We will be fine until you get back. Go,” she said with finality, taking his hand and kissing it. She nodded as he looked at her, tears pouring down both their cheeks. His eyes were the universe, here at the end. Wholly black with spirals and pinwheels, stars turning across galaxies and constellations before dying into vast unending darkness.
She felt his fear, his terror most prominently, but she focused on the night mist. That soothing darkness that calmed her mind, her heart, and her soul. Her mate. Her greatest love.
Rhys stood and walked out the door, turning to her as he opened it. She gave him a small smile and he exited the room.
He had expected pain, and had been in pain before. Had bled and been sliced, stabbed, and slashed a million different ways, and had died for this gods-damned island, but none of that compared to the sustained anguish he was experiencing now. Bones cracking and splitting and shattering as his son, his legacy, entered the world. His ears ringing as Feyre screamed her throat raw and their child clawed his way out of her.
The sound bounced off the wards and back into his head, drowning out the screaming he was doing at himself for being in this situation. To make a bargain like this at the cost of his family and his Court and everything he loved. He had known the bond made him do stupid things but looking back now if he could redo this one action he would have stopped this before it grew out of hand. He knew Feyre meant well, but he should have known better, even if his own plan behind it was sound.
Madja, he called, make it stop. Shield her from this, we cannot bear it.
He leaned against the window, itching to open it and be rid of the smell of iron overwhelming his nose. A grunt came from behind him, then another weak whimper.
I do not have the time or energy to manage you both. What is it?
Take away her pain, I can’t bear to see her suffer.
It is either the pain or your son. I am doing all I can.
Another cry, this time from him as an avalanche tumbled through his bones, the bond expanding and contracting in time with Feyre’s heart sending torrents of agony into his very being. He tried to shrink it back, make it manageable but can’t. He’s so tired and his head is pounding and he can’t accept this fate, not yet. Even when it’s battering down his door to take him away. To take Nyx and Feyre away and leave the Night Court vulnerable.
Madja.
Brown eyes met violet, her hands out as she sent her healing magic into Feyre trying to staunch the flow of blood. Her look filled with dark heat, then she nodded briskly and a brief reprieve arrived from the torment surrounding them, body and soul.
Rhys clamped down on the bond like a vice trying to mask his actual feelings and instead send comfort towards her down the line so she could calm down. If his son was to make it she needed to be more serene than she was now. He was half tempted to drag Mor in here to assist with healing despite his earlier insistence it just be he, Feyre, and Madja. He reached his mind out to her somewhere in the house while he heard voices behind him growing louder.
A hard yank on the bond drew his attention back to the goings-on in the room and he turned around to look at her - her pale, sweating face and her red eyes, the veins having burst hours ago as she pushed and tried to bring Nyx into the world. Her mouth was moving but he could barely hear the words, as if they were underwater, as he went to her and knelt beside the bed.
His own mouth responded but he had no knowledge of what he was saying, the words coming out mechanically as his mind tried to block out the never-ending pain. He held her hands and looked at the tattoos that claimed her, that she belonged to him - their bargains that gave him a link to her mind and soul, the Night Court symbol sitting proud in the center. He dropped his face into her lap and nuzzled her body, awed at all she had given of herself to him, to bring them to this point.
“I will stay here with you…” he heard himself saying but he was far away, his mind panicking at the prospect of death flying towards them on such swift wings. He looked at her, so proud of all she had accomplished in her short life so far. All she had done to make them stronger and more powerful. He sent another ripple of night mist down the bond to her as he nodded and stood to leave.
The walls of the River House echoed. It was too large a space even for their large family which was about to shrink considerably soon. Despite Feyre and Rhys tasteful decorations, it had a stillness to it that felt insincere. Feyre’s paintings along the walls and Rhys’ artifacts and mementos scattered across bookshelves and tables, beautiful bouquets filled the room with dozens of scents, all pleasantly noticeable but not clashing courtesy of Elain. Plush rugs and luxurious fabrics on the furniture, displaying comfort and elegance in equal measure. All a show of opulence and wealth unheard of but as sterile as a museum or temple, no life to the space.
Right now it was dead silent and Cassian could hear his family's heartbeats as they waited outside the birthing room. Loud thumps as fast as rabbits came from each living thing save Amren, though Az and Elain’s were somewhere deeper in the house. Amren’s heartbeat was a heavy drum, never straying from its methodical march forward towards their rulers' impending doom.
Cassian’s own heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest. There were no noises coming from inside the room his High Lord and Lady were in. He understood why, but the silence was deafening. There was no way of knowing how things were going, though they all knew the outcome at this point.
And how had they even gotten to this point?
They had begun fracturing far before this moment, he could see it now as clear as an Illyrian summer sky. First the separation during Amarantha’s rule where they couldn’t help Rhys save the Night Court, then Rhys finding his mate and becoming so focused on Feyre once he’d gotten her back from Spring that everything else had fallen to the wayside. The chaos that ensued trying to prevent the war, and Feyre’s sisters being Made and coming to them. The tensions when Nesta fought with Rhys and the rest of their Circle. The post-war stress that hung over them like a storm cloud through this entire chapter of his life. The cracks had appeared slowly at first then webbed out further and further until the entire illusion was broken, all without his noticing.
And then Nesta…
He shoved the thought away. He had to be here for his brother. For his sister. And for his nephew who he had hoped and prayed to the Mother would survive. Please, at least save him.
Blonde bobbed by his vision as Mor scurried towards the kitchen, off to fetch tea or wine or whiskey under the guise of calm given their current situation. He knew her well enough to see her tells by now, the way her heart beat like a hummingbird and how her voice went overly shrill instead of its usual brightness. A shadow scampered past to follow her down the hall.
Outside the day passed on. Birds flew and swooped towards the Sidra and people continued about their day as afternoon grew to evening grew to night, not knowing the fate of their Court hung in a precarious balance.
He kept reviewing these last months, analyzing them with his strategist’s mind to see a pattern or detail he missed being too stricken to realize. The words Elain had said to him on that hill seemed so far away now, but they had to have meant something. Over and over he turned the days around in his mind, looking at them this way and that, hoping at some point a memory or phrase would come back to him and he could solve the puzzle. Was his broken mating bond the noose around his neck, and his guilt over Nesta the branches he was hanging from? What did the raven mean? Whenever she did speak to him it was always so cryptic.
Rhys had been tense even when he tried to hide it, but that was understandable. He had clung to Feyre too tightly in her danger, and tried too hard to protect her. His brother’s mate had been subdued in the aftermath. She didn’t act quite like the spitfire she had been before when learning Rhysand had lied to her. Again. He distinctly remembered being told of thrown shoes and kicked asses the first few times. The difference from the girl he first met to the High Lady she was now was drastic but he was so lost in his own grief at first he hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t tried to fight him on this. She sought information and tried to push forward anyways. That was like her at least, always looking ahead, stubborn to a fault.
Bonds and nooses, that’s what Elain said. That I was bonded somehow. Well of course he was bonded, he had the marks of several bargains tattooed across his skin. His oath to Rhys to serve and protect, the same for Feyre. What good that did now. His mating bond with Nesta, now withered and dead within him, something he could barely feel anymore, and the bargain tattoo with her vanished from his skin. Various bargains he had made with other fae over the years, some fulfilled and others not. Over five centuries he had lived much, but which was the one that would kill him? It had to be the mating bond, they said males went mad before they succumbed. Maybe his end was coming too, even now all these months later.
Az was distant but was more cryptic than usual when they did see one another. Always frosty, he had become positively glacial since their conversation in Windhaven. Has it been that long since I’ve seen him? Talked to him? He tried to remember what it was about but all he could see in his mind was red and words hanging in the air like bats - sacrifices and miracles and death.
He started pulling away from us after Nesta died… Again he wrangled his thoughts away from Nesta now they were no longer consuming him. Thinking about her wouldn’t help, he needed to be steady for his High Lord and Lady.
Mor and Amren, now the source of their bitterness had been gone for months, were back to their old selves, like they had been a century ago, but still not exactly friends. Neither seemed to give much thought to the changes in their family, not that he expected Amren to. The ancient one had no such cares for what happens in the span of a few measly years, to her Nesta was a mere speck of time in her multiple millenia of life.
He peered towards the kitchen where Mor was clattering around looking for something. Maybe she was making tea. Whatever it was, she was loud doing it in the silent home.
Mor had gone back to her old self in recent months, vivacious and alluring, a beacon of light during these dark times. Her travels back and forth to the continent slowed down considerably as Feyre needed more assistance in Velaris, the request made at Rhys’ insistence. He was glad the two females in his life had one another, true sisterhood if not by blood then by choice. Mor had also fluttered her way back into his life, all touching hands and inside jokes and shining smiles.
And Elain. Elain was lost, whether in grief or her visions. On the cusp of losing both her sisters, to become the last Archeron, she had turned inward. Her eyes grew glassy, her movements automatic, only ever engaging with the Wraiths and even then disappearing as quickly as she was seen. Though she wasn’t here now-
The door burst open with a bang and Rhys stumbled out. His eyes the blackest night, barely any specks of light showing from within, veins of black running under his skin. He laid a hand on the doorframe and turned to shut the door just as Feyre let out a bloodcurdling scream. It thudded as it closed and his heart twisted at his Lady in pain.
What could the Lord of Bloodshed do to protect them from this?
The minute Rhys began to shut the door Feyre screamed again, so thankful for the silencing ward placed before this ordeal started. More cracks sounded from her pelvis as she sobbed. Gripping the sheets with her remaining strength she focused on the feel of sodden silk in her hands instead of her body breaking apart. She opened her eyes to the healer who was still sending waves of magic into her. Madja looked at her with only pity now.
“Madja,” she said breathlessly. “I have been secretly shifting for months.” Another gasp. “I asked Tamlin for help since he is,” she panted, “who I received this gift from.”
Another moan from her lips, another stretch of wing or arm against her skin, more tearing from within.
“I shifted,” she grunted. “Small bits at a time, to try and change my body to make this work.”
When the response from Tamlin came she was shocked he considered sending a reply, let alone agreed to help. His instructions arrived in his childish script with guidance on the best methods of changing specific bones minutely. By altering them a smidge at a time over the course of months she should be able to change just enough by the time Nyx arrived. What no one anticipated was Nyx arriving so much earlier than his already early due date.
Any progress she had made still was not enough. If only she had started earlier. If only she had thought to ask sooner.
Pain barreled through her and a sob tore its way through her throat. She had to be fast, she couldn’t hold on much longer.
“I didn’t shift enough. This won’t work. I want you to save my son.” She stated with as much authority as she could muster. She was High Lady. She could at least command this.
Madja blanched, the stench of fear rising off her in waves. Fear for Feyre or fear from the High Lord’s reaction should he return, she didn’t know, nor did it matter.
“Cut into me and save the future High Lord. Our family will raise him. He doesn’t need to die for our mistakes.”
She was fading quickly, her vision going black around the edges. She had lost so much blood.
“This is my command. Please,” she begged. “Please” she whispered, hoping Madja understood the seriousness of her request. This was it, her final chance to do something good for the world. She had already done so much, let this be the last thing. The ultimate gift she could give.
“Yes, High Lady,” and Madja turned around to prepare her physical tools, having recovered somewhat.
Broken and bleeding in her home, Feyre used her last moments to send as much love to her son as she could.
You are so loved, Nyx. You are born of a great and magical love, a love that saved the world, one they will write stories about. You will grow and do amazing things, and you will make us so proud. I love you, my darling boy. Don’t ever forget that.
As the knife sliced into her abdomen and blessed relief flooded Feyre’s body from all Madja’s remaining magic, Feyre gazed out the window to the night sky she so loved. An eternal galaxy filled her mind, and she rode the wake of a shooting star as it made its way across the never-ending sea of constellations to the ever after.
Opening the door he saw his family waiting, his resolve fading now he was out of that blasted room rank with the smell of death. He leaned against the door frame and another crack splintered through the bond. His sight began to blur as thick black fog crept in along the edges, tunneling his vision to a narrow point straight ahead. Directly in front of him was a vase with Ramiel picked out in precious gems; diamonds marking the sacred stars above the mountain peak among the thousands of sapphires and amethysts that depicted the night sky.
For my mother…
A sharp, painful slice straight across his abdomen nearly brought him to his knees. He stretched his hands out to break his fall and latched into the plinth, tumbling himself and the vase to the ground. His own power writhed and bubbled, the endless dark subsuming his thoughts in an effort to protect him, warping out of his skin in strange patterns. The High Lord’s magic surfaced across his body as stars and thick fog passed over flesh and through his mind. Instantly the pain was gone but it did nothing to stop the horror of being acutely aware of every infinite second that was dying.
This death was nothing like the first, where he had given himself to the Cauldron to save Prythian. He didn’t know if it was because this time the cause was less noble, created out of an ill-considered decision made in the throes of passion, relief, and security following the war instead of selflessness to save everyone. Or maybe this was his punishment for all he had done to protect Velaris, the chaos and destruction he had wrought to keep his starlit city safe.
It didn’t matter. None of that mattered now. He hoped his family would be enough to keep the jewel of the Night Court sheltered until Nyx came of age.
There was babbling in the background, buzzing in his ears as he staggered against the squeezing in his mind. He felt a presence at his side and saw a flash of leathery wing in his vision as someone supported him, half carrying and half dragging him towards one of the couches Feyre had bought when he gave her this home. Embers and sandalwood pushed out the smell of blood in his nose. Cassian.
The babbling he kept hearing in the background turned out to be himself as he narrated all his thoughts out loud to Cassian, too delirious to stay silent. More mist leaked from his body, tiny bits of starlight within the aura as power left him. He felt so weak. Like steam rising after the snowball fight…
Despite the warmth in the room his breath misted as his essence escaped. Not the brisk chill of the night air but frigid like he was on the top of Ramiel in a blizzard.
At least the stars were beautiful from all the way up here.
Cassian launched himself at Rhys to catch him as he staggered through the doorway, lurching towards the wall one moment and then knocking down some ridiculous treasure depicting Illyria the next. It crashed to the floor along with his brother who looked dead on his feet. And who was rapidly becoming more shadow than fae.
“We are dying,” Rhys panted, swiping a hand through his hair as he stumbled and tried to stand straight. No longer even attempting to project any kind of calm. “We are dying and all will be for naught.” He collapsed forward and touched a hand to his head, squeezing his temples as if he could banish the feeling of pain and sorrow using his own magic.
“I can feel the pain. I can feel her body breaking, and mine with it. After everything I’ve done to die like this.” He gasped and Cassian rushed to his side, a soothing hand rubbing circles along his brother’s back. There was no comfort Cassian could give him, no balm to this ache. He would never understand this anguish. Nesta was dead but he hadn’t felt it as it happened. Only the crushing weight of what came after.
“All the planning. The fucking threads. Ready to be pulled.”
Rhys groaned and grit his teeth, his eyes somehow turning blacker. Cassian marveled at it despite the cause, he had never seen his brother like this. He put Rhys’ arm over his shoulder and hauled him up to standing to get him over to the couch. Depositing his brother on the green velvet he bellowed for Mor to come back.
It was terrifying to witness. With Rhys rarely was a stitch ever out of place, he was always picking invisible lint off his clothes, things no one else would ever notice. Now he looked like a troll from the mountains had thrown him down a cliffside and then dunked him in pitch. If he weren’t about to lose his brother and this was after one of their rowdier nights it would be comical.
He knelt in front of his High Lord, his friend, his brother, trying to cut through the fog to get to Rhys to focus on him. Night mist began leaking from his nose, ears, mouth, eyes, everywhere it could, spilling to the floor like tattered ribbons. A shudder went through his brother and Cassian clasped a steadying hand to his shoulder. Tears began to fall, a trickle then a stream as he sobbed over this next loss, too much grief experienced over the last months.
“All for naught,” Rhys whispered again as more mist - at this point more akin to a thick fog - continued to leave his body. Cassian heard a frantic pattern of heartbeats speeding along, not his own but his brother’s heart, which was trying to escape his chest for freedom, to live another day. All this time together, centuries beside him and he was going to lose Rhysand to a foe none of them could fight.
With one last mighty thump, the High Lord of Night’s heart gave its final beat.
In the furthest wing of the palatial home, where the lingering feel of despair wasn’t quite as heavy, the Seer and the Shadowsinger whispered, heads bent together, like a fair ray of morning sun and the opposing midnight fog. Magic fizzed around the smaller one, crackling and popping with nearly limitless energy as her curls bobbed and she shifted from foot to foot. It was dampened and unspent though growing stronger and desperate to escape. Cloaked in shadows the taller hunched over to listen before straightening rapidly then leaning back down again. Wings rustled in irritation and shadows darted back and forth between the figure and the door. The spectrum of blue all in one place, light like the sky on the Seer’s dress and the brilliant cobalt of the Shadowsinger’s siphons, a complementary pair within a room painted in shades of navy and indigo.
When the Seer made herself a small life it was easy for her to go unnoticed, discounted entirely by being so open but unassuming that no one expected anything different than the façade. The Shadowsinger remained cloaked in mystery as he always had been, though he had taken a liking to the dreamy Archeron. Had they considered otherwise and if the Seer had been open to it, she would have made a fine spy if trained at the Shadowsinger’s side. With her visions and his ability to see through corners in the world, they could have unraveled many secrets together.
As it were, the royal family of Night did not care to think much of either of them once out of sight.
The High family and its relations mostly ignored Elain without another thought and she was quickly becoming skilled at collecting whispered comments and casual asides on her own. Her sister’s new family had such loose lips in her presence, always relegating the Seer to the background, someone not to be given much thought. She kept to herself and spent time with the Wraiths, avoiding the conflict that circled this family like ravens, gliding in tighter loops until they came to land. To peck. To feed. An unkindness, they called it, when a group of ravens gathered together. She had learned much from her role in this family. Unkind would only be one of the many words that could be used to describe the High Lord of Night and his Inner Circle, her sister now firmly included in that.
But she bided her time, planting her garden full of beautiful poisons, magically magnified in their potency, and kept listening as conversations in real life and moments from the past, present, and future collided. An elegant porcelain sieve within her mind, delicate patterns of golden petals decorating the sides, beautiful blossoms shimmering with magic, a hundred ways to sift memories and separate the useful from the not. Shaking out the overwhelming number of visions she experienced around as she grew her treasure hoard over the months. To others she still seemed dazed, and she was, with her head in the clouds as current scenes and memories and things yet to come passed by, a misty sheen passing swiftly over her eyes and then retreating. To her she was simply paying attention to more important things, for the first time in what she could now understand would be her very long life.
If any fae had paid attention, they would have noticed her become more adrift following her sister’s banishment and eventual demise, wandering in her grief alone. In truth, Elain was not keen on letting something similar happen to her and pulled back, remaining out of sight and out of mind. She had remained hidden and patient but the time for waiting seemed to be coming to an end. The hold she kept on the sieve in her mind had been rattling more and more, visions drifting down like sugar on a cake, more rapidly as time moved on. More clearly too.
The Seer’s sister, the one who had passed through the veil, was a prominent subject. Lady Death was often seen in different Courts, places she never could have been given their limited time in Prythian. She was there walking barefoot through the tidewaters along Summer’s shore or curled up in a squashy chair on the porch of a quaint cabin in the middle of a meadow. Other times she was a bonfire, roaring flames of icy silver erupting and extending towards the sky. Sometimes she glimpsed her with another woman, talking or bickering. All the same, Elain was both pleased and pained by what she saw and knew her sister was somewhere better than the world she had left that had broken her spirit so much.
So she baked and gardened and sifted and shopped for her incoming nephew, and she sifted some more. Unseen. Unnoticed.
The Shadowsinger also sought knowledge, more specifics of the tales his shadows whispered to him, growing in frequency over recent months. Miracles of the Mother, they were being called. Tall tales of the Mother herself walking the land, appearing as needed to save someone from death or bring them towards it, depending on the circumstances. Answered prayers for fatal wounds in need of healing or safe passage to the land of milk and honey, the rise in ritual sacrifices matching the rise of miraculous recoveries from the brink of death. Stories of tormentors being brought down, oftentimes with righteous violence, in the name of justice for those ignored by their High Lords. Others of easy passing for fae who had been too ill for too long. Infrequent at first but now he knew the signs for there was a flood, new things happening near weekly that his shadows picked up in their travels. Each story with one very specific detail mentioned, too prominent in all to not be a thread tying each together.
In addition to these miracles, their own land was shifting and changing as well.
Rare fae and magical creatures were walking the world again, and not the First Gods they had dealt with before. Just as old but things that became myths told as bedtime stories instead of cautionary tales. Neither benevolent or cruel but powerful, fueled by the growing magic in the air and through the ground. Once the sea fae of the deep made their presence known following the rites of the great Vily, other Court fae long thought extinct started appearing. Petal pixies within the Spring Court, no bigger than a thimble that flew about on gossamer wings, pollinating flowers and growing ones not seen in tens of thousands of years. Towering Fyremunn in Autumn, called the first sparks of life by old believers who were told stories by their ancestors millenia ago, seen striding through the forests, burning old growth on the floor to clear the way for new, a stream of new perpetual decay following in their wake. Now a different High Lord reigned, the magic was stronger and more in tune with Autumn than celebrating Calanmai could ever hope to give. In Dawn ancient Sunbloods, powerful golden horses with manes of brilliant orange flame, could be seen charging across the plains, chasing the sun as it made its way across the sky.
Nothing Azriel could find informed him of why all this was happening or why now. The only scrap was that none of these occurrences happened before Nesta died, only after and with growing frequency. Somehow, all of this was connected to her death. Despite how many conversations he’d had with Rhy it was still a mystery. It wasn’t a training accident, he knew that. Instead he had a theory, a ludicrous one, but was terrified of what it may mean. What would happen to his family and Prythian if he was right.
If the Inner Circle ever tried to engage with the Shadowsinger anymore, they would have noticed him pulling back to the dark corners. His reports had grown more frequent but also more terse, providing the necessary information in meetings but reported on with such disrespect he hoped to draw the High Lord back out instead of the paranoid father he had been recently. He still did his job, but his focus shifted to these mysteries and whether he should even draw Rhys in given their current situation.
So he waited, and he gathered more secrets and listened to his shadows and his spies as more oddities occurred across the courts.
When it became too much and when the family was too distracted to notice, the Shadowsinger sought out the Seer and told her what he knew in hopes that her abilities would shine a light on the dark. And she told him what she Saw, to try and find a way.
“Nesta has to be involved somehow? All of my visions show her in different Courts. All of them,” she paused and her eyes flitted to the door. Not quite closed with only a sliver of space for the stream of shadows to slip through and the pair to hear movement from the hall if needed. “All the time,” she finished quietly.
She looked towards the Shadowsinger, a small furrow between her brows. “But I rarely see her with people.” A lie. The Seer did see her sister with one female in particular.
“Maybe you see different things.”
She raised a brow, waiting for him to be less cryptic.
A brow raised back in return, he continued “You’re her sister. Maybe you see her in more…familiar ways.”
“I suppose that could be it. She’s usually living a life of simplicity when I see her. In a way she never could before. Most of the time at least.”
“And none of the scenarios I described sound familiar to things you’ve Seen?”
“It’s not always precise, you know,” Elain snapped. She crossed her arms and turned towards the wall, shoulders hunching in the tiniest amount. A painting of Velaris hung directly in front of her, the Rainbow at twilight, the sky a bruise brightened with winking stars. Considering, she added, “They could be the same though. Sometimes they’re clear. Getting clearer at least”
Azriel stepped towards her, cloak of shadows fanning out behind him with a few more scurrying towards the cracked door. This wasn’t enough for him to build from, he needed something more tangible to confirm his theory.
“And?”
“Well we knew her power was Death, and what you’re implying makes it sound like this silvery female of wonder causes, well. A lot of it.”
“You’ve seen her killing people in your visions then.”
“No!” Elain flinched, horrified. “I only ever see her doing normal things,” she shrugged, “except for the bonfires.”
“What bonfires.” Azriel took another step forward, less menacing this time. He opened his hands in submission, placating her worry. Could this be the clue he needed?
Elain eyed him critically, then angled towards the painting again, eyeing the bookshelf with its baubles and leather bound tomes. She made a grim profile in the low light.
“Sometimes there’s a silver bonfire. It doesn’t look like her but I know it’s her.” She briefly touched the bracelet on her left wrist, the Shadowsinger marking it to ask about later - nervous habit or nostalgic memory?
“When she’s a pillar of fire,” Elain started, voice halting, trying to gather the best words to describe these particular visions of her older sister. Already so much of what had been said about Nesta was hearsay, she didn’t want to add to other’s opinions especially now her older sister wasn’t here to defend herself.
“When she’s a bonfire, usually one of the people she’s with vanish.” She looked back towards Azriel then picked at the pleats in her skirt. “She doesn’t kill them but they… disappear.”
Azriel tilted his head, as if he could pick up new information by hearing it through another angle. Maybe find a new path forward by changing his perspective. Though he didn’t say a word, he asked her to continue with the curiosity behind his eyes.
“It doesn’t happen frequently. Sometimes her fire feels gentle and other times it’s a frenzy, consuming everything around it.”
Her information was a touch more evidence behind the Shadowsinger’s theory. Nesta may be the reincarnation of Death. And somehow it was also tied to the ancient fae returning from wherever they had gone. That might be trickier to solve but he had a beginning.
Elain fiddled with the bracelet some more, silent and unseeing. Or at least not seeing the world immediately in front of her.
The Shadowsinger took in a deep breath before saying “I think Nesta is Death reborn and she woke Prythian up when she died.”
Brown curly hair fanned out as Elain spun to face him, the hand at her wrist flying up towards her throat and her eyes wide, confusion behind them as she took in what Azriel was saying. “What? Why would you say that!”
“I need you to help me with-”
Before the Shadowsinger could continue, a horrifying scream came from the opposite end of the house. Immediately the shadows within the space flew out the door, rushing to see what had happened.
The Seer ran after them, not sparing a glance back to Shadowsinger who had collapsed to the soft carpet at the same exact time as the screaming began. As Elain hurtled her way down the corridor and through doorways, he groaned on the floor, hands glued to his head. As her heart broke knowing what happened but praying she was wrong, his mind broke like a shattered sword. As she sped up, running down the hall and urging her stronger fae legs to carry her faster and faster, he gasped as a striking headache formed right at the base of his skull, his mind ringing like a bell.
Though she could See much, the scene before her was not something she had been shown as she came upon the source of terror within the home. Morrigan on the floor next to the too-still body of Rhysand, screaming at the loss of her cousin, body shaking violently. Cassian, also on the floor but curled up with his own hands around his head gripping his hair too tightly, wracked with some kind of pain she saw no source for. In the corner of the room Amren was backed against a wall, actual shock displayed on her face instead of the cool indifference she normally wore.
Her sister. To her all that mattered was her sister.
She leapt over the lump that was the High Lord, slamming against the door to his room, demanding entry to see her little sister, to see Feyre. Elain was ferocious and incessant in pounding her fists against the door; gone was the simpering flower, she punched and kicked like a wild thing until the barrier finally gave way and she toppled inside. So much blood. A small cry coming from the corner somewhere but nothing mattered except the body on the bed. The lifeless body on the bed.
Her baby sister, the High Lady of Night, was gone already, glassy eyes staring out the window onto the night sky. She had been alone. Elain hadn’t been there for her in those final terrifying moments. The monster that invaded their lives took that from her. Wooden legs backed her out of the tableau of horror, bumping against the door frame as she exited the room. Her mind was racing and her own magic was pulsing faster and faster, strong and steady as a drum, and then the world went blissfully vacant for the Seer of the Night Court as sobs were torn from her lungs.
A handful of shadows returned to the Shadowsinger, still on the floor in the blue room, bringing terrible news.
Corners and alcoves and hidden paths abound in this home. So large and filled with many objects that cast shadows big and small for them to run and hide and play and whisper in. They could dart behind books and leap up into candelabras, they could skip along crown moulding and fly down staircase bannisters. So many places to murmur and dance and sing within, all calling back to their Conductor. So many things could be found in these places. So many secrets.
One shadow circled a bedpost, looking down on the corpse of the Cursebreaker, so fragile and small in death when she had been so vivacious in life, at least at the beginning when they first started following her. She had been slippery and crafty and they had fought hard to chase her those first few months. They knew to make sure she was safe before she even knew they were following her. Easier when she was round and slow. Even easier now she was still. The shadow dove down and wove through damp hair, slithered across sheets bathed in copper and iron.
The Cursebreaker is broken! it keened.
A rush of blue swished by and a speck of shadow bounced along the ruffles as it made its way out of the door of the room filled with blood and rancid fear. It escapes quickly as the blue waves collapse in a puddle just outside the barrier after letting out a heart wrenching wail. The noise is loud and shrill and it smells of despair and salt as tears flow. The Seer is now alone in the world when before she was part of a trinity.
A large shadow hid behind a curtain elsewhere in the home, trembling with fright at the cries of anguish coming from the room in front of it. The Shining One screamed and screamed and nails tore open her beautiful face. The Lord of Bloodshed curled around a corpse, his body shaking as he tore his hair and beat his wings so forcefully the air moved the curtains, shaking the shadow’s hiding spot. It peeked out then buried itself in thick fabric again as the Ancient One stepped back against the wall, strangeness wafting off her in droves. It curled further back into the hollow made by the drape of the curtain, scared. It did not like this room and its pain. The smell of suffering and sadness. The feel of cloying air, hard for it to move around in.
The Nightmare has ended! it wailed.
The last shadow in the room of blood and sweat crawled up a lamp and jumped to a statue covered in gems of every size and shape, then journeyed to a chair and crept up the back towards the bed. It circled higher and higher and up and up and up until it reached the top. Balancing on the back it looks and squints and sees it, a small and squishy thing that doesn't look much like a fae. The shadow nestles closer to the hair of the Healer in the chair holding the child - yes, a baby - of power.
The being opens its eyes of blue and looks at the shadow. The shadow looks back.
It waits.
And waits.
And waits.
And waits.
The door opens and closes but the shadow does not see what it has been waiting for so patiently. It does not have the melody to sing to the Conductor that he had been expecting.
The shadow does not see what it expects to find within the babe. It does not see the new High Lord.
Notes:
Happy birthday, Nyx.
If you skipped the recommended sections, they covered Feyre and Rhys' thoughts while Nyx was being born (in an extremely painful and terifying way) and while they're actively dying.
What do you think of Az's theory? How about Elain's visions?
And perhaps the biggest question of all, who is the new High Lord?
Chapter 7: Welcome to the After
Summary:
Feyre and Rhysand meet their makers. Chaos reigns at the River House.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In the rest of the land that made up the Night Court, its citizens slept underneath an inky black sky and dazzling pinpricks of light, the mountains dark shadows against the horizon. Stardust sparkled among the heavens, a pearlescent luster illuminating the sky from within, giving it more depth than the flat black used in so many paintings. Instead it was a blend of pinks and purples streaking across the sky, highlighting constellations and showcasing them to the lowly beings down below, who could only look up in return to wonder and wish. On the remote islands in the east where the odd Illyrian family ignored their local fisher family counterpart and vice versa, their night sky was a few hours away from a new dawn that began its approach on the horizon. In the camps of the winged warriors across the sharp mountains and gusty steppes of Illyria they celebrated into the early morning under the three holy stars above Ramiel, shouting their new status to the celestial bodies above, their titles in honor of those blessed points of light in the vast unending dark, there to help guide their way home. Hidden within the central mountains, the areas too remote for anyone but secretive clans, the fae of the mountain murmured prayers of thanks to the Mother for their reluctant leader, who brought them safely through another winter, seeking out the constellations that comforted them. The fae trapped under the mountains in the Hewn City, as punishment eternal, saw no stars at all, only carvings and gems in an inadequate mimicry of what they desperately wished to view.
At this hour, most of the fae who inhabited the northernmost Court of Prythian were unaware that Night Triumphant and the Stars Eternal had seen their last moonrise, and would instead wake to a new day as they would any other.
Down the mountains and down the river in Velaris the fae that lived in the shadow of the High family’s manor were woken up by the sound of glass shattering, magnified to a deafening roar, as the wards around the River House broke into bits. A gusty wind swept out from the home towards the nearby buildings, blowing leaves and rubbish further into the neighborhood, but aside from the noise, nothing seemed amiss and those who woke fell swiftly back to sleep, hopeful for several more hours of rest before the day began.
Inside the palatial residence, the earlier silence was a figment of memory, for now it more closely resembled a den of chaos. The thick tension of an hour before had been lost to screams and shouts, enough blood for a battlefield, and two more dead family members whose loss the residents hadn’t even begun to acknowledge, let alone grieve.
The last Archeron lay on the floor in the hallway, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm and fingers twitching every so often, forgotten in the chaos occurring steps away from her. She was not a concern to the inhabitants of the home right now, not when the one they truly loved their entire lives was gone. They ignored her where she lay, not seeing the pearly mists covering her eyes or the way her lashes fluttered. Her lips moved and hushed tones came out, fragments of gibberish that were nothing more than the whisper of silk against skin.
“The mountain is hers…”
“The tapestry begins to fray…”
Clouds of yellow, blue, and pink swirled in her eyes. Whatever the Seer was watching, the only thing visible in hers were the neverending shift of colors that couldn’t exist without magic. The sheen of it could be seen within them, shimmering along and catching the light.
“Blood of night and stone…”
In the background Cassian was bellowing and Morrigan was doing her best attempt at soothing him but none of that reached Elain. Though she could not see them she knew that Cassian was holding the Master of Dark’s body to his chest, huge wracking sobs torn from him, being ripped from his very soul. She also knew Morrigan had bloody lines down her face from her sharp nails tearing the skin in her anguish. Somewhere beyond them Amren’s scent came towards her, something sharp and metallic that could have been fear if it wasn’t coming off the ancient creature.
Elain knew all of these things without needing to see them, because for the first time since splashing out of that thrice-damned Cauldron she could finally See.
Her magic was unbound. Still frightening, yes, but no longer the terrifying power she had to seize into submission only to barely understand it once she did. Instead it was a force she gave way to, still overwhelming in the sheer amount but so much clearer. The fog of her mind that kept her lost and scared in the visions was gone, and oh, could she See. There was so much.
It was overwhelming.
“Will the new guardian survive…”
Elain watched memory and destiny meld together behind her eyelids. It would take much time to sort through the current sweeping around her. What was before a sprinkle of rain on a spring morning that had become a steady rainfall since Nesta’s accident, now her visions were a sea storm battering the coast, like one of the ones her father used to tell stories of.
“We must watch the night sky…”
Elain smiled, eyes still blinded to whatever past or future occurred within her mind. The watercolor of her eyes continued to shift, a beautiful moment of peace in the chaos.
Feyre opened her eyes to see lush trees above her with rustling leaves, chattering squirrels hidden in the branches, and a blue sky with wispy clouds further up. She blinked twice to clear her head but her vision wasn’t failing her.
The last thing she remembered was looking at Rhys, her incredible mate, and his eyes made of stars. Him trying to soothe her terror as his own washed down the bond like a tidal wave. She took her final fill of Night Triumphant as her babe was ripped from her womb before journeying to the land of milk and honey. Despite all that had happened between them the last few months, in the end she took her refuge in him once again. She was glad she wouldn’t have to be in a world without him, she’d already lost too much in her short life so far.
This must be the afterlife then, whatever that actually meant for fae. This does seem peaceful so far. Where is Rhys? Rolling to her knees to gain her bearings she found she was in a large forest. A strangely familiar forest, though it looked muted somehow. If she were to paint it, she’d try to make it seem that some of the color and clarity had bled from the world, layering a thin swipe of grey spread over the canvas on top of the finished image. She couldn’t possibly be…
She was in the forest surrounding the cabin. This was her eternal land of milk and honey? Being trapped in her human past, a time she tried so very hard to forget? She turned in a circle to be sure but cauldron boil her, she was in the forest where she hunted. This was wrong.
Standing up, her threadbare hunting clothes hung loose on her body, and she could feel every rock beneath the worn soles of her shoes. Her bow and quiver rested against an old oak along with a water skin. A breeze with a touch of chill ruffled her hair and the sunshine was pleasantly warm, meaning it had to be late spring. It had been her favorite time back when she was human, when game would soon become plentiful.
“I thought it fitting to have this conversation with you here, at the place where your monumental journey began,” came a voice from behind her. She whirled around, stretching a hand towards her bow before freezing.
A beautiful woman stood before her. A face similar to her mother’s but more ethereal, more fae-like. The same planes of her face, the same wave to her hair, the hair she and her sisters all shared. This female’s hair was silver though, which gleamed like moonshine and fell in thick curtains to her waist. A woven band of gleaming precious metal rested on her head, strands of pearls and priceless gems draping down beneath her chin stretching from ear to ear. She was also much taller than Feyre, slimmer too - as if her limbs had been stretched just a little too far. The eyes though, the eyes were silver discs that faintly shone as the being’s gaze fell upon her. No pupils or irises. Just flat silver.
“Mama? How are- I didn’t think I would ever see you again!” she cried, lurching towards her mother as sobs tore through her. She wrapped her arms around the beings’s waist, feeling much like she did the last time she had hugged her mother as a child as the being’s arms circled her. “I tried Mama, I tried to protect them and keep them safe.”
“I know you did Feyre, but I am not your mother,” the being said while stroking her hair. Feyre sniffled, thoughts vanishing as she leaned back to look up. But she looked just like her…
“I am not your mother but I am a mother. The Mother. All creatures on Prythian are my children,” the being soothed and cupped her face between her hands, brushing her thumb along Feyre’s cheek. “Come. There’s quite a lot I would like to speak with you about.”
The Mother abruptly turned and started walking away. Feyre looked after her for a moment then back at her surroundings before jogging to catch up. “So this is what happens after you die? It’s different than last time,” Feyre asked as she took another look at this silver goddess that so resembled the women of her family. She gestured towards their green forest around them.
“Because you are truly dead this time. This is your After. Each creature has their own version of what they deserve following the end. It is tailored to you based on what you have accomplished in your life.” The Mother stepped over a root and held her hand out. Feyre bristled at the offer and did not take the help.
“Where is Rhys then? He should have come with me. And Papa?” Feyre asked. Once upon a time she imagined her perfect life would be her and her father, where she could paint all day and live quietly. Could that have only been a few years ago? And Rhys would never abandon her, not in their first life or the next.
“As I said, this will be a long conversation before you continue your journey. I would like to start at the beginning, and what better place than here. Where your life changed course so significantly that it rippled across the world.” The being lifted the hem of her dress and turned, bare feet picking carefully across the forest floor to go sit on a rock.
With nowhere else to go Feyre sat down on the mossy ground and crossed her legs, for all the world feeling like a child about to settle in for a story. It reminded her of one of their nannies, from back when they had wealth to afford such things, the only thing missing was one of her sisters. The being smoothed her skirts, cleared her throat a little, and began.
“Had you not crossed paths with a fae disguised as a wolf that day, you would have lived a perfectly ordinary life. You would have continued hunting and trying to keep your family together. Nesta would have been engaged and married to the Mandray boy quickly, one less mouth for you to feed but dead in less than five years by his hands. Elain would not have met the young Lord Nolan, but instead a merchant’s son who would romance her during the spring and fall fairs each year and whisk her away after seven visits. Your father would have taken ill years later during a particularly harsh winter and died shortly after, though mostly painlessly. And you? You would have saved enough coin from your kills to move to a larger town and work as a hunter, using your spare time to paint, and you would sell art during local markets along with your meat and pelts. Once you were no longer fighting to survive every day you became gentler, kinder, and would dabble in love sporadically until finding a good person who cared for you and loved you with great joy. It would have been a fine life. But that’s not what happened is it?”
Feyre blinked at what could have been had she never shot the fae-wolf. What was his name? The being across from her furrowed her brow at something while Feyre thought. Compared to what she had lived through already, what her life was like now as High Lady, this other life sounded so plain. The Mother was right, it would have been perfectly ordinary. Boring.
“Since you did kill Andras though, ripples that started with you turned into waves that rocked the world. That one decision had impacts larger than you could have possibly imagined. Tell me, what do you remember of the cabin?” The Mother stared at her with surprising intensity given the gentle tone of her voice.
“Well, we struggled-” Feyre stuttered, unsure of the direction this was going. “I tried to keep us alive, keep us together, but it was hard. Nesta and Elain, they didn’t understand, with their heads in the clouds thinking we were okay or our things would improve. I tried to get them to come with me but they never did. And Papa was in so much pain. I had to do something, I had to keep us alive,” she finished, thinking back on the promise she made to her mother on her deathbed.
“Why was that not your father’s job?” the Mother asked, tilting her head like a bird as those silver eyes bore through her. The strands of jewels danced against her jaw.
“Because, because he was hurt, he couldn’t…” Feyre blanked, not understanding why this mattered. Her father had tried but he was a victim of awful people, of course he couldn’t keep them safe. He was devastated by the loss of their former life and his terrible injury, his sadness rendering him immobile just as much as the pain from his poorly healed leg.
“Couldn’t what? He may not have been able to physically protect you but he had skills to be used. He may never have been able to reach the status you once held to be sure, but he could earn enough of a living to care for you and your sisters. Moved you out of that village to teach, manage accounts, do bookkeeping. Any number of things.” A bird trilled in the distance, its partner calling back as Feyre pondered this. She had always thought her father had tried other options but had never asked. Why would she have needed to consider it when she was a child? No, he would have tried everything, there just wasn't that kind of work available. No one to try and help them.
“What of your sisters, what were they like then?” The Mother continued staring at her, blinking rarely as the minutes crawled along and the forest continued to whisper around them.
“They were-” a pause. “Well they were selfish. They could have helped me hunt but they didn’t. Always asking to use the money on useless things. Seeds or new clothes or paint. We needed food so that’s what I bought.” Feyre huffed, still bitter thinking back on that time in the cabin. How it felt to be hungry and feel pinched, her stomach squeezed too tight. Able to count her bones. She crumpled a leaf in her fingers. “But they did care about me sometimes. Elain would braid my hair, and Nesta would tell us stories she remembered.”
Feyre hadn’t thought of those moments in ages, having blocked out as much from the cabin as she could by now. While she had forgiven her sisters since then she hadn’t forgotten how little help they were when it was needed most.
“I believe they did other things to keep your home whilst you were gone all alone in the woods,” the other female whispered, her breath cool against Feyre’s skin as she leaned in.
Suddenly Feyre was back in a memory, but not one she recognized. Nesta and Elain were before her in the cabin, finishing various chores as they moved about. Gods they were young, this must have been not too long after Feyre began hunting. Nesta was in the kitchen chopping something green to put in a pot, a tiny pile of meat beside her, and Elain was sitting next to their father by the small fireplace darning a sock, a larger pile of more clothes to be mended at her feet. She blinked and another scene appeared. Elain was sweeping the hearth and scooping the ashes into a small pan, then taking it outside to scatter across the ice on the path to melt it and at the table Nesta was making jars of winterberry preserve for their stores. Another flash and here was Nesta chopping wood, clothes hanging on the line behind her and Elain making bouquets, turning the few blooms she could coax out of the ground into fragrant works of art, scraps of fabric from torn clothing acting as ribbons. In each moment her father sat like a statue before the fire, the only motion from his hands as he fed chips from his carvings into the flames.
The Mother turned to the side, taking her view off Feyre for the first time since this conversation began. “Who ought to have taken all your ire?”
A sinking feeling appeared in her gut. She had never considered that. She was gone in the woods all day checking traps and stalking game. She’d leave at dawn and be home at dusk, she never really knew what they did except for the days they were trapped inside by storms and at each other's throats, their frustration with her just as evident as hers with them. The more she thought the more regret filled her bones as she realized her clothes had always been cleaned and patched. The food stores were stocked and organized when they got lucky and could buy more. Elain’s flimsy garden, while unable to produce food, had sometimes grown enough blooms to sell small bouquets in the spring and fall. That must have been where she would meet her merchant’s son. Feyre had never given one single thought to her sister's daily lives while she was in the forest alone. Shame creeped into her skin.
“Do not worry child, you were young then and knew little else except how to survive each day. Your world expanded when you were brought beyond the Wall.” Those silver eyes flashed back to her and Feyre flinched a bit. “What were those first months like for you?”
Feyre gave it honest thought, the memories hazy. “Terrifying, at first. I was so angry and worried, and a little homesick,” she admitted. At first Spring had been terrifying, everything so foreign after being kidnapped by a monster. As she thought further though she realized after weeks of her initial escape attempts those moments had been fleeting compared to what came after. Tamlin had been kind, although it felt strange to think that. He asked if I wanted to learn how to read, she suddenly remembered. But she had snapped at him about it. Then later the moment at the Starlight pool, and riding with him across the Court, dancing around a fire…
“I eventually liked parts of it. The freedom to be a little bit wild. But that had come later…” she petered out, remembering Calanmai. Fearing Tamlin after what had happened to her in the forest, afraid he would claim her and rip her to pieces in the process. That moment in the hallway still made her shiver.
“Other things happened that night too. You met your mate that night.” For the first time the Mother looked angry, the silver in her eyes flashing slightly. Her jaw was tight and the forest went silent, like the quiet before a storm. The word mate had been bitten off, like it physically pained the Mother to say it.
Feyre leaned back from the new hostility but the Mother leaned closer, asking her “Do you remember?”
Feyre closed her eyes and nodded her head weakly as the Mother cupped her cheek yet again.
Another memory but worse this time, violent. It was still dim like the forest they were in, this other memory. She was shown images of herself meeting the most handsome man she had ever seen, but from the perspective of a bird sitting on a branch. She felt the fear that washed over her as three fae prowled closer and Rhys drew them back. That fear lingered when she saw him even though he had saved her. She shook her head violently and was brought back to the forest.
“No, it wasn’t like that, that’s wrong,” she murmured, but she couldn’t be sure.
The Mother smiled sadly and reached towards her again to press fingers to temple while saying “That was not the only time your paths crossed before you journeyed under the mountain.”
Again she was yanked into memory; staring at a head with the Night Court symbol on it piked to a fence, calming a male fae with his wings ripped off as he died, hiding behind Lucien then twisting in pain as her mind was delved into, Tamlin groveling on the floor. Rhysand had wanted to break her mind, shatter it into a thousand tiny pieces. He had joked about it. Why did she not remember?
“Knowing what you know now, why would your mate,” again the word was spat, “do that? Didn’t he want the curse to be broken? Wouldn’t he be free to return to Velaris and his family if he hadn’t scared you? Let the seed of love you felt for Tamlin bloom? Saving Tamlin was the last chance at saving Prythian,” the Mother asked and placed her chin in her palm. “I’d be curious to hear his reasons.”
She was waiting, waiting for Feyre to respond as those flat silver discs continued to stare into her soul.
No, Rhys had to do it, that was the cost of protecting the Night Court. Amarantha would have killed her, did kill her when she thought she was Clare. But it didn’t fit. Rhys was a powerful daemati. Would Amarantha have known if he said nothing? Could she have stayed with Tamlin and broken the curse? She had felt something for him, had it been enough to be love? But then she wouldn’t be with Rhys, she considered next. It filled her with less joy than usual.
“I hope you’re paying attention, child. We still have much to cover.” The Mother stood and dusted off her dress, motioning for Feyre to stand as well. Pulling herself together after her brief display of emotion, the silver in her eyes dimmed a little as she said her next words. “We need to discuss the mountain next.”
No Feyre thought. No no no nonononono. Her breath was short, her lungs were compressing, her limbs were trembling and she opened and closed her mouth like a fish. I can’t think about that place.
With that, Feyre blacked out.
Curled against his lifeless brother’s body, wings hanging limp against the floor, the General of the Night Court grit his teeth against the pain, and moaned long and loud, the sound coming out more like the grumble of a massive bear. The tears that had rushed out of him made way for shallow breaths and tightened fists in his brother’s jacket, holding him close. Cassian’s head was pounding, a splitting headache emanating from the very base of his skull that felt like the clash of sword against shield over and over and over again. Whatever noise he was making was entirely involuntary and the clanging in his mind grew only louder. He knew somewhere in his periphery Mor was screaming and he smelled her blood but the swords were so loud, they were so loud.
He pulled Rhys close as he curled tighter in on himself, one hand going to his brow in a futile effort to quiet down the sound.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Why was it so fucking loud, he needed Mor to be quiet, his head was aching. The scent of Mor’s blood was getting stronger.
“Mor…”
He had to stop those fucking swords, Mor could help, she was always able to help when he needed someone, and she was always willing.
“Mor, I…”
He felt a small hand on his shoulder, trying to draw him off his brother, not wanting to let him go, he couldn’t be gone like this.
“Cassian let him go,” the hand squeezed but the voice was too high pitched, she sounded wrong and she smelled of copper. She was supposed to sound like sunlight. She was supposed to smell like citrus and cinnamon.
Another anguished groan came out of him rising into a low roar, his nerves finally cracking after the day they had. The pressure was building behind his eyes and he squeezed his fists, pushing them down into the floor, bruising the knuckles.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
“Mor, winnow me,” he ground out, body straining with tension against everything.
“What- what are you talking-“
“Winnow me!”
“Cassian, we can’t- why-“
“WINNOW ME MOR!”
The hand tightened, the nails digging in with a sharp intake of breath, and they squeezed into the ether.
They reappeared high above the River House, of a height with the House of the Wind, that empty tomb relegated only to Court matters and public hearings once again. He was so startled he let go of his brother and snapped his wings out. Mor winnowed away with Rhys as soon as he dropped his grip.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
For the second time that year Cassian’s boiling pot of grief and rage now coupled with confusion and those infernal fucking swords bubbled over and exploded out of him. Waves of deadly Illyrian power soared harmlessly over the city as he began his free fall back to the ground.
As he looked up at the night sky over the home he loved, he wished the people he loved the most were able to see it.
Upon his entry to the land of milk and honey Rhysand found neither item, nor his mate or son. Instead, he was face to face with a bloated corpse, flesh hanging loosely from a cheekbone and one eye missing from a socket. Beneath him was a squishy mass that he could only assume was more bodies though he hoped to be wrong. He was barely able to turn his head or move his limbs under the crushing weight, so instead he reached his mind out to see if anything around him was alive.
Feyre. Nyx.
Wherever they were he had to get them first, he had to get them out of here if they were also trapped, but all was silent. Terrible, echoing silence. After centuries of being able to hear every thought in his vicinity, feeling everything from his Court, and recently having Feyre's presence perpetually nestled in the forefront of his mind, he found himself deeply unsettled by the hollowness inside him, a sharp contrast to the sheer number of fae he was surrounded by, even if they were dead. Always there had been a buzz in his head despite the mental shields he kept locked tight every hour of every day whether it was his power droning or voices hissing. He supposed the quiet was to be expected. The dead don’t talk, as they say.
So, Rhysand found himself climbing his way upwards through the middle of a mountainous pile of bodies in near silence. What he at least hoped was upwards.
It was too tight for him to make substantial progress with so many limbs tangled together like a thicket, barring his access to fresh air above. The occasional fly flew silently past or some foul liquid that stung his nostrils would drip onto him as he made achingly slow progress through the corpses. He would shift a body here which would only cause another to slip into its place negating what little distance he crawled. Repeatedly he had to stop and rest, exhausted by the physicality of digging through hundreds of bodies that felt like sacks of wet sand. Gases hissed and he could hear groans from the weight moving elsewhere as the waves of his actions spread. Once he went to grab a leg above him and his hand sank through rotten skin and muscle clear to the bone. Later he used a rib to haul himself upwards. It was a miserable, laborious process.
He would have liked to mist the bodies away, even if doing so would run the risk of destroying his family if they were indeed here. After another hour he found he didn’t much care as it felt like he had made no progress at all to the sliver of light far above. His arms were shaking and he was dripping in sweat, but he continued climbing. He moved a small leg out of his way, gaining purchase on an armored body beneath him for stability. He pushed aside a wing blocking another gap where he could rest, the intervals between stasis and movement growing longer every stop. Though he tired, he did not hunger; the stench and feel of his surroundings prevented his appetite despite his strenuous efforts. The hours continued crawling by, just as he continued crawling upwards.
Blessedly, he finally broke free at the summit, shoving aside the body of an urisk and breathing in cleaner air, taking deep lungfuls in. Lifting himself just a bit further he pushed over the lip of the hole he came from and fell flat on his back against a broad torso from a mountain giant. He closed his eyes and lay there, thanking the Mother to finally be out. He was loathe to get up again but he had to know more and find his family. Pushing up on his elbows, he tried to take in his surroundings but couldn’t see much in the dim light.
The fleshy wreckage he just crawled through was indeed a pile of bodies, but not a mountain like he imagined. There had to be tens of thousands of them stretching before him in the deep chasm, hundreds of paces wide and going beyond his vision to his left and right. He could spot High and lesser fae alike, elderly to small younglings, and various soldiers from Hybern and Prythian based on the armor that glinted in the mass of decaying flesh. Humans too, though he didn’t know why, humans in huge quantities scattered around. He caught a shock of white in his peripheral, a small Winter child staring up with frozen eyes. When he saw the last, a sharp jolt went through him.
He shook his head, Feyre and his son, he had to find them. He knew they should be here with him since he was unable to break the bargain before Feyre succumbed to her fate, before he followed along. Dragging himself over dead fae once more to the rock ledge a dozen or so feet away, he tried to take in more of his surroundings. Walls striped with veins of grey stone and dim fae lights seeped from sconces at the far end of the cavern, casting a sickly glow among the few objects scattered in the room. Underneath the smell of death, there was a hint of something that seemed strangely familiar. It almost looked like he was in the dungeons under the Hewn City but that was impossible, there was no way he could be there and no way this amount of fae could fit somewhere in a secret canyon beneath the mountain.
He looked towards where the light was glowing, determined to find out what was happening. There was a door hidden along the wall, upon entering he passed corridor after corridor branching off in different directions that had more doors that wouldn’t open, and the occasional pile of bones hidden in crevices in the rock. Cobwebs waved as he walked on, disturbed by his motions as he continued down the claustrophobic hall. The further he went, the deeper the chill sank through his bones. This wasn’t the Court of Nightmares…
Minutes after the thought crossed his mind he reached the end of the corridor and turned into a giant stone chamber filled with red marble and red jewels. Gooseflesh pebbled on his skin and his stomach plummeted. He was in Amarantha’s throne room, somehow he had been taken here. His body dropped to its knees, resting for a moment while he calmed his mind and his senses enough to winnow.
He couldn’t.
He pulled on that fold of space to leave the mountain but found his magic vanished. It didn’t feel like it was locked behind some door, or sluggish in his system like a dose of faebane. He couldn’t feel any connection to his magic here in the afterlife. Another surprise, but maybe he was starting too big. Something simple then.
He tried conjuring a glass of water, then some fruit, then a different pair of clothes than the luxurious suit he was wearing now covered in gore. Item after item he called from the pocket realm but every time he tried nothing appeared. There was no magic here, he was as useless as a human. If he wasn’t already dead he’d be more concerned with the chances of someone else killing him before he managed to escape this damned mountain again. Now his surety that no one was around was less certain, and he crept towards the wall on silent feet to continue moving through the room. The only corridor he saw was the one he came through, from which now emanated a strange silvery glow.
He stepped further towards the shadows behind him, back scraping along the wall for how close he was pressed against it. Thundering footsteps could be heard, the ground shaking with each heavy footfall. After centuries of being the most powerful being in any room he entered, the shock of feeling powerless against whatever was coming made his gut swoop.
From the corridor the light brightened and he could hear something dragging along the stone floor, growing louder as it neared. Eyes glued to the entrance, he considered whether it was worth it to make a break and find some hiding spot but making that decision took too long. A long claw extended past the opening of the hall, and the claw connected to a large foot, all sinew and bone and stringy muscle. Larger legs continued up into the beast entering the hall, and a naked silver torso covered in scar tissue became visible. Braided hair dark as midnight framed a grotesquely beautiful face, high cheekbones and a lush mouth, but a flat nose like a bat and eyes of pure obsidian. The most horrifying part of the creature before him was the massive wings. Illyrian wings of a size he had never seen before, larger than the canvases used for tents in the war camps. Sharp, foot-long talons could be seen over each shoulder, along with smaller claws set at the end of the fingers connecting the membrane. This being was bred for nothing but war, more so than the Illyrians he ruled over. He had never before seen an Illyrian of this size, not even in his wildest dreams and nightmares. This was only heard in the legends. His gut twisted.
“Rhysand Ravenshear,” the monster slurred, rolling the letters and drawing out the vowels in a hiss. It sounded like snakes slithering through dead leaves. “For long I have waited to meet you.”
Rhysand was frozen. What the fuck was this. How the fuck did it know him. He inched further into the shadows, doing his best to be as discreet as possible while trembling and thinking wildly.
The thing, it had a somewhat feminine face, looked around and took a deep sniff, trying to scent him in the dim light. Its head moved and he saw the shadows of her eyes turn towards him, like craters of the moon in her face. Looking back and forth before she finally locked in on him, a slow smile spread across her face, a dark glint sharpening in her eye. Its mouth was filled with needles that looked razor sharp, black gums visible as it stretched wide and black blood oozed from the corners.
“I see you, Nightmare,” she rumbled, the horrible drawl stretching out the sentence in a way that made his skin crawl. Every thought had winnowed from his mind, all he could focus on was the monster before him taking giant steps that rattled the stone walls. Its wings spread wide, the span somehow more enormous than he imagined as the sharp upper talons nearly hit the ceiling upon stretching to its full height. Even if he wanted to hide he couldn’t, his limbs locked not from magic but from fear. He thought he had known it before but that had been a trickle compared to now; his power had always made him feel secure in any match. For the first time in his life though he was genuinely, horrifyingly terrified and could not think of any way to escape this nightmare.
“Did you like your welcome? So many sacrifices you have given me,” it chuckled darkly, sharp claws clacking against the floor with every step. “So many dead you have sent to me through the centuries.”
No, that couldn’t be, not the canyon of corpses he swam out of. He knew he had been prolific in the death he wrought but that couldn’t be the number of fae he had killed in his life. But that Winter child. Right at the top of the pile he had seen that pale white face with ice blue eyes, no more than eight or nine with no obvious wounds. He had thought it a trick of his mind in his befuddlement but it couldn’t be. Not all of them.
“Much life has been ended by you,” it hissed, crouching down towards his shivering body. The ground cracked and before he knew it the monster was kneeling in front of him, and he still had to crane his neck to look her in the eye. Her thick braids fell down towards him, curtaining her face as that awful mouth smirked. “Are you not pleased by your offerings? You gave them so freely.”
He eyed the corridor he came from, the image of that cavern seared in his mind. So many. He wet his lips, looking to respond but coughed instead, trying again before finally saying “What do you mean?”
“Do you jest?”
His hesitation gave his confusion away. It was so easy to peek into a mind and find the next steps he would take to get what he wanted. Being unable to access that rare font of magic that gave him so many advantages at the worst possible moment left him dumb. His mouth worked, but nothing came out.
“Oceans of blood you have spilt, mountains of minds you have broken. You gave so many, I expected pride.” Her voice of falling rocks sounded sad there at the end. She reached out a hand and caressed a talon down the side of his face, a sharp sting following in its wake as the skin split open. Thumb and forefinger pinched his jaw as it turned his face, twisting it around within the tunnel of its hair. The amusement she had disappeared. “Especially since you killed them all for good reasons.”
He went to close his eyes but she gave his head a sharp shake, still pinching his chin between her fingers. He licked lips again and managed to grind out “Where is Feyre? Is Nyx here?”
The creature let go and said “They are beyond. You are with me.”
Like a viper she shot her other arm out and circled her hand around his ankle, then she rose and began walking back towards the corridor, dragging him behind every rattling step.
“Why am I here?” he shouted, his head thumping against the ground. “What is this place?”
“After. You are here because this is what you have earned from your life.”
“What I’ve fucking earned?!”
“Not your land of milk and honey. This is my domain.”
“So why am I here? Where is my family?” In light of his fear he was getting incensed, his initial confusion bubbling into frustration then spilling over into anger as they continued walking, his head hitting the occasional sharp rock.
“Life is precious, Lord of Darkness, and for one male you have destroyed so much of it.” The monster looked over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with wicked glee. She turned back and continued stomping towards whatever their destination was and he heard a low grumble. “I will have your reasons.”
Notes:
I think if we had to meet our gods after we die and explain our actions we took while living, our world would work a lot differently. In this case, Rhys and Feyre are in for a surprise regarding their time spent in the afterlife.
As for the rest of the Inner Circle, what is happening to them?
Chapter 8: Faded Memories
Summary:
Feyre and Rhys are shown portions of their past.
Notes:
TW: Sexual Assault
The first Feyre section covers what happened during her time Under the Mountain and what she couldn't remember. What Rhys did to her is sexual assault, full stop. If you wish to avoid reading the description, skip down to the paragraph that begins "Silver entered her vision..."
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The second time Feyre woke up in the After was just as disorienting as the first, although her surroundings were much different now. Her eyes met pale rock everywhere she looked before landing on the silver female. Her vision was still dim, like looking through smoked glass, but it appeared that a mist was floating around her, though it was hard to tell in the dark. Am I seeing things as I did when I was a human?
When she shifted to stand a shriek caught in her throat. She shot off the ground, spinning to see to her horror that she wore the dress from her time under the mountain, the flimsy scraps of white cobwebs that barely covered her and how it was sheer enough that none of her body was left to the imagination. Her flesh was painted again as well, blue whorls dancing across her skin, a mockery of the Calanmai paint Tamlin wore for the Great Rite they had just seen. Spirals were drawn on her breasts and nipples and there were beautiful patterns accentuating her curves instead of hiding them. She felt sick, remembering the horror of the first time she wore this, even if she had become used to baring her body now.
She clamped down on her panic and tried to breathe as Cassian taught her - in for four, hold for four, out for eight. She looked towards her silver guide and asked “Why am I wearing this? Why am I here? I don’t need to remember this place, I’ve put it behind me.”
The Mother meandered towards her, looking around the space - the sconces covered in cobwebs, the splotches on the floor that had to be dried blood barely darker than the red marble, and the bones beneath the far wall. Not paying much attention to Feyre at all she murmured “So much pain and suffering here, the violence and loss that resonates in this stone is immeasurable. So many of my children died.” Silver light flared from her eyes like windows in the dark as she walked the edge of the room, spotlighting the awful things here covered in layers of dust and crusted blood. Her hand drifted across the walls, stopping in random places like she could pull memories from it.
The Mother finally turned towards her and clasped her hands behind her back, eyes proud. “You were so brave, Feyre. You always have been. Even through the dark and the mire you fought. I commend you for that strength. None of this should have happened and I grieve I was not able to stop it.”
She took a step closer. “But you still do not remember all of it.” Closer still. “You rarely spoke to anyone of what you faced here, the horrors.”
“Because I wanted to forget it,” Feyre whimpered, clenching her fists at her sides to hold off her panic. Her breathing was becoming regular but her heart still raced beneath her ribs. She wanted to block what little memory she did have of the time from floating to the front of her mind.
“Because you were forced to forget it. I am sorry, but you do not have that luxury now,” the Mother responded, and snapped her fingers.
Feyre blinked and she was back in the throne room, Amarantha on the dais and Tamlin frozen beside her. Various fae spun around, quicker and quicker as time moved under the mountain at great speed.
“You need not endure the challenges again, but you must see what was kept from your memory. How the Master of Dark claimed to keep you safe.” She rotated her hand and the memories slowed down to real time.
Feyre saw herself and Rhys in the middle of the room, a place of prominence within the false court. She watched her traitorous hands grasp the wine glass, her face slack and at odds with the fierce grip her fingers held around the stem and her arm was straining to hold the glass away from her lips. She couldn’t though, and her eyes went vacant as she drank deeply then wiped the back of her hand against her mouth. Before long she was writhing against him, the fabric of her dress so thin the movement of her body made it pointless to wear. The strip between her legs caught against his thighs at several points, exposing her entirely to all those in their vicinity. As she swayed and spun the thin fabric on her breasts shifted and they were free from their sheer constraints. Rhys’ hands were tangled in her hair as her arms slithered around his neck, draping herself over him, bare breasts brushing against his lapels. Her eyes were so glazed it was a wonder she could even stand, let alone dance.
His eyes were ravenous.
Feyre shut hers tight, she didn’t want to see this. She knew Rhys had to act like this, knew the wine she guzzled each night was meant to block this out for her own good, to make her so tired she would fall asleep into endless darkness during the day. She had begun to welcome it. Watching herself again though, she tasted the echo of bile on her tongue.
He did this to keep me safe. It was to make Tamlin angry. To kill Amarantha. He loved me, even then. Even when I didn’t know it.
She opened her eyes again. Hybernian males nearby were palming themselves through their pants and leering. Rhys’ hands moved from her shoulders down her spine to splay against her waist, yanking her by the hips and sliding her core across his legs as he brought her close, her back arched and her bared chest was on display as he drew her closer to him. Hoots came from the males as she leaned backwards even further, hair swaying like a curtain. The paint along her body repairing itself along her most intimate parts and across her ass where his hands had palmed her. But he said he never touched me there…
She looked at the dais to Tamlin who was vibrating with anger, so much so that he appeared blurry along the edges, but no claws. His anger always manifested in claws but he could do nothing at Amarantha’s side. Off in a small group she saw Lucien, bandaged and beaten glaring at the back of Rhys’ head, his anger so palpable she half expected to see flames shoot from his eyes despite the non-existent magic that existed under the mountain. Other fae - ones she now knew and considered tentative allies if not friends - looked down at their feet or worse, at the pair with pity in their eyes.
“Please make this stop,” Feyre whispered and suddenly the images were gone. She sank to the floor and wept, her mind reeling. That was, that was…
Silver entered her vision and the Mother was kneeling beside her, stroking her hair soothingly. They sat like that for hours before her guide coughed and said “We still have more to see. There are other things he has kept from your memory that you should know.”
Feyre looked at her and wondered if she had to, but relented and allowed the being to pull her back into the past.
The cell she was caged in was there, and it was the night she and Rhys had made their first bargain.
She looked like shit. Her hair was stringy and dirty, she was covered in blood and mud and gore, and her broken arm looked worse than she remembered, the jagged bone of the wyrm sharp and painful where it was sticking out of the ruined muscle. There was Rhys, taunting her.
“Pay attention,” the Mother said gently.
She watched the scene unfold again as it had so many times in her dreams during the months after. Rhys taunting her, her growling at him, then the offer of a bargain. Her snarling changed to snaps as she turned him down then painful screams as he wrenched at the bone sticking out of her arm. Her fury at him for hurting her and realization she needed his help. She watched their negotiations, a flicker of pride at being able to knock down two weeks into one. She had seen all this before on multiple occasions when she was trying to forget.
“What happened?”
“We made a bargain,” Feyre said tiredly. Like many other things so far she wanted to move past this quickly, the exhaustion and dizziness she felt then seeping into her current form.
“What do you believe you bargained for?”
“He said he would heal me,” she said, rubbing at the spot on her arm the bone had been when Rhys had grabbed it so long ago. “In exchange for spending time with him in Night.”
“Are you certain it was only for your time in Night?”
“Yes, and that’s what happened,” she responded, still rubbing at her arm, the tattoo that rested upon the spot instead.
“But you didn’t know the terms.”
“What?” They had just seen what happened. But she looked out into the scene they were still in and…
“He did not bargain for time with you. He bargained for you.”
She lay on the floor for hours, unconscious as Rhys circled her like a predator, occasionally kneeling down to press his fingers against her temples. Clouds of night wafted from his shoulders as he lifted a strand of her hair and sniffed it, ran a finger down her cheek before cupping it and turning her face towards him. His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, then he took a hold of her left hand and murmured some words. This first tattoo didn’t just appear like other bargains normally did. This time black ink ran down the veins in Rhys’ arm, spooling from his pores and vining its way up Feyre’s fingers and hand, further up to her elbow. He continued his low whisper and the tendrils of ink flowed into her palm, forming the eye that unsettled her so much she had asked Rhys to change it.
The Mother watched silently next to her, her lips a tight line. She gave a little huff before saying “Alis warned you of the danger in bargains. But you take little heed of warnings don’t you.”
Feyre couldn’t respond, too distracted by the Mother’s words. There was no way she bargained away herself. Rhys wouldn't do that, he wouldn't need to. They were mates and he knew then. She looked at her unconscious form. The tattoo had been a surprise, even if their unexpected connection helped later and she came to love it over time. The first instance of the physical manifestation of the bond they shared mind to mind, though she didn’t know that until later either.
“I wish you to keep this scene in mind,” the Mother said simply, “we will need it later,” and snapped again. They were back in the empty throne room, and weeks spun rapidly again until the final challenge, her death, and killing Amarantha and ending Prythian’s nightmare.
“So brave, you and the beast. You saved him and he saved Prythian,” the Mother murmured softly as the scene replayed before her eyes. “I tried to not let it get to this point but I couldn’t stop it. The best I could do was nudge them to bring you back after.”
Feyre startled, shocked at the admission, stormy eyes going wide with disbelief. She whipped her head to the Mother and narrowed them instead, eyeing the being critically. “What do you mean? Rhys saved me and we killed Amarantha together.”
The Mother looked at her sadly and gestured to the scene before them.
She had expected to see Rhys snarling in righteous fury, dagger in hand to rid Prythian of the evil queen who had caused such suffering. A wretched female that had kept him as a plaything to be used while forcing him to do her dark deeds. She was looking for Rhys to shred her to ribbons. But what she saw was a foreign vision, some misunderstood memory.
She watched as Amarantha tossed Rhys into a wall like he was nothing more than rubbish. Nearby Lucien threw a sword to Tamlin, and Tamlin ripped out the bitch’s throat with his teeth and drove the swordpoint through her skull, roaring his hatred for her. Other fae were scattering trying to escape the carnage even as their magic returned to them once her heart took its last beat.
The Mother turned to her instead of the broken body on the floor. “Not all the High Lords would have given a piece of themselves to save you, even though you deserved it. Some of them needed a little push in the right direction.” She turned back to the scene unfolding before them, eyes rapt. “I was limited in what I could touch directly then.” She went quiet.
“But Rhys said…” her thoughts were whirling. Rhys had said he had influenced them. Had subtly pushed them on the path to her resurrection. She knew they had killed Amarantha together, that he loved her even then, what her memories were of. But this was the Mother, she wouldn’t lie. Why would she lie? And she contradicted everything he had told her.
“As I have been saying this whole time…”
“Yes, yes, to remember. To pay attention. I got it,” Feyre groused.
“Good, then let us continue” she quipped, having shaken off her prior mood, and they disappeared into nothing.
Had Rhysand been alive again it wouldn’t have been for much longer. He felt like his heart was about to race straight out of his chest. It thudded within his ribcage like a thundering herd, wild and loud. He now had a general sense of his situation and the stone hallways they were walking down which left him less inept than before and he could begin forming a rudimentary plan, but even with that scant knowledge it did nothing to settle his nerves. Nerves which now had him jumpy even as his skin was ripped raw being dragged along behind a gigantic Illyrian death goddess he had no idea actually existed prior to now. He was woefully, embarrassingly unprepared.
When interacting with the world, the masks he wore did much of the work for him. Carefully crafted personas all designed with specific outcomes in mind. Whatever outward self he presented made people’s inward thoughts that much easier to understand and sway, put them on a path to follow, coaxing them along the way with tiny nudges here and there. It had taken decades of practice to understand how to read people this way but when boiled down to its essence most beings' basest desires were variations of the same themes.
The mask Feyre believed in was dark and misunderstood, a male gone through so much trauma to protect the ones he loved, and that loved her fiercely. He knew everything about her. He gave her the approval she craved to sink into her darker desires, anything she could do to please him because he loved her. To his family he was a savior, breaking them free of the chains that held them back. Morrigan, Azriel, Cassian, and even Amren to a degree - to each he was the one who helped them take back their power and claw themselves out of the darkness to a place by his side. To Velaris, the benevolent High Lord, the one who kept their city safe, calm and confident and caretaker to their needs. And to the rest of the world he was their worst fears given flesh, the terror that lurked in the darkness waiting to gnash and bite, to wrench dreams into nightmares and be the monster others feared.
Rhysand was never an idiot though, and once he learned of his particular skill he honed it into a sharp blade. A century’s worth of practice to become an expert in this power no one else shared, and once he did he had little need to become an expert in much else, practicing other unique talents to perfection. Certainly he could use other magic and did when needed, and could physically fight if he had to, but sparring with his brothers and the few battles he actually had to participate in were a far cry from hand to hand combat with the demon dragging him through the dirt now. He wished he had considered it at least once because he was at a loss for what to do. Who was to say he would ever meet their god.
He scanned the corridor they were going down for anything sharp, any crude weapon he could use to break the grip on his ankle. Heavy stones were scattered about but never near enough, and he didn’t think a rock would do enough damage to allow him a swift getaway anyways. A Illyrian blade would be perfect, but given his limited options any sharp stone would have to do in the meantime. He tried to disguise a twist as a flinch in order to look up at the monster; any knowledge he could glean about his enemy would be of use. Several long jagged scars criss-crossed its torso, but there weren’t many other blemishes marring the silver skin. She was skilled in combat to bear so few, even if she was a god. He would have to use his smaller size and tricks to his advantage. Something sharp, he needed something sharp. He would be more agile, could dart in and slice tendons before she could do anything.
For hours they progressed through the mountains, traversing the many tunnels that existed beneath that cursed rock leading out into corners of Prythian. He had ventured these paths many times before to do Amarantha’s bidding. Even sleeping he could walk these halls now he knew where he was, but eventually the monster stepped into a much smaller tunnel, jagged rock scratching his arms and legs as it narrowed around him, compressing his lungs painfully as all the air was squeezed from them. A sharp rock scraped across his skull. The darkness deepened into pitch black before suddenly opening up into a large corridor again. They were turning now, a long curve in the hallway where the gritty dirt gave way to smooth black stone. The air warmed, and as they walked further he could hear flames snapping in a giant bonfire in the center of the room. Upon looking, the fire was before a giant throne constructed from rock and bones, taller than him by far, that cast deep shadows against the walls that swayed and flickered.
The creature stepped towards the flames before unceremoniously dropping him far too close to the fire for his liking and he scrambled away from the heat, reaching a safe distance before rising to a shaky stand. She continued on around towards the throne, taking slow steps up the dais to sit, hunching forwards to peer at his face. Her black eyes searched him, though he could see nothing in their depths he felt them, even after he turned away from the heavy stare. As he scanned his surroundings for anything useful, the monster finally spoke.
“Why do you think you deserve paradise, Mind-Killer?”
“Why?” he asked, stalling for time, keeping his mind focused on the task at hand, which was surprisingly easy given his state. He was still panicking for certainly this couldn’t be all that remained for him, but it was lessening with each passing moment now he had the concept of a plan. He felt more secure, more like himself. Right now he must continue talking, continue searching for some kind of escape then figure out a way to-
“You will find no escape here. Do not bother.” She waved a hand lazily and the bonfire flared to a blinding brightness, lighting the cave enough to see that whatever hallway they had entered from was no more, jagged cave rock with dancing shadows of bats tittering near the ceiling. He turned fully to see the remainder of the chamber and was only met with unbroken stone in every direction. Keep calm.
“Why.”
“I gave my body to my Court, many times over, to keep them safe, to protect them. I committed and suffered monstrous things to do so and I would do it again if it meant they lived. I loved my family, fiercely, and gave them better lives. I gave my life for Prythian, ungrateful they all may be.” He spit on the ground at the thought, that frightening moment he was dying. “I would have gone to the ends of the earth for Feyre, and I regret that we had such a short time together. And,” at this he paused, a knot in his throat as he reflected on it for the first time since waking up in the hellscape. “Because I will never get to see my son grow. No,” he shook his head, “Even paradise would not be enough to make up for that, no matter how perfect it may be.”
The creature sat on her throne, still as a statue, the only sound the crackling of the flames and the squeaking of the bats overhead. The silence stretched uncomfortably long until she finally spoke.
“You are clever with your words. All true.”
Breath he didn’t know he was holding wooshed out of him and he allowed himself a sliver of hope. Despite the lack of physical advantage in this situation he still had his wits, and they had done him far more good than most other things over the centuries.
“It is not enough.”
That small glimmer vanished like the moon during an eclipse.
“Not enough? What do you mean ‘not enough’?” he ground out, anger flaring within him briefly before he tamped it down, keeping his face smooth. He was not fully in control of this situation yet and needed more to create a plan. He had to remain calm. What would she expect to be worth it if dying for his Court, for Prythian couldn’t grant him passage to the everafter?
A dark chortle left her lips and she looked away from him into the flames reaching towards the stalactites scattered across the ceiling. The fire flickered and cracked, reminiscent of bones snapping with each flash.
“You gave yourself to protect your Court of Dreams, a mere handful against the thousand thousand lives you take responsibility for. A sliver compared to all my children across this domain. Weigh the atrocities you committed against those. Consider. It may have been worth it to you. Will it be worth it to me?” The creature gestured vaguely towards a wall, before continuing. “Worth it that you killed so many of my children to keep safe so few?”
Along the wall she gestured towards the shadows dancing in the firelight that grew and twisted, taking shape against the stone and forming scenes that seemed familiar to him. Shadows shifted into soldiers, running formations he remembered the fae and human armies using during the Slave War, masses of bodies clashing in battle, swords singing through the air and connecting with flesh and bone, blasts of magic rendering bodies into a fine red mist or chunks of meat depending on the wielder. The embers swirled upwards and transformed into Illyrians flying then being struck down, falling from the sky in a trickle then a flood as they were picked off by darts of magic that shredded their wings as if they were the thinnest paper. In the snaps of the logs he thought he could hear the screams and wails of the dying, echoing within the cavern. He tried arguing with the monster but any time he opened his mouth to interject the monster silenced him with a sharp look and a clack of those lethal claws against the stone floor. The longer he watched, he realized the scenes before him weren’t simply the battles he had fought in, no, these were specific. These were memories of destruction he caused personally, torment he had wrought over the course of his life. Tortures he had forced others to conduct. Each new image flickering against the cavern wall was a moment he was intimately familiar with, the shadows before him combining with the ghosts of memory he had pushed away and forgotten over the centuries. A creeping sense of dread swelled in his gut as the shadows continued their recap of his bloodshed.
Time passed and the flames showcased scenes from his life, jumping from youth to the recent war with Hybern and every place in between, no rhyme or reason to what past action of his would be brought forward by the bright fire before him. Once again he tried to draw its attention; his throat was parched, the heat getting to him as he and the creature continued to watch his centuries pass by before him. Illyrians were again flying in the shadows, but when darkness bloomed around them their wings went loose and they tumbled towards the ground. In the distance a small shape that looked like him stood on a hill, the shape of Mor standing at his back, wind blowing her hair and skirts as Illyrians died. The image changed again.
Sweat rolled down his brow as the heat grew, the flames agitated and rising the longer the memories continued. He saw another scene of himself, standing before a thousand humans, his spectral form tilting their heads before the mortals’ necks bent at an unnatural angle and they all went limp at the same instant. More memories borne of darkness flashed by.
Hours turned into one day, and then two, then stretched to nearly a week. An unending stream of death and destruction all at his hand.
His feeble attempts to ask for sustenance became fewer and farther between and still the wretched monster made him watch, despite his protests that he needed water, needed food, something, anything. His tongue was heavy and his belly ached, a ridiculous notion considering he was dead, but still he yearned for the smallest drop of liquid to quench the desert in his mouth.
More moments of his life, this time watching someone walk away from his shadow self before they twisted in half and crumpled. A beat later and he saw another version of himself forcing a soldier to hold a dagger to their own throat, zero hesitation before the blade made a clean cut against the skin. His own suit was soaked, sweat rolling off his body and yet again the flames still somehow went higher despite no logs being fed to the fire. A day or two ago he had collapsed, after he could no longer stand his defiance to the god that had taken him. The scent of his own body along with the fluids from his previous climb were enough to make him gag. He would not resort to begging the monster, not yet, but his patience and his will were wearing thin.
She took notice of him then - as soon as the thought crossed his mind - and twisted her wrist. The images on the wall froze, the scene suspended on a moment from his time serving Amarantha. He looked at the shadow of himself, hands in pockets and rocking slightly back on his heels, on display in front of him. Opposite, near a shadowy alcove where the fire’s light barely reached, was a group of fae, weapons drawn protecting something too dark to see behind their backs. But Rhysand knew what this moment was, knew what would come next. Remembered the sounds of the female’s screams as he crushed the minds of the soldiers guarding them, then stepping back as the bodies dropped to allow other soldiers to rush from behind him, grabbing the females and dragging them towards Rhysand’s figure.
“Does this bore you, Lord of Dark? Seeing your hard work to protect your chosen few?” she tsked, shaking her head at him lying prone on the floor, a dried husk as he tried to lick his cracked lips. She rose from her throne, stalking towards a far wall behind him, and he without the energy to try and track her movements. His mind felt like sludge, his only thoughts centered on his thirst and need for water. He closed his eyes, hoping that after watching his past she would finally let him continue on in search of his family.
A sudden splash against his leg and his eyes shot open wider to watch the monster drop a bucket near his feet where precious liquid sloshed up and over the side. Much slower than he would have liked he rolled towards it and got to his knees, kneeling before her and drinking deeply from the bucket like a dog as she towered over him. He felt some shame at being seen in such a desperate state but it was nothing compared to the need to drink, to properly wet his tongue so he could strike with his words, prove that his good deeds outweighed the images they had just watched. The creature only looked on, impassive.
“It is fascinating, what you deemed necessary for your dreams. Countless deaths. Some justified. Most not.” The creature crouched down in front of him, rank breath crossing his face as she inched closer. “Centuries before you truly protected your starlight city.” Black eyes drew him in as sought to center himself, sucking in breath to speak against her-
A sharp lance of pain in his side and a warmth flowing out, blood seeping from the puncture between his ribs. He hadn’t even seen the dagger grasped in her hand, so focused on the water, but it flashed now in the firelight, the hilt bright against the dark blood coating the blade. As she tossed the weapon to the side, she conjured a thick black metal collar and chains. So focused on his injury he had no time to react, if he even had the strength to do it, before the collar snapped shut against his neck, the metal cool despite the heat he still felt from the flames. His fingers felt thick as they tugged at the steel, barely room for any space between the unforgiving metal and the tender flesh beneath.
“I tire of you,” she drawled, her voice the sound of bones grinding against one another. “You gave me a reason, even somewhat truthful, but not the one I know lies in your heart. No matter. We will try again later.”
As she stomped away with the other end of the leash, he tried to rise on shaky legs before she gave a swift snap of the links that threw him to the floor again. Providing him no pause, she gave one, two flaps of her wings to attach the other end to a hook high near the ceiling. Somewhere he could never reach without the use of his magic. Nothing useful to help him get there in this Cauldron-forsaken cavern.
She hovered above him for a moment, looking almost disappointed before she gave a shake of her head and beat her wings once more, blowing a powerful wind - cool, damp, and refreshing - towards Rhysand as she disappeared into the murk above, a silver star fading into the distance.
All Rhysand could think to do was scream and scream and scream until the next time he drank, the water was tinged with blood.
Roses bloomed in her nose, the scent overpowering. In front of her the Mother strode towards a gigantic manor Feyre was familiar with, wisteria climbing up the brick and surrounded by gardens with dazzling butterflies traveling from blossom to blossom.
Feyre hated that they were in Spring but could still admit the place held beauty, as all the Courts did. Burbling fountains drew the eye and hedgerows for the maze towered in the distance, casting a shadow across one of the rose gardens. On the far edge of the property there was a wildflower meadow filled with droning bees before giving way to the forest.
The Mother opened the door and walked purposefully through the house, peeking into various rooms while Feyre hurried to catch up. Scenes from her time here sped wildly around her, house staff moving about and her and Tamlin drifting through significant moments as they orbited one another over months, coming closer and closer to catastrophe. The disaster of their wedding and Rhys’ dramatic arrival to whisk her away. The day of the Tithe, when she had felt so badly for the water wraiths and Tamlin made her feel so stupid after. Tamlin exploding at her. So much time passed so quickly.
Suddenly “Why did you and the High Lord never speak upon your time under the mountain? I understood at first, but such burdens are eased when shared.” Silver light brightened the room as the Mother faced her, gaze steady upon Feyre’s face. This being asked a lot of questions for being a goddess who was meant to be all knowing.
“We wanted to put it behind us and move on. Rebuild together. But he wouldn’t let me.” Feyre watched the movement around her, reflecting on those months trapped here. Wasting away with no one to notice, pretending to be okay but falling apart a little bit more each day. Her only friend Ianthe, but even that had been a lie.
“It must have been difficult to feel so alone in such a strange new body and with such immense feeling and power. He often felt the same way,” the Mother said quietly. “You had more in common than you may remember,” and snapped them into another scene.
They were in the Moonstone Palace now, Rhys, Feyre, Mor, and servants speeding around the halls and rooms as her weeks in the Night Court unfolded. Feyre surly, but learning to read and write. Mor speaking with her every so often, trying to coax her back to life. Her and Rhysand slowly growing closer. Falling in love.
“Did you know that the more times one hears or sees a thing, the more likely they will take it as truth, even without evidence?” asked the Mother, gesturing to the scene she had slowed to. Feyre was hunched over writing slowly, painstakingly. She remembered those words. She looked to her companion.
“He is powerful, yes, but he is not the most powerful, much to his chagrin.” At this the being smirked, though Feyre had no idea why. “He told you himself he wouldn’t know who would win if he and Tamlin fought. The same is true for any pairing of High Lords. They are all equal, though some use their talents in other ways.”
Feyre looked again but they were quickly back in Spring, inside the foyer to the manor, her time in the Night Court then being brief. The sound of arguing hit her ears and she immediately knew what day the Mother had brought her back to.
“Please, please don’t make me go through this again. He locked me up, he locked me up!” she shrieked, running to the door to escape only to find herself running back into the room. “Why are you making me see this?” she cried as she went to the windows to force them open.
“It will be relevant later. But I do want to draw your attention to something.” The Mother made to move towards her but Feyre raised a hand to keep her back. The other woman lifted her hands in supplication, moving away a step as Feyre tried to slow her breathing.
“These were dangerous times,” she gestured out the window, showing Tamlin and his troop leaving, the knives on his bandolier gleaming in the light. “You were untrained and traumatized, and in no way prepared for what they were facing. He had seen you die once and you wanted to charge head first into opportunities to die again.” The Mother leaned against the frame, crossing her arms beneath her breasts as she looked at Feyre.
“You seem to have a knack for ignoring warnings given to you in good faith, or thinking you know better. Refusing to hear counsel about things you never sought to understand,” she said as an afterthought.
Feyre wondered what she was talking about but the first visit to Spring and Calanmai was fresh in her mind, when Tamlin and Lucien both had warned her to stay inside for her own safety. Possessed by the magic of Prythian he had told her, he wouldn’t be himself in a very literal sense. It had been unbelievable to her at the time.
The Mother turned her gaze outside again, watching the contingent leave. “Had he let you join them, you would have been slaughtered along with his troop. Targeted by monsters and in his effort to protect you allowing his people to die.”
Tamlin and his soldiers passed through the gate and onto the meadow outside the manor, vanishing over a low hill.
“Even if his actions had understandable and good intentions, it was poorly executed. For that I am sorry. It cannot be undone though lovely if it could, and we must continue on our journey.”
Another snap and now they were in Velaris. She could see weeks of her life pass by in a blur, coming to terms with her new fae life thanks to Rhys and her friends. Learning of what he had done in order to protect their beautiful home. Tears began to form at the thought of all he had suffered to protect Velaris. She remembered the Inner Circle, her family, the ones who had accepted her without a second thought.
Another snap and she was viewing some of their adventures. They were in the Middle at the Weaver’s cottage, where she was fighting for her life for her ring while Rhys observed from a tree. Anger flashed through her at the danger she had been put in for what amounted to no valid reason. Next they were in the Prison learning from the Bone Carver and where she saw her son for the first time, smiling at the memory. The scene continued on as they learned of the future Prythian faced if Hybern gained control of the Cauldron, and how they needed to secure the Book of Breathings.
Visions of pivotal moments from Feyre’s time as a fae rushed by, like water passing through a narrow rapid, turbulent and swift. At certain points the Mother would ask a question as she wandered about the background viewing her surroundings as an inspector would, making little noises when she spotted something interesting. Occasionally she would stop to watch along with Feyre, her questions sure to follow.
The landscape morphed to the Archeron manor, and she saw herself dripping in luxurious fabrics and jewels, crown sitting proud upon her head under the hood of her cloak. Rhysand was handsome beside her, their faithful friends at their backs. Her sisters were ahead on the house steps, and they stepped towards the terrible meeting in the human lands to ask for their help.
The Mother glanced her way and asked “Did you know they thought you had died?”
No, she thought with a jolt.
“They buried you. What a surprise this must have been to them,” then a hum from the being to her right who crossed her arms as they went in the door. “Especially bringing three fae warriors with you. One of whom you told your sister of before you disappeared again.”
Feyre looked away from her, watching the scene unfold, the tension thick in the air. Remembered how she had wanted Rhys to force her sisters to agree to host the meeting with the queens. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed their location had changed. Her hair clung to her shoulders and the air was so sticky she could taste it. Immediately she began sweating, which seemed an unfair thing to happen when dead. Unpleasantly damp, she took in her surroundings.
Vibrant birds soared over the glassy water in the bay, the surface so mirror-like that it looked as if birds were dancing in tandem in a never-ending blue. In the center of the water rose the palace of Adriata, sea glass embedded in the walls casting flashes of light in all shades of green and blue, an ocean in the air, forever reflecting one another. From this distance she could barely make out balconies made of coral and driftwood.
“When you came here for the Book of Breathings, you thought about asking Tarquin for it. Why did you not?”
Feyre’s response was immediate. “Because we couldn’t let anyone know we were looking for it.”
“You considered it at first, so why continue with the charade?” the Mother pushed, patiently waiting as the blistering sun beat down on them.
Feyre struggled with her answer, they didn’t ask Tarquin because Rhys didn’t trust him. There was no other reason than that in her mind, and she trusted him to be right.
“But why didn’t your High Lord trust him? Summer lost much in the fight against Amarantha, suffered far more than the Night Court did under her rule. Why was the young Master of Tides untrustworthy?”
Dinner rushed by before her as she ignored the other questions. She could see the jealousy she thought she had been hiding on her face when Rhys and Cresseida spoke. Or maybe she didn’t want to believe it existed at the time, and didn't want to think of Rhys being interested in anyone else. The past her laughed gently at something Tarquin was saying but shot glances towards Rhys frequently enough to be noticeable. Next they were heading into the temple after she mimicked Tarquin to get to the doors, to the most hidden temple of the Summer Court. The scene shifted and the ocean raced back in to drown them before they made it out of the structure under the sea, coughing water but Book in hand.
A snap and her vision went out, then quickly reappeared but much darker. In Summer no more, this was a place she knew well. She saw herself, leaned back against Rhys’s chest and legs spread over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her skin daringly close to her core upon the pitch black throne that sat within the Court of Nightmares. Her eyes seemed glazed, awfully reminiscent of what she had seen earlier of her time under the mountain. The only difference in what she was shown before and now was the lack of paint and the color of her dress. The other her, her chest hitched as Rhys traced a line from her inner thigh to her hip, whispering reassurances in her mind as he spoke to his Court, performing a show for the degenerates that lived there.
“He is High Lord, is he not? Why this ‘distraction’ as he called it for the Orb? Shouldn’t he have been able to secure it himself?”
Feyre shook her head, remembering this day in a much different light. How thrilling it had been to be sitting there, playing her part to keep the Court of Nightmares in line while the others searched, Rhys tantalizing her body and her mind. She remembered her desire, that had to be what was showing in her eyes. “We have to pretend there, so they know where the true power lies.”
“But this was your first official meeting with the Court of Nightmares, yes? Do you feel differently about this display now? Being brought out again as Rhysand’s whore underneath a different mountain?”
She clenched her jaw instead of responding, wishing Rhys was here to break the Mother’s arm for disgracing her with that word like he had when Keir uttered the same. He explained that they had to be like this. These people only responded to power and fear, so her mate acted accordingly when ruling over them. But the faces in the crowd told a different story. Keir and Mor’s mother - the older female next to the steward wearing her friend’s features - were looking on with thinly veiled disgust. Younglings in the crowd kept their faces to the floor, red with embarrassment, and other fae looked anywhere else in the throne room but at them, discomfort clear on their faces.
Snap.
It was Starfall, beautiful souls numbering in the thousands flying high above the House of the Wind. The figures of her and Rhysand twirled along the balcony below, splatters of stars speckled across their faces and bodies as they laughed and smiled and danced through the night.
“I understand the beauty and why you all believe it to be holy, it’s truly magnificent from down here. It was smart of him to show you.”
Snap.
They were training in the camp, Rhysand showing her how to use her powers. Learning to be strong like him. Learning about the tragedy of his mother and sister.
“Do you ever wonder why he didn’t enter Tamlin’s mind to see the truth of what happened the day his family died? Or why he ran before Tamlin could get a word out?”
Snap.
Lucien, worried and brave in front of her with terrified Spring Court sentries guarding his flank, begging her to come back home. Rhysand, lurking behind her as she claimed to be part of the darkness.
“The fireling feared for you then, he was worried he was too late to save you from the Lord of Darkness, worried your mind had already been broken.”
Snap.
Rhys being attacked again and her honing her new magic as she went to him, doing her best to save him.
Snap. Her conversation with the Suriel, learning the truth of their relationship that Rhys had hidden from her. Snap. Fighting with Rhys about his lies. Snap. Hearing Rhys’ story of his time under the mountain. Snap. Her acceptance of the bond. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snapsnapsnap.
Moments from that year rushed by her, a whirlwind of memories, blurring her vision. The scenes spun on. This wouldn’t be a painting, this would be her throwing buckets of color on a canvas and calling it her life story. She could hear the Mother asking her questions but only the tone, not the actual words, those were garbled nonsense as her past passed her by. She had no idea if things were careening off kilter or if she was finally breaking at too many memories in too short a time.
Snap.
Time slowed down to a less dizzying speed, details becoming more focused before her as the Mother twisted her wrist to bring the spinning images to an eventual stop. Feyre couldn’t see it though, at least not yet. She had her hands on her knees, nausea turning her stomach, and did her best not to heave. It was several long minutes before she could get her bearings and see where they had landed.
A marble building stood before then, dusky grey with veins of blue streaking through it, stone taken from one of the Night Court’s central mountains according to Rhys. Fae lights cast a purplish glow across the dark steps leading towards magnificent doors, the night sky engraved into the face and magicked to emit a shine until dawn broke.
Inside past the vestibule and at the end of the long aisle she saw a priestess in her traditional blue robes, and herself and Rhys before the female. Her own gown also glowed, a blue so deep it looked violet just like her mate’s eyes, emitting a soft magical moonlight that bathed Rhys’ face as he gazed at her. His beautiful eyes twinkled, starlight vibrant as he looked into her soul and her mind. She heard them murmuring their vows, his head dipping close to her lips as he spoke and a gentle blush covering her cheeks. No doubt telling her some toe-curling thing he would do to her later before their journey to Hybern tomorrow. Eventually black ink appeared on her hand as she took the vows to become High Lady of the Night Court. Not his consort or his wife, but a ruler like him, equal in every way. The first to exist. As she and Rhysand kissed, the Mother stopped time and turned towards her.
She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated, then continued on. “When you spoke with Tamlin of High Lords and Ladies, you did not want to be one. What changed?” Those flat silver discs felt like spotlights, seeking out all the nooks and crannies of her heart.
Her skin pebbled under those eyes and she turned away to continue looking at the memory before her. The feel of Rhys’ skin as he held her hands before the Mother. This Mother. She brushed the thought away. This had been such a special day, a moment of reprieve before the destruction that would soon follow though they didn’t know it at the time. She wouldn’t allow this bizarre summary of her life to ruin this one moment.
“I died. I- I never wanted to feel that powerless again.” She swallowed, her first death fresh still. Tears welled in her eyes and she brushed them away quickly. The skyline looked so beautiful out the tall, colored glass windows behind the couple on the dais.
A gentle hand on her shoulder as the Mother stepped closer, and a warmth radiated through her skin where they touched. “What did you feel when you took that oath?”
She smiled. “Love.”
The Mother smiled in return, but it looked sad. “Aside from that, child. Did your body feel changed afterwards?
“My bond to my mate felt stronger. We are equals in every way,” she said, but it felt rote.
“I ask because the transfer of power from one High Lord to the next is described as terrible and mighty. The rush can be…overwhelming, as if the weight of the entire Court is being pressed upon the crown. You seem to be unaffected though, any insight as to why?”
Feyre could feel a headache pinching the nerves behind her eyes, of course the Mother would find some way to try and ruin this for her. The first High Lady in all of Prythian and even their own goddess couldn’t be proud of her for it, for changing the fabric of their reality and taking power for herself, as a gift from her High Lord to his Lady.
“Remember, girl, I am the one who gave the power to them.”
Snap.
There was screaming, her own screaming as the memory took shape around her. Her family was in Hybern’s castle, both of her families, and blood was flooding the floors from Cassian and Azriel’s wounds. She watched as Elain was dunked into the Cauldron and dumped out shivering and frozen a minute later. Her eyes then followed Nesta, thrashing like an animal against the guards holding her, forcing her into that magical object as it turned her into one of the monsters she so feared, one of them, despite her desperate fight.
“Have your sisters ever described to you what the Cauldron felt like?”
Feyre shook her head, tears streaming down her face. I failed them, I failed them so greatly.
“It was eternity after eternity of boiling flesh and breaking bones and endless, freezing cold fire drowning your lungs. They were ripped apart and remade over and over for millennia. You could never begin to fathom the suffering caused by their experience,” the Mother whispered as she watched, hands clasped behind her back.
Feyre was silent as the next scene unfolded. Her mind had been racing at the time, trying to come up with a plan so she didn’t have to see all her loved ones die. Barreling forward with breaking her friends' hearts as part of the ruse, part of her desperate idea to save their lives. Tricking the King and breaking her bond with Rhys, despite the unexpected horror of her sister’s being captured and turned, and knowing that one of her bonds being destroyed was more traumatic.
Snap.
They were back in Spring, but not near the manor house, instead near the pool of starlight. A gentle breeze swayed the grass along the edges, and small birds dipped in flight towards the water before swooping to the bushes nearby. She felt exhausted, having re-lived her life in what felt like a day though it had to have been longer.
“Why are you showing me all of this?” Feyre asked, frustrated after indulging this ridiculousness for so long. She wanted her eternity. She had lived twice already and was prepared for never ending peace and happiness. She had given so much of herself these last few years and just wanted to rest with her mate now the last looming threat was gone.
“You need to remember so you can see what comes next. How you become less of you and more of him. " At this the Mother burst into flames, silver fire burning icy cold as the environment flashed in a shock of silver around them.
Notes:
In canon, in the chapter where Feyre makes her first bargain with Rhys in addition to not specifying the terms, she is unconscious for an undetermined amount of time. There is no page break or indication that there is a gap, it just moves from the end of one paragraph to the beginning of another.
Chapter 9: Revelations
Summary:
The residents of the River House face their own struggles. Feyre learns what it actually means to be a High Lady. Rhys is caught in a lie.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The beautiful stars above drifted further away from him, slowly at first, then faster until the wind rushed by his ears as he hurtled toward the ground. He was tired, so very tired, especially now after expending so much energy. Lucky that Mor had thought to bring him up instead of out to some other place where innocents could get hurt.
So Cassian fell, a black meteor chipped with red aiming towards Mor where she watched from the ground still holding onto Rhys' body, before he tucked his wings in tight and rolled. Another few moments later he landed, the impact heavy enough to crack the stones. His feet touched down first and his knees soon followed, wings flaring quickly enough to keep him from pitching forward into her arms. She rushed to his side anyways, grabbing his face and trying to catch his eyes. When she did and he locked onto her warm brown ones, she was unfocused and hazy at the edges.
“Mor…” he licked his lips and tried to form the words but couldn’t. His head still ached and echoes of the earlier swords still rang in his mind, the wave of desperate power released enough to lessen them from the sharp pain of earlier.
“What is it, we need to go back inside Cass. We need to…” she drifted off. Rivers of tears and blood streamed down her beautiful face, all her light and warmth gone, her pallor gone white.
“Mor, what do we do now?” he croaked, a dry rasp instead of his deep baritone. He felt like a child, that bastard born nobody hoping for someone else to save him like Rhys had. He was always the one to have a solution to their problems, he was the one thinking ten moves ahead so nothing was a surprise. It should have been Rhys dealing with this and putting their broken pieces back together. But Rhys wasn’t here now to do it.
“We have to- we have to see who the power went to.”
Right. Because Rhys was dead. Rhys, his brother. Rhys, his High Lord. A male who could have been High King, if he had only taken it. Dead and gone. If he looked behind Mor he would see the body he had been clinging to so desperately.
As the thought crossed his mind the anguish he had momentarily forgotten came roaring back, the death of his brother, one part of his soul. There was a pounding at the base of his skull. The male who had saved him, whose mother had brought him out of the mud and told him he could be something more.
As he battled the grief that threatened to undo him yet again, his body began to burn.
The silence was thick and suffocating. The quiet of his mind unsettled him, how empty it felt without the threads nestled within, gathered tight so he could pluck one string and the rest would shiver. Without the flow of power he carried with him in mind and body, the quiet was oppressive. The bats could still be heard, their high chitters pinging about and carrying down to his place on the smooth stone floor, but the only other sound was his breathing. Not even a heartbeat could be heard thudding in his ears.
A breeze sometimes blew down from the opening at the top of wherever he was, too far in the heavens for him to ever consider being able to get there. The iron leash afforded him some mobility, but not enough to be of worth, only enough to stretch his legs and reach for the water and the occasional food that appeared and disappeared at random hours. The dagger, glinting at him from a dozen paces away was just out of reach, mocking him. It appeared close enough that he could touch it but any time he tried he was still too far to even brush the tips of his fingers against the sharp edge. Whether it was magicked or a trick of his mind no longer mattered, he had given up trying to reach for it days ago.
Fucking useless.
He had been impressed with Feyre’s tenacity as a human when he watched her under the mountain, but he had a new appreciation for it now he was as weak as she when they first met. Without the magic he had relied on so steadily for the last five centuries, he couldn’t begin to compare to her stubbornness to survive. The despair that threatened to consume him when his powers were limited by Amarantha was a pale comparison to the emptiness he felt now that the well of power within him was gone. It almost seemed as if it was right there, just as out of reach as the dagger was, but that may have been ridiculous hope.
It hadn’t taken long for him to ultimately crack. Pathetic.
So he waited. He pawed at the collar. He ate. He bemoaned his current circumstances. He drank. He screamed. He thought of ways to kill her and escape.
He slept. And slept. And slept.
The shadows pulsed and pushed and morphed and held as blue power burst out of the Conductor and they tried, they tried to contain it. He would be upset if they let him hurt the others, so they pushed and shoved and buried and smothered that killing power down and down and down into him. Back and back and back into his siphons, wriggling and thumping and beating it down to try and save him.
We soothe, we help, we keep safe, they cooed as they caressed his body, hovering close to the skin and checking him for injuries. They did not know who or what or how but something must have hurt him and they must find out why. They ghosted on his skin and felt heat. Too much heat.
He hurts, he burns, but where is the flame? they moaned and wailed and cried, swirling through the home in a mad tempest as the Conductor began to writhe on the floor, body shaking and black tattoos burning with an unknown fire. The ink that littered his skin was burning and embers were crackling and the patterns looked like smoldering coals.
We hurt, we burn, we hate! they whimpered and writhed and darted faster, they coated the room in black where their Conductor lay. They loved him but they hurt, and they had to leave to find help. Shadows swirled and spun in a black mass in the blue room, then all at once rushed out the door. They flew and wound and skidded and darted to the room of blood and fear, to the room of suffering and sadness. They did not want to go near there but they had to, the Conductor was burning and he had already been burned so many times before. They raced faster and remembered the burning, the pain.
They sped towards the Shining One, he cared for her and she would help. She had to help.
They flew faster and faster, a broad river of black rushing through the home. And stopped. Froze in perfect stillness for the first time in their long history.
The Seer ascends… they stuttered and whispered.
Shadows of every size settled on the floor in the terrible room and watched, silent and waiting and patient.
The Seer was enveloped in light, hair floating in a golden halo around her, feet no longer touching the ground. She rose and her back arched and her arms fell back and she floated as if asleep.
And then she opened her eyes which shone like mother-of-pearl and screamed.
She Sees! they lamented, flattening into the floor and joining to make a thick carpet of fog against the ground lapping at the Ancient One’s ankles.
She knows! they howled and then raced back the way they came. Too many things were happening in too little time and they had to help him, they had to keep him safe. They knew only one way.
They smothered the Conductor’s body and swept him away into the shadows.
When her vision cleared they remained near the pool of starlight, but only the location was the same. What she saw made her cry out and drop to her knees, a hand to her mouth looking out at the destruction surrounding this serene space. The starlight had a thick layer of oily sludge across it, marring the pristine surface and making it putrid with rotten blood. A combination of smoke and meat filled her nose, great pyres burning in the distance with what were likely bodies given the scent driven by the wind. Giant gouges ran parallel to the treeline, though from what she didn’t know, and scorch marks covered the meadows. All around her lay dead things. Soldiers and their steeds, horses and fae creatures alike, all decaying underneath the sun. Unseeing eyes stared into the sky above, various burns and wounds littered across their skin. In the distance she could see some animal or monster tearing into an object, but Feyre didn’t want to look closer to see what it was. She thought she knew.
She took in the landscape before her and felt her heart breaking at what Hybern had done following her departure from Spring. How could Tamlin have let this happen to his people by allying with that evil?
“Not only what Hybern did, you assisted with this wreckage too,” a cold voice dripping with disdain said from behind her. “You opened the doors for enemy armies to run rampant across the land.”
Feyre whipped around, angry at the accusation. “I did no such thing! Tamlin did this himself. He allied with our enemy!”
“Yes, he did,” her silver shadow responded, eyes taking in the destruction around them. Where the Mother stepped, bloody footprints followed. “But so did the Lord of Darkness. For fifty years.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“He had to join her to protect Velaris, you know this. I’ve told you this, so why do you keep asking?”
“I continue asking because you continue to be blind. You choose to cover your eyes when faced with the truth you so desperately want to avoid.” The Mother turned towards her, her headdress gleaming and a similarly woven metal belt with a dagger hanging from her waist, the hilt seeming familiar somehow. “I ask because you must understand what you wrought yet you choose to ignore it.”
“Tamlin joined Hybern on purpose, to get me back. It wasn’t about saving Spring.” She could feel her fingers twitching, itching to throw magic at this aggravating deity.
The Mother ignored her, gazing towards the forest, towards that large billowing cloud of smoke on the horizon above the treeline. “But it was though, in addition to saving you. Hybern was coming no matter what. Did you never think to enter his mind to see the truth of the matter? You took no qualms entering the minds of his soldiers and his people to turn them against him. Why was one appropriate but not the other? You condemned this entire Court in your revenge against the decisions of its High Lord. So very much like Amarantha before you.”
Ravens pecked at the corpses in the field as the Mother waited for her response. Her own fury locked up her insides at the comparison. She had been so angry with Tamlin, so set on enacting justice and gaining information for the Night Court she honestly hadn’t thought about what would happen to the people. She assumed Tamlin would do more to protect them. Her nails bit into her palms as she thought back to what she had done here to get her revenge. She was nothing like Amarantha.
“Tamlin told you himself at the High Lords meeting you and your mate called that he would not stand for tyranny. The meeting you requested to ask for help in the war and where you proceeded to attack and harm those you were begging to aid in your enemy’s defeat. He gathered intelligence and gained trust to fell the enemy from the inside. More than Rhysand ever did for Prythian when he was under the mountain at the Deceiver’s side.” The strands of jewels looping under her face turned to rubies in the light, blood dripping down her temples to her chin.
“That is a lie.”
“And how would you know?”
Feyre said nothing. She found that she didn’t know. In all of Rhys’ explanations he had given her, she couldn’t recall many instances of him saying he shared information with the other High Lords about what he knew when working for Amarantha. It would have been too dangerous for him to do so. He already suffered so much acting against them at her orders. How difficult it was to kill people for her and how he tried to ease the victim’s minds as he did. She could feel those sad eyes on her again and tensed her shoulders, hating the pity she could feel radiating off the goddess.
“Come. We have other things to see.” The silver figure turned back towards the pool of starlight, walking straight to the edge and then stepping further into the disgusting liquid, muck lapping at her skirts. She motioned for Feyre to follow and reluctantly she did, hovering along the bank before gingerly stepping in as well.
As she fell through she came out the other side into a large room filled with soft light and calming energy. Fountains burbled in the distance and around a reflecting pool sat very distinct factions of the ruling families of Prythian, all colors of the Courts making up the circle of seated fae. Angry voices filled the space, and a burst of fire and shouts came from the table before them.
“If this was your attempt at open and friendly diplomacy, I am shocked you were able to gain allies among the other Courts. The threat of looming war won out against better judgment. You requested this meeting and yet were the only ones to attack others. Multiple times even. No wonder so few trust you.” The Mother walked slowly around the room, watching the contingents around the table snarl and snap at one another. She paused behind Tarquin, then continued on towards the Vanserras, bristling with anger and shielding the Lady of Autumn.
“They insulted us when we requested they raise banners to fight Hybern, what else were we supposed to do?”
“You could have used your words, silly child. Or you could have listened to and acknowledged the many grievances they have against you and your Court if you wished for their support.”
The meeting continued around them and Nesta stepped forward from her place within the room, bringing the most powerful fae in Prythian to silence with her impassioned plea to save those they were meant to protect. Her sister raised her chin and stared defiantly at the Lords before her and Feyre felt jealousy rearing its head within. At the time she was relieved, glad the other High Lords were going to listen but now it was insulting to watch. She should have been able to make them stay and listen, even if Feyre had eventually prompted them to agree. It had been their meeting and strategy, their chance to show their true selves as protectors of Prythian. But Nesta was the only one who got them to remain, the others deeming her and Rhys untrustworthy. The sound of her teeth grinding rose in her ears.
“You are lucky they agreed there was a larger threat to Prythian than Night,” the Mother said, finishing her circle of the table to stand next to Feyre once more, directly behind Nesta, like a silver reflection of her eldest sister.
Snap.
Screams and the sound of earth rumbling around them could be heard, and a mighty woosh of air as Amren in her true form and Vassa in her firebird form swooped through ships and enemy lines, crushing war machines and monsters alike. The beast forms of High Lords roved the plains, shredding those who crossed their paths, and she heard the clang of metal on metal as soldiers, lesser fae, and humans waged battle on the ground. She searched for herself and Rhys, knowing what came next and wanting desperately to not watch her greatest love die right in front of her again, to avoid that space on the battlefield where her heart had been broken yet again in her short life.
There, over on a small hill, she saw herself clutching the Cauldron and screaming for her mate, watching the light leave his eyes. She was frozen, reliving that horrifying moment where he was gone from her, and her attempts to grasp the wisps of the bond in her heart, the other High Lords looking on but cruelly doing nothing. She heard herself begging them to help, to bring him back like they did her.
“Again, I ask, what did you feel then?”
She tore her gaze away from the scene and looked to the Mother for the first time since entering this memory. No longer in a silver gown, now she was a warrior. She wore silver leathers with her own silver siphons, seven she could see but in different places than the Illyrians, and with a magnificent sword poking over her shoulder, hair pulled in battle braids along her skull. Still her headdress remained, reflecting the light. Mist lifted off her shoulders as she watched over Rhys’ resurrection.
“And not what you thought. What you physically felt.”
Feyre shook her head, not answering. It was too much grief, too much desperation that she felt. She had been exhausted and wavering on the edge of sanity after losing him in addition to the stress of battle and watching her father die and her sisters kill the king. She was ashamed to see herself so broken in front of them demanding such a grand favor. The words caught in her throat as she tried to answer and a pained whine came out instead.
“Your High Lord died. If you are High Lady, the power should have gone to you, should it not?”
Feyre shook her head, watching the worst moment in her life all over again, the agony of losing him. She felt nothing except loss, an ache that went down to the marrow of her bones, there was nothing else to focus on.
“You should have felt the rumble of power, the connection between you and all living things within the Night Court, if you had been chosen. The magic binds the Lord and the land. It isn’t about rule, it’s about safety.”
“Shut up,” Feyre growled. She didn’t care, she wanted away from this place, she wanted to go back home. Before she could blink they were in the River House. She was still kneeling on the floor with her arms holding herself together as she had on the battlefield they just departed from, but instead of singed leathers she was in her usual sweater and leggings. The rotten smell of death that clung to her skin had been replaced with flowers but the echo remained. She could hear no others within the home, no heartbeats or footsteps.
“I fear you genuinely do not understand what I mean when I ask what you felt, as it relates to your title and your Court. I suppose no one taught you much aside from immediate relevance, though that was hardly your fault.” The Mother, now in a suit so similar to Rhys instead of battle gear, drifted down a hall towards Rhys’ office, like she knew where to find it. I suppose she does , Feyre thought as she got off her knees to follow. At least she was reeling in a familiar place instead of a battle.
As she turned into the doorway she startled at seeing the Mother sitting in Rhys’ chair, feet kicked up on the desk as if she belonged. Indignation rose within her, then flooded away just as quickly as she was too exhausted to respond further. Too tired to fight, she fell into her usual chair across the space, and propped her head on her hand waiting for the lecture to begin.
“It has never been simply a ceremony. It is the magic of this world, choosing its next protector. Somewhere along the way the meaning changed for you all from protector to ruler, but the High Lord is the strongest match in magic to the land in order to guard it and its creatures. They are quite literally bound to one another. One must succeed for the other to. If one is doomed, both are.”
That was…not how it had been described to Feyre. Parts were the same, but certainly not the aspect of protection outside what it meant to be responsible for a people. She had thought the meaning of the Lord being the Court was more symbolic than anything.
“I can show you, if you would like,” the Mother said to her, gesturing vaguely, and Feyre nodded.
Frigid, biting cold seeped into her bones and they ached as they scraped against one another, her joints made of hard stone underneath her skin, frozen and brittle. Her skin that was now blackest night, no stars shining, only a depthless void that seemed to cave in on itself endlessly. Beyond what her eyes showed her she could see craggy mountain peaks and a group of creatures she couldn’t name moving down one face, with long sinuous necks and cat-like faces, winding down the rock. Faint screams reached her on the howling wind, and louder screams came from somewhere beneath her feet. Her nose filled with the scent of jasmine but cloying instead of subtle, too sweet against the strong undertone of harsh copper. Of blood.
And the pain. Aside from the chill aching her body, she could feel the sharp bite of whips against her back, flogging her flesh over and over, bits of metal ripping away skin with each crack. A sharp pain against her jaw as if someone had punched her, then she wheezed as her breath went out from a phantom shot to her ribs. She agonized over wings protruding from her back, the tendons clipped and membranes shredded, an immediate heavy weight dragging her backwards. It was pain that she had never felt before. Gods, is this what the Mother meant when asking if she could feel it?
It was gone in an instant.
“Do you understand now? Your Court is hurting, child. It is dying and you do not even know, nor understand why. If you did, how could you bear it?” The Mother lowered her feet and leaned towards Feyre, hands steepled atop the desk.
No, she didn’t understand. Velaris was a utopia, and the Hewn City and Illyria liked how they lived. Insisted on it. Rhys had been trying to drag them forward towards equality his entire rule but change took time. They didn’t want to be good. The Mother didn’t understand, things had to seem easy if you were a god.
Again the sad eyes held her gaze, penetrating her soul. She looked out the window to Velaris beyond, pushing the thought away.
“The job of High Lord is a difficult one, all life within the land is his to guard. A stable land means a stable Lord, and he can focus on keeping his people safe from those they cannot keep themselves safe from. If you felt that every day, would you believe your people to be cared for? That you are guiding them to safety instead of controlling and punishing the ones you hate? Can you say your Court of Dreams actually dreams of anything to benefit those outside your Circle and your chosen city?”
Feyre didn’t answer. Her mind was too busy caving in on itself. He had lied. Again. She was no High Lady. Instead, she simply stood up, walked out the door towards the room she shared with him, then crawled into bed and wept.
Cold water doused him, a veritable cauldron full soaking him head to toe and puddling in the tiny cracks and divots in the stone. He spluttered, shaking his head like an animal and blinking the water from his eyes, slicking his hair back to get a look at whatever had drenched him.
The creature had returned.
“Your reasons for killing so many of my children. I want them,” she said after a moment, then turned her back on him and shuffled her way back to the dais, stepping heavily towards the throne and sitting back upon reaching it. Rhysand looked up at the being before bowing his head, hoping his show of deference this time would grant him a modicum of leeway.
“Children are a blessing,” he responded automatically, which wasn’t an answer and certainly not what this monster wanted to hear. But he wanted her to know he understood. Wanted her to know how desperate he was to get to Nyx.
“I am aware. But for your Court of Dreams you killed ten by ten thousand of them. Why.”
A hundred thousand. More than that. All for Velaris.
“Your secret city, yes.”
He had had plenty of time to formulate his response while waiting in the dark, knowing the thing would return at some point but not when. In the hours between sleeping and suffering he had written speech after speech in his mind, never liking one enough to feel confident about its ability to spring him from this trap. He had a feeling after his previous encounter with this monster that she would take no comfort from his fine words and silver tongue. That did not mean he couldn’t try.
“Velaris is the jewel of the Night Court. A haven for those who seek refuge from the cruelties of Prythian. A place for those of us who dream of a better world, hidden to be a true sanctuary, a piece of goodness in this wretched place.” The words were familiar in his mouth, the same ones he had spoken to Feyre upon whisking her away from Spring. “A home my ancestors protected with their magic and their blood millennia ago, and that I felt honor-bound to do the same for.” His hand went to his heart and he bowed his head again, waiting for the creature to respond.
“Yet it was a city so protected it had never been breached in five thousand years.” She blinked slowly, the black eyes turning upon him with a fierce intensity, like onyx stones glimmering in the light of the fire. She scraped one talon down the arm of her throne before tapping it against the bones twice. “So I know you did not destroy them all for that.”
Her silver form leaned forward, freeing her wings from behind her back as she stretched them their full length towards the edges of the cavern. She wasn’t launching herself at him yet, but the subtle threat was clear. He backed away a few paces and went to one knee for several breaths before standing again, pulling the chain he was attached to a little further out of her reach should she dart her arm out to yank him down into the ground. It hung heavy around his neck. A dark chuckle floated through his mind, I bow to nothing and no one but my crown. He had told Feyre that once. What a mockery he was now.
He made to speak again, rolling his shoulders back and looking up at her. He still had his pride. His honor. Its eyes had narrowed in displeasure, the ability for someone else to hear his thoughts and not the other way around catching him again. He would have to be more prudent.
“I took any threat to Velaris seriously, and would stop at nothing to keep it safe. If that means taking a more… proactive approach to its security, so be it. I will flay any mind, vanquish any foe to keep it hidden. I will never apologize for that.”
The monster on her throne of rock and bones considered him for a long, long time, though his face remained defiant as the minutes ticked by. At least he kept the snarl from his lips, though he was failing his usual cool mask of indifference. Then she did the most unexpected thing.
She laughed.
If her voice had been grating before, her laugh was an avalanche thundering down a mountain, weighty enough to make his bones shake as it echoed within the vast space. He remained as motionless as he could, but couldn’t help his eyes from darting to the sharp rocks that hung above him.
“Truth still, and yet still not correct. I should cut your clever tongue out.” Another grunt and she shook her wings out before tucking them back, sharp points visible behind her shoulders. Black stones stared at him, a crease furrowing its brow. “Bend the truth to your liking no longer, tied up in pretty words. I know your every thought. I know each of your deeds.”
Before he could blink a dagger flew past his ear, its aim either luckily wrong or precisely true, slicing the delicate point off before hitting the wall somewhere behind him and skittering away into the darkness. Another weapon too far from his grasp and another hurt in this horrid place devoted to breaking him.
“I know that you enjoyed controlling death,” she whispered, her sickly smile dropping to harsh planes as weathered as the Myrmidons.
He jerked, the movement finished before he could even think about stopping it. It shouldn’t have been a surprise - this creature could read his thoughts after all - but to hear someone else say it aloud threw him. Of course all the Courts had their own ideas, deeming him the scourge of Prythian, evil incarnate. He didn’t care about their opinions. They had known nothing for so long of what he was protecting. He thrived in their hatred, knowing whatever they had could not compare to Velaris and his Circle. His time serving Amarantha only helped ruin their Courts that much further so Velaris could continue shining like a beacon of light in the dark of Prythian. His haven.
“You have had a thirst for killing far longer than anyone knows,” she murmured, clacking one long talon against the floor, shifting in her chair for a more comfortable position. The firelight flickered against her black eyes, those craters unsettling him the longer he looked. The creature held his gaze, unblinking.
“High Fae have always been devious. Illyrians have rage in their blood. But you were more…calculated.” She smiled again, fangs glistening, sharp and dripping as her lips curled back from her teeth. “Even as a child.”
On the wall across from him shadows once again made a macabre scene. They formed figures he had thought back on so many times that the memories he had now of the incidents were stacked upon each other, each a little different than the one before. Scenes played from the camps, of the brutal training they received at the hands of the camp lords, even when they were young. Small males fighting and slashing and flying, learning attack patterns they would be using in a few short decades. The images were hot as an iron strike straight to his temple.
Flames soaring towards the heavens turned into treetops, bodies of Illyrians lengthening to become the trunks of trees, a part of the forest in deep Illyria where few went. Along the long lines that made up the trees, a figure hunched, making itself as small as possible to avoid detection. A dozen paces away he saw the outline of his younger self lurking, hiding from the other youngling. He watched as his younger self drew closer to the smaller figure crouched on the opposite end, silent and stealthy. The other Illyrian suddenly went taut before crumpling onto the ground, and as he knew it would, the shadow of himself crept towards the heap throwing cautious looks over his shoulder.
“We Illyrians are a harsh people, we accept bloodshed in the name of glory and honor. Where was the honor in that.”
He swiped his hand through his hair, thinking. That time, the first time, at least, had been purely accidental. Derec was one of the bastard orphans, one of too many that lurked about the outskirts of Windhaven, too young for training yet and trying to survive. He wouldn’t have made it that winter, unable to care for himself and too small to fight for scraps. He had come across Derec when flying through the woods, practicing his dodging, and saw the youngling hiding along the branches. Aiming for stealth he had inched closer to the boy, wanting to finally test his powers on something bigger than an animal. He needed to practice but hadn’t meant to push so far. For a brief spell he had held Derec’s mind, poked around to see what he could find, but with the larger being he misjudged his control. He got it wrong. It was an accident which meant it was dishonorable.
It was the first time he killed.
More curious at how he could practice this new skill than guilty over rupturing a mind, he had convinced himself that he had done Derec a favor. His death was likely whether it was the elements or Illyrians or bad luck, and he had not suffered when Rhysand prodded too far into his mind. The more he repeated this lie to himself over the decades that followed, the more it warped to justification and ultimately truth. Even if no one ever would have known for how tightly it was locked in the labyrinth of his mind.
“I will agree there was no honor, but this was an accident. A terrible mistake caused by lack of knowledge.
“Yes. This one was. There were many more that came after.” The creature raised her hand towards the bonfire again and the shadows against the wall shifted. More figures hiding in the woods, the passage of time shown in Rhysand’s size as he grew from boyhood to a near-adult male. After that first incident he skulked about during the windows of freedom his station provided, when even his mother was too busy to keep an eye on him. It was practice . He would explore the woods, searching for hovels that may hide some orphan trying to survive the camp. Thick forest kept the ground from being blanketed with snow, offering what little help it could to the younglings left there. There weren’t plenty, but there were enough.
Precision. If he was going to use this tool at his disposal, this gift only he had so no one could teach him, and the only one who knew of it, he had to become perfect. If he could do that, he would never want in the course of his long, long life. Coupled with the power he expected to receive upon succeeding his father, he could be unstoppable.
It became a challenge.
What could he control? What were the limits to a fae mind? Break too many and it would become noticeable, even here in the desolate north filled with barbarians and bleakness. Small victims first, minds too empty to do much damage, as he learned the paths thoughts took, saw how to delve into them and blend them with his own desires. Rudimentary, but necessary, and if mistakes were made they could be easily fixed. As he grew, so did the others, and the practice became more tailored. Instead of learning and testing, now he was training. What did it feel like to control? How hard was it to pull the threads tied to people and make them dance on his strings?
It felt good. Reassuring. Helpful to a half-bred bastard like him. Just another weapon in his armory.
The shadowy woods on the wall shifted into a training ring, Rhysand and Cassian facing off, a crowd of other Illyrians surrounding them and jeering. A jab here, a sweep of the leg there - he could never match Cassian’s bulk but he was no slouch either when it came to fights. For each step Cassian shoved him back he immediately tried to gain two more. It was slow going, so he had tried to speed things up a little bit. A tendril here, slithering through the canals of the mind, and when he roared and pushed forward again he gave a little caress to his friend, who went down to one knee. It was all he needed. He rained blows down on Cassian as he tried to rise, but at this age his brother hadn’t gained the speed needed to move his size quickly. Rhys won the bout.
After that, he practiced his tricks until it became as easy as breathing.
Each fight he would test new methods, trying subtle efforts of accessing, holding, and controlling someone’s mind. Sometimes his mental links were like roots creeping in and diving into the depths of a mind, to the memories held most dear. Other times they seeped into the crevasses of memory, filling holes and plugging in falsehoods to determine how long they would last. His power would stroke the right spot and their body would become wet clay to mold, performing actions under his command. The years passed and his power and talent grew, moving from general control to fine tuning perfection, seeing how long he could hold a mind when passively controlling it instead of actively. Then how many minds he could control at the same time. Then how many he could keep running in the background as he focused on far more important matters.
By the time the Blood Rite came around, it was hardly a thought to operate the minds of those they encountered on the mountain, killing some here, wounding others there to make it look believable. Altering his brothers’ memories so they wouldn’t know. Illyrian magic was bound by the Rite, but there was never any consideration for a daemati Illyrian, let alone one who was also half High fae. There was never a need to prevent magic like his from existing in the challenge. The Rite was all about using your wits, wasn’t it?
“Death rests on your shoulders like a shroud, Mind-Killer. How many fae minds did you own before your end?” Her brutal voice broke him from his memory, having stopped watching the scenes on the wall long ago in favor of reminiscing. He looked towards her, her bat-like face snarling as she waited on his answer. “I know the number, but do you? Did you ever wonder?”
Drawing itself to its full height the monster rose and took one step down, then another, each causing the pebbles to jump as she made her way towards him on the floor below. The flames lowered causing haunting shadows to stretch along the walls, reaching towards him, almost touching him as she stalked closer.
“The cost is high, Lord of Terror. The number of your dead? Double it. Triple it. Then you will come close.” Her laughter returned, that awful sound like bones snapping. “Let me see if you will like what you have borne unto others. If this is a fair trade for Velaris and your family.”
Before he could blink a sharp talon point speared into his mind, and he experienced another sensation for the first time in his entire life. Rhysand was not in control.
Again Cassian and Mor winnowed, the place where Mor’s hand connected with his arm on fire as she brought them back to the River House, her other arm still holding on to Rhys as they dragged his corpse with them where they went. In the chaos they had forgotten Madja and sought her now to determine whatever this new threat was that was burning Cassian from the inside out. As if enough tragedy hadn’t struck this day already, let alone in his life now he found himself dying, screaming as the Illyrian stains patterning his skin burned away, embers crackling like the flesh of a pig as it sloughed off once the fire passed. The sacred tattoos of his homeland now blistered and red as the fire worked its way down his torso.
Mor was hauling him, incredible despite the weight and size of two grown fae males, her own exhaustion pulling at her as she scrambled from one emergency to the next. She yanked his arm and winnowed again, the shorter jump taking them to the receiving room where they had waited earlier.
Somehow he had missed the relentless screaming behind the sound of those fucking swords in his head but Mor dropped him to the floor and he heard it. An unearthly wail from just behind him, a banshee who had arrived late and keened after death instead of before, but his skin was on fire, melting away across his thighs and knees now as his shirt scraped painfully against the more recent injuries there. He had to get up, for Mor. Whatever had startled her he had to see, he needed her to be okay. One of them had to be okay. He turned his head, trying to get purchase and off the floor.
He wasn’t prepared for the site of Elain floating and screaming, light bursting forth from within her. What the fuck was happening.
“E- Elain?” Mor whispered, reaching a tentative hand towards the helpless body trapped in stasis.
Elain’s head snapped to the side and she ceased her haunting cry, her unholy stare pinning them like deer before a wolf, except this time she was the predator. Elain had always been the safe one, innocent, the Archeron who needed their protection the most and was grateful for it. But right now she looked terrifying, dark honey hair glowing and pearlescent eyes boring into them, freezing their muscles. Mor had her hand still stretched out and Cassian fell to his knees as the last of his tattoos down his calves crackled, leaving angry blistered skin in its wake. It wasn’t magic that held them though, it was simply Elain.
She turned in midair and floated down until her toes touched the plush carpet. She raised one arm slowly, her wrist limp and hand dangling as she pointed towards them, so reminiscent of her elder sister. Then she spoke.
“Lord of Bloodshed. With the fall of the Raven, the noose unravels and you are free. Though the burden of blame is not yours alone, your hands are soaked in blood. Pain shall be your companion as the mist fades from your gaze. The flesh shall bear the truth first, marked by signs of betrayal. A life of penance awaits, and only through seeking the truth between what was the Raven’s doing and what was yours shall redemption be known.
“The Morrigan. You raise your golden face to the stars, while shadows fester behind you, forgotten and decaying. Thousands gnash their teeth beneath the weight of you, their torment the price of your silence. Sweet-tongued falsehoods spill from your lips, wrapped in gold and swallowed as truth. Though you dazzle like the sunlit peak, your soul is carved from the black stone of the mountain you hate - cold, unyielding, and dark as the void beneath. You will fall to its depths and none shall pity you.”
“Sara’fim.” Elain hissed. “Your God has not forgotten you, harbinger of death. Though your new vessel hides your mangled soul, the scent of your sins is too potent to be ignored. For long enough you have spent satisfying curiosity and playing at His role. Remember - Al’Shaddai holds no love for false gods.” A sickly sweet smile came upon her face, at odds with her rasping voice. “Remember what His punishments are to those who do not obey.”
Her stare held them, frozen, silent, and breathless before they heard movement from the door to Rhys and Feyre’s chamber.
Madja stepped out into the dramatic scene; Elain, eldritch and glowing, Cassian and Mor fixed in place, the dead body of the High Lord next to them, Amren pressed tightly against the wall breathing heavily in the silence and eyes wide in visible fear - Cassian hadn’t even known she was still there, nor that she even knew how to feel afraid. Was that who Elain meant there at the end? Where is Az? Madja looked at all of them, eyes wide with fear and confusion wafting off her in droves. A small bundle with two tiny peaks on its back was held close to her chest, wrapped tightly in one of the soft blankets Feyre had purchased ages ago in anticipation of this day. She held the babe closer, as if they, the Inner Circle, were a threat to the heir of the Night Court.
Then she uttered three small words before she sent a desperate wave of magic to them to put them to sleep. As he fell under, he thought he heard her say “Mother help us.”
Notes:
Oh hypocrisy, Rhysand or Feyre could by this name. They've got some lessons to learn and nothing to do but learn them. Feyre I will consider giving the benefit of the doubt given her age and Rhys' manipulations but I don't believe for one millionth of a second Rhys' shtick about being poor, misunderstood High Lord with a heart of gold and a bad attitude. And since we only know what he's told us about his past....
And what the hell is happening to the Inner Circle? Elain an eldritch being now? Cassian and Azriel burning up from the inside? Their day keeps getting worse and worse.
Chapter 10: Third Time's The Charm
Summary:
The goddesses make their final decision regarding Feyre and Rhysand.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hours, days, or weeks - Feyre could have laid in bed silently crying for any amount of time and it would have felt the same with no change of light to designate the passage. She never felt hungry or tired or antsy while laying there, nor did she ever run out of tears, but she didn’t feel much of anything aside from sorrow. Not that it mattered. Right now she was tired of feeling things.
At some point during her wallowing she felt a dip on the mattress near her feet and felt a hand against her calf. For a long while after the movement it was silent except for her own sniffles, but after it stretched past too long, she heard the Mother whisper quietly, “We must speak of his other lies. You know which I refer to.”
Her blanket shifted slightly, the only acknowledgement she would make that she heard the Mother. She burrowed a little deeper into the bed, curling in on herself. If they were going to continue discussing all her choices and how they were wrong, she didn’t need to contribute. At least it would be over faster.
The Mother had other plans.
“Why do you think he didn’t tell you? Not the reasons he gave for not telling you. Why do you think he kept it secret, and forced the others to as well?” The hand that was on her calf squeezed, a brief pressure before the weight lifted.
Feyre thought, going through the emotions she felt that day - like being doused with icy water - and all the preparation she had been doing leading up to it. How excited she was to become a mother and how terrified she felt at the possibility she would be horrible at it. How Rhys had reassured her every step of the way, making her feel so safe and cared for, confirming he would be the perfect father to Nyx.
But he was lying.
She swiped a hand against her cheeks, and after another few moments of thought finally responded.
“I believe him when he says that he didn’t want me to worry.” A hum from near her feet. “I don’t think he wanted me to jump into action without thinking first. This is something I’ve never experienced before.”
“And he has?”
She paused. “Well, yes? He knows more about fae births than I do.”
“But he didn’t know how to solve this.”
Fucking stubborn goddess. She was like a dog with a bone.
“Stubborn indeed. But as I said, he didn’t know either, he isn’t an Illyrian female. And even if you had wanted to do something rash, it is still your own body. Why could you not find a solution together, or find an Illyrian healer to speak with given both your lack of knowledge? Why would he tell everyone but you and have them keep it secret?”
Feyre didn’t know. The question had been chewing on her since she found out, gnawing away in the background when her mind was wandering. She knew Rhys wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t want to upset her and stress the babe, but they could have supported one another. Been there for each other. But what hurt more was her family keeping it from her. An old memory floated to the forefront of her mind, how she had once known without a doubt that Cass and Az would support her over Rhys if it was the right thing to do. But now she had proof they wouldn’t. The only one who had was Nesta. Nesta who would never lie to her. And Rhys had wanted to kill her for it.
But why wouldn’t Rhys just tell me?
“You will not like the answer but you must know the truth.” The Mother had gotten off the bed and was wandering around the room, looking at the artifacts and artwork hanging on the wall. She took a special interest in the Ouroboros self portrait Feyre had created for her mate. She eyed it critically then turned back towards Feyre and squinted, trying to see the monster that lurked within.
Feyre considered and turned over in the bed to be more directly facing the Mother. She didn’t have the energy yet to get up, her heart too broken to convince her of movement. She remained silent though, certain the Mother would tell her whether she wanted it or not. As expected, the Mother took a breath before ruining Feyre’s life a little more.
“Rhysand loves to espouse choices. He says he always gives you a choice, but have you ever paid attention to the choices proffered if he gives you one at all?” A silent beat waiting for Feyre’s response, but she didn’t give it.
“Always claiming you can make your own decisions, but always between what he actually wants and another option less…desirable. Do you remember the choices he gave you and others?”
Feyre thought back to her time with Rhys, but now she was unsure. Already she had been shown her own memories were wrong, so what else would be wrong in her mind too?
“There was the choice he gave Tamlin and Lucien, either to bow to him or he would break your mind.” Feyre shuddered, the moment still fresh after their earlier visit to Spring.
“There was also the bargain under the mountain when he saved your life - he heals you in exchange for your soul or you die. But you weren’t given all the information needed to make that choice. He hurt you to get that agreement. Even though he suspected you were mates then?” She scoffed, folding her arms across her chest.
The list continued, various decisions she had made based on what Rhys offered her, even if she thought there were other options and kept them to herself. More decisions he had given their family in her presence. It seemed over time the options he provided shrank as she grew closer to him and more in tune with his thinking, until finally she was shown the question of whether Nesta wanted to go to the House of the Wind for her healing or the human lands.
“A choice between imprisonment or expected death. That’s not really a choice at all now, is it.” The Mother turned to her, an eyebrow quirked as she waited for a response and a stern look on her face. Feyre had remained silent for hours as they went through the memories, she wasn’t inclined to start answering or speaking to the Mother now. She buried herself further under the blankets but kept her eyes locked on the other female. “Interesting how quickly you agreed, given you were also once imprisoned in a house you couldn’t leave. And what a choice you made after that happened in your desire for revenge against your jailor.”
Finally reacting, Feyre threw the blankets off her, anger bristling through her instead of misery. “She wasn’t imprisoned, she could leave if she wanted!” The Mother turned sharply at the movement, eyebrow quirked, and as she did the suit changed back to leathers, gems dangling around her face and a giant sword was now visible jutting over her shoulder. So much like…
“Then what about the choice he never gave you, day after day, about your child. Why did you forgive him so easily for that?” The Mother’s eyes were fire.
“Because he thought he was doing the right thing, and because I needed him. I wanted him.”
“And that’s good enough for you? That your death was an acceptable price if it meant the birth of his heir? He said you could not shift because it would harm your babe, regardless of whether shifting meant saving you. Does he not love you? Are you not his mate? Shouldn’t you be more important than all else by my decree?”
No, she wouldn’t listen to this. That’s not what Rhys was like, he loved her and was trying to save them both. He had to have been saving them both. He wouldn’t have let her die just so Nyx could live. But wasn’t that what she had decided to do too?
“Would your answer change if you knew he was trying to break your bargain?”
What. He couldn’t have been doing that, he had promised. They would never be apart, they would leave this world together. But if he had tried, maybe it was to give Nyx a parent. Even if one of them could survive, that was better than neither.
The Mother clearly did not agree. No longer interrogating Feyre, she was blinding in her wrath, the silver aura surrounding her blazing like a beacon.
“Why do you still defend his actions? Why do you insist he knows what is best? He has humiliated you. He has assaulted you. He has coerced you. He has used you as a shield against his enemies. He has lied and kept the truth from you, leading to your death. The death of your child . All under illusions and glamours and false titles to make his manipulations seem like a dream come true.” The Mother started pacing, her clothes flickering between a flowing gown and leathers. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she walked, her anxiety palpable.
Feyre’s stomach filled with bile and she bared her teeth at the goddess before her, black clouding her vision. “I defend him because he is my mate ! Because he saw me at my worst and chose to stand beside me and lift me up, not lock me away! He made me his equal. And- and because I love him!” Her chest heaved, she had gone from numb to furious and she knew the Mother would feel her righteous anger.
“Equal,” the Mother tsked. “You are not his equal, you never have been. Your power was the merest fraction of what a High Lord possesses. The Spell-Cleaver told you that. Like a scale from a fish, such a small amount it was barely noticed. Your strength was your versatility, your creativity. It wasn’t because you were equals. There was a more nefarious purpose for claiming you.”
Her heart stuttered, that was wrong. She had all their gifts, Rhys had said they were equals, that the mating bond made them so. He loved her, that’s what the bond was. Pure love.
“Rhys says many things, but you ignore his actions,” the Mother knelt and grabbed Feyre’s hands, imploring her to understand. “Why do you allow yourself to be treated like that by him, you claim he sees you as his equal but always defer to his power, even your Circle does, looking to him for confirmation, even about you. Why do you allow him to harm you, your sisters, and your people? You claim to care but they suffer everywhere except Velaris, Feyre. How is Mor the only dreamer? Why are Illyrians nothing more than fodder for war? Why was a city that was already hidden for eons saved while the rest of your Court was left for ruin?”
She stepped away quickly again, back to pacing the large room. “He has forced you into bargains, taken away your choices, and lied to you. The woman who went under the mountain, who learned to love a fae with a hateful human heart, would not stand for this. You were prickly and rude but you had some morals underneath your stubborn skin. Would the Feyre who regretted killing two fae under the mountain, who was drowning in her guilt, even recognize the version of you that you are now?”
“I told you, she died,” Feyre snarled.
“Yes, your body died, but your soul, your heart - that remained! You cared about others at first, the water wraiths, Alis, your hesitation regarding the theft in Summer. Then you stopped. The more time you spent with him, the less you stayed yourself. It is not so simple as the natural changes that come with maturity. Whatever goodness you had, gone, as he twisted you further and further into his schemes.”
“I’m not listening to this anymore, you witch. Take me to my afterlife. Take me to my mate.” Feyre rose and stomped towards the door to leave and go anywhere without this infernal being, but as she had before in Spring when she exited the room she found herself entering it again. Frustrated, she lunged towards a nearby table to grab a priceless dagger and flung it at the Mother’s head.
The blade barely made it halfway away before it halted, hovering in midair. Where before the shadow of a plea had been on the Mother’s face now there was nothing but furious contempt. Disgust curled the Mother’s lip and slowly, so slowly, the Mother twisted her wrist and the blade revolved, turning towards Feyre like it was being pushed through thick honey. Once the knifepoint faced her it continued to hover before floating towards her.
“I had thought to do this kindly, to let you come to the conclusion yourself for what he has done. Show you the depth of his deceit and put it all together. But you deign to attack me? For providing you the truth you are so desperate to ignore? Remember who you are with, child. There is nothing in this realm stronger than I.” The Mother flicked her fingers and the dagger flew through the air, embedding itself in the wall just beside Feyre’s delicate pointed ear.
“Here is the truth, Cursebreaker. Rhysand Ravenshear has seeped into your mind and made it his playground. Not the link you think you have, no. From the first moment he went into your mind in the Spring Court he has seen your every thought, every fear, every hope, every dream. He has seen all of you, all of your darkest nooks and crannies, and used it to his advantage. He has grown roots from the smallest seed that strengthened with every bargain you made. He is not your mate-”
Feyre froze, that was impossible. The Suriel had said they were mates, and the Suriel knew all knowledge. There was no way they couldn’t be mates, not when they matched so well together, body and soul. She couldn’t accept this, she wouldn’t.
“ -nor is he all powerful. He is simply a fae with a particularly strong gift who saw an opportunity and took it, a way to bind you to him forever and to create powerful offspring, just as Tamlin warned you all those months ago. And you were simply a naive human girl who wanted so badly to be loved and to never feel powerless again.”
Her mind was racing, frantically searching back through all the visions and memories she had just been shown. The Mother was wrong, that was all. A loud ringing filled her head but all she could shout was “No, you’re lying. Rhys wouldn’t do this, he loves me!”
“Oh, do his talons reach deep into the depths of your mind,” the Mother snapped back, prowling towards her.
“Don’t speak that way about him!” Feyre yelled, the ringing in her ears growing to a roar. She was tired of hearing this slander. He was a good male. He did terrible things because he had to, because he had to protect his people. It was always for the greater good, to keep the Night Court safe. And he would never hurt her.
“You insolent whelp. Have you learned nothing this whole time?” the Mother growled, eyes flashing. She flicked her hand and Feyre slammed into the wall, hitting it with a thud that cracked her skull. She thrashed until the Mother’s wrist twisted again and she was immobile, bound by air, hovering above the floor and against the wall. Trapped.
“You both have abused others directly and been complicit in the abuse of your citizens in the Hewn City, Illyria, and the wilds of your Court by your inaction. Are you saying you agreed it was for the best? As ruler, it is your responsibility to protect them, not abandon them.” The Mother grew larger and larger, shoulders back and chin held high as she kept Feyre frozen. “Are they also not citizens of the Night Court who deserve your protection?”
“No, they’re wicked monsters. We deal with them as they deserve.”
The Mother’s face turned grotesque as she stepped closer towards Feyre, gems bobbing as she leaned forward. “You honestly believe that don’t you? Because each person not in Velaris deserves the terror they suffer at your hands. Simply for being born in the wrong place. Simply because the Nightmare and his Inner Circle told you that.”
Her hand stretched out and Feyre felt her limbs constrict more, being pressed flatter against the wall. She feared her bones would shatter before the wall would give. Before the Mother gave up this fight.
“You both have raped the minds of others, pushing fabricated thoughts to get your way, ensnaring innocents in your traps. Destroying Spring was part of that. You say those were your own actions, truly?”
“I did no such thing, I’m not that, ” she choked out. She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t have to listen to this. Everything she did was for a purpose. He deserved it, Tamlin deserved it.
“Is the forced entry of one person into another not rape? Whether it be of the body or of the mind, it is not given freely. Do you ask permission every time you do so, or do you allude to protecting their privacy while you worm your way in like he does?” She waited, menacing, threatening, for Feyre to respond.
Feyre turned her head and remained silent. She didn’t have to listen to this. It was for a good reason. It wasn’t her fault.
“Your theft of the Book of Breathings led to the instability of the Summer Court which also brought deaths in the thousands. Your actions led to invasions, hunger, and war,” the Mother plowed on. She was steps away now, a giant in front of her - no longer the kindly figure who looked like her own mother, she had changed once more. The figure before her now was wearing a shining suit of silver armor, massive sword visible over her shoulder and woven crown sparkling with an inner light.
“Do you recognize your part in this? The blood that drenched your hands?”
A beat passed. Then another. Feyre kept silent.
“Fine. Let’s see the consequences of the choices you have made, Feyre Archeron.” With that the Mother took Feyre’s head in both hands and she was hit with another wave of memories, more turbulent than before.
She was Clare, hanging from the wall under the mountain, screaming her throat raw, the horror of watching her body be broken, flayed, and skinned was enough to terrify her without the excruciating pain she felt as she was peeled apart, her body burned, and her mind gripped by sharp talons holding her still. Why did this happen? What had she done? Why wouldn’t they let her die?
She was Tarquin, head in his hands as he wrapped himself in guilt over losing the Book of Breathings. A powerful artifact entrusted to him as High Lord, and he had been conned by the stolen Bride of Spring. He was already a failure barely years into his reign, even as Cresseida smoothed her hand across his back, trying to draw him out of his shame. His people would never forgive him. How could he rule if he could be tricked so easily? He was so naive. The magic chose wrong, it should have been someone else.
She was Lucien, looking at herself in the mountains with Rhys lurking in the background as great Illyrian wings took shape behind her. But she couldn’t read, she couldn’t write, and had rebuffed Tamlin when he offered to teach her. How could he know she really wrote it? How could he be sure Rhysand hadn’t burrowed into her mind and controlled her? Feyre, please come home.
She was Bron, paranoid and confused as his reality broke down around him. His memories were wrong, he didn’t trust them. Were his surroundings even real? Maybe he would wake up and learn that Andras was still alive, the curse was still unbroken, but he knew the Cursbreaker was real. What did she do to him?
She was a Spring child, running for her life away from Hybern’s monsters. Ducking into a tree hollow to hide but being grabbed by the foot and drug out into the light. Glistening sharp teeth in a wide mouth as it snapped its jaws against her leg and she screamed and screamed and screamed for her mother, for her father. Where was Papa?
She was the Lady of Autumn, fire burning her skin, but from this young female in front of her instead of her husband for the first time in centuries. A girl she had tried to help under the mountain. One she had hoped was a friend to her youngest, though rumor claimed she had betrayed him too and destroyed his home. No longer would she give that girl the benefit of kindness, she was as wretched as her forsaken mate.
She was a winter soldier, fighting in the battle and being pushed back, back, back by the Hybernian horde. They were being overwhelmed and desperately needed support. Why does the Cursebreaker not fight with us? Why does she not care? She primed these lands for attack but she sits by the Cauldron while they die in droves all around.
She was Nesta, sitting in the River House office as Feyre informed her she was going to the House of the Wind even if she had to be tied up and hauled there. Flashing back to the night she and Elain were kidnapped, the terror she felt as they were attacked and bound, the smell of blood so strong before a rotten gag was shoved into her mouth and a sack thrown over her head, fae hands clawing and bruising through her thin, torn nightgown. The screams of their servants and sentries loud in her ears before cutting off sharply as she kicked and thrashed. Where were her sister’s people that were meant to protect them?
She was back in the present, panting as she hung against the wall. Just like Clare. No, this was wrong. She wasn’t the reason for these things happening. She wasn’t.
“Are the choices that led to these moments something you can honestly say you would have done, before you met the Lord of Night? A woman who once was so wracked with guilt over killing two fae who doesn’t blink at the harm she now causes others? Are you truly so awful as to accept these actions? My children suffered because of your decisions.” The Mother remained in front of her, silver fire flickering in her eyes as she asked Feyre these questions.
Feyre shook her head. No, this wasn’t right. She had reasons. These moments all lead to something greater, a world of dreams. But was that true? No, it couldn’t be. But it was. Why would the Mother lie? She had done these things, and not given one second of thought for what would come after. Happy in her vengeance. Confident in her actions. No. She was not a monster. This was wrong.
“Fine then. If even after that you still don’t see the collar Rhysand Mind-Killer has around your neck, then you leave me no choice. I will cut him out myself.”
With that, the Mother yanked the dagger embedded in the wall and thrust it straight into Feyre’s eye.
She felt a phantom of metal sliding through and getting caught on bone, but there was no pain. She still screamed though, looking at the dagger hilt from the corner of her good eye, then screamed louder as the blade twisted, driving deeper into her skull. The Mother had a look of feral joy on her face, baring her teeth as she pushed it further in. The tip hit something solid behind and then the Mother wrenched her arm back to rip the blade from her body.
What trailed behind was horrific. Hanging off the blade yet still connected to Feyre’s body was an oozing black substance, jelly-like and moving. It wriggled and bubbled, and liquid dripped onto the floor, sizzling and burning through the carpet. The smell was horrendous, sulfur and brimstone and something rancid that made her want to vomit. The substance stretched longer between them until the weight of it caused it to droop onto the ground, sizzling where it touched, yet still it was somehow within Feyre’s body, thinner but there. The Mother tossed aside the knife, roaring her displeasure and grabbed the thing with her bare hands, pulling with strength until finally the end fell to the floor in a heap. The ground beneath it smoked, the goo itself boiling on the carpet and burning a hole through clear to the foundation.
Before Feyre could blink a blaze of flames shot from the Mother to incinerate the thing on the floor. She stood tall across from Feyre, eyes liquid fire while she destroyed whatever it was that had been inside her. Mouth open and screaming at whatever Rhys had put there, though it couldn’t be heard over the sound of the roaring magic.
Her head was muddled, somehow throbbing even more now than at any other point during this wretched ordeal. Pain lanced through the base of her skull like nails being driven through it. She hurt too much to even consider properly what just happened, and turned her face against the light that threatened to burn her too. In front of her the Mother chuckled low, extinguishing the flames that flared from her fingers by giving them a shake.
Feyre couldn’t see her say it, but she heard the Mother murmuring to herself about how enjoyable that was in the background. All she could do was groan, still frozen in the air with a splitting headache and a surprising emptiness within her. The anger she felt was gone now, vanishing like footprints in the sand. If this was some sick joke by the Mother it felt real, and she was exhausted. All she wanted was a pain tonic from Madja and a week’s worth of sleep.
“Believe me now, child?”
She grunted in response, head lolling against her shoulder as her body recovered from having that thing removed. Was she finally dying?
“No, Cursebreaker. I’m not finished with you yet.”
Low thrumming could be heard far in the distance. Though he wasn’t near the source of the sound he could feel it all amongst his being. He was in an empty void, no breeze against his skin or anything for him to scent. Only clean air and that deep hum that kept getting louder. Or did he feel it getting closer? He sought out the sound, trying to catch his bearings better on what it could be when he noticed a silver star making its way down. Did that monstrous creature finally finish with him and send him along to the land of milk and honey? Was the beautiful light before him Feyre and his son welcoming him to the After?
The thrumming increased its frequency, deep chords being strummed and reverberating throughout the space, moving him somehow even though he wasn’t moving at all, and the silver star kept falling towards him closer and closer in an erratic pattern. The rhythmic sound grew louder as the star neared, before he could finally make out the shape.
It wasn’t his family. It was this wretched goddess.
Her light grew and he could see she was taking great leaps along what appeared to be cables - some thin and grey, more wisp than weight, and others were thick and shining, humming with energy as she made her way towards him. Some were of a distance, and she would give a mighty flap of her wings when she came upon a gap too wide to leap. Each cable she jumped from produced the sounds he was hearing, the low notes and the high that were too faint to be noticed earlier. When her powerful muscles strained for the next leap the strength of her talons would shred the smaller threads and their ends fell away into the void below.
“So these are your threads,” she slurred, stretching a wing towards a rope thick as a column, the color of red wine twined together with another rope of matching size in deep indigo, spinning off into the void, connected yet not. The tip of her talon plucked it and the ropes unraveled. She hopped next to an enormous cable of blood red, thick and pulsing like a vein.
He hadn’t the faintest what it was talking about and tried to move closer but found he couldn’t. He had felt nothing earlier because he was nothing. There was no body, no skin - just his thoughts and naught else.
“What- what is happening.” He looked towards her without eyes and saw she had a sick grin on her face, black blood dripping from her lips as she smiled at him. She swayed slightly on the red cord, wings out to steady her balance as it rocked beneath her.
“You do not recognize them?” She leapt to another cable, a brighter red but significantly thinner, coming closer towards him. She caught it and swung upside down, heavy braids hanging from her head as she hung like a bat, wings spread wide and shining, illuminating the space with its light. “These are your threads. These are the minds you control.”
He ripped his gaze from her and back out into the endless void with new eyes. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of threads stretched out before him, visible now in her silvery glow as the monster grew larger and jumped to the largest cable of them all, a black thread the size of a small river, veined with stripes of gold but buried beneath pulsing black. It moved like rushing water. Behind him were also a heavy rope of cobalt, a thin strand of purplish-grey, and hundreds of shadowy threads that looked uniform clustered together in one row. All around him were ropes of different colors and different sizes, the numbers of minds he controlled upon his death laid before him in stark reality, his tapestry of threads.
“Now you are dead, they can be freed now, yes?” she taunted, taking one foot off the cable and plucking it harshly so it tumbled away into the dark. The monster dropped and swiftly shot back up with a beat of her wings, hovering midair before landing on a cable above him made of a dark earthy brown, in a dense forest of other brown and green and grey threads. “Which of the Illyrian princes is this?” A swift claw swiped beneath her and again the cable she stood on fell away and she hopped to another. A large bundle of the shadowy threads was before her, undulating in the dark and she raised a claw towards it and plucked. The insubstantial threads parted gently before they too faded away into nothing. “So many Darkbringers over the years. Keir had his…suspicions.”
The creature moved quicker now, darting from thread to thread, sometimes slicing one, sometimes slashing many. The light faded as she moved through the space and brightened as she returned, gleefully ripping the pattern before him. He could only watch. No magic, no physical self, absolutely fuck all he could do as this miserable thing ruined centuries of work. Not that it mattered anymore. He wanted to claw the thin membranes of her wings apart with his bare hands. He wanted to gouge her taunting eyes out, black gems gleaming in her pale disgusting face. He desired nothing more than ripping out her throat with his teeth, relishing in it. Fuck this monster being his god. He renounced her.
“You do not get to choose your gods, Mind-Killer. We simply are,” it hissed, flying now on the outer edges of his vision and using her sharp talons to shred dozens of cords with each beat of its wings. The thousands of threads from earlier were whittled down to hundreds, and some indeterminate amount of time later only a handful were left, the ones closest to where he felt he was. It stood on the cobalt thread now, bouncing a little as she stabilized her footing, even though this thread was on the thicker side.
“Has the Shadowsinger ever known life outside the control of your family?” Its voice was the creak of a rotten gate after long decades of disuse, and she peered at where he was before turning its back on him. Her eyes fell on the wide cable the color of blood, one that she wouldn’t be able to rip as easily as the others from earlier. “Would the Lord of Bloodshed ever know Lady Death was your gift to him for his loyalty, not his mate?”
Anger burst red hot from somewhere but he had nothing to channel it with, only a direction on where it should go.
“I made their lives better!” he raged. “I gave them everything they could have ever wanted! Anything they asked for!” Each action he took was to protect them. To keep them safe. He would never apologize for that.
“This is your protection?” the creature boomed, edging closer on the blue rope. A talon gave a gentle twang on it and the sound shivered around the echoing space. Her smile turned to a snarl, sharp teeth visible in the silvery glow. In a deeper voice filled with reckoning, “This is your ownership.” It snapped the blue rope it stood on and flapped to the lavender-grey which fell apart the instant her claw caressed it.
Rhysand could only watch as she soared around the room once more, making sharp corkscrew turns to slice through a wide petal pink cable before alighting on the deep red cord, sluggish and large, enough for her to stand comfortably. She took heavy steps across it before plunging both talons along the tops of her wings into the cable, using brute strength to tear it in half. With more effort than the others the ends eventually fell away into black, leaving the thick river of black and gold pulsing as the only remaining thread. The monster touched down and turned her face. Her look was grim.
“These handful were your reasons for the deaths of so many?”
His anger burned white hot as he viewed her atop his bond with Feyre. That beautiful connection between them. He had to find them. He had spent too long in this place already, and if they weren’t together wherever they were it would take longer. By now he knew that whatever words left his mouth, truths obfuscated in stained glass, this goddess would know it for an excuse. She had known for the entire time and had been toying with him.
So he answered as bluntly as Amren would.
“Yes,” he responded. “I have given you what you want to know. Everything I did was for her. For them. To keep them safe. You know how that’s done? Power. Accruing it. Controlling it.. Becoming so good at weaving the threads that you will never be surprised. Why wouldn’t I bend the world to my will to keep my family happy? Why wouldn’t I make the Night Court the most feared, the most powerful, the most ruthless in all of Prythian to protect what is mine? If I happen to cement myself as a legend out of it, all the better,” he seethed. “Now where is my family?”
Disappointment clouded her features, a resigned thing like she had expected this answer and was still saddened by it.
“Pity,” she said after many moments of silence. “To have stolen this one and corrupted her with your desire for power. To use her as your breeding bitch and shield when she was meant for so much more.”
She plucked the last thread, the sound discordant and harsh, different from the varied tones of earlier. Facing him once more it gave a shrug of its shoulders and its smaller claws caught at the thread underneath. The gold chipped away, patchy flakes instead of threads at all, leaving only the oily black river beneath. Tar stuck to the claws as she drew them away, opting to use talons to hack away instead. The longest yet, it was minutes before the thread finally gave way, thick ends falling and disappearing. The being hovered before she drew closer, eyes fathomless depths in the low light.
“Rhysand Ravenshear, Nightmare of the Dark, Lord of Terror, for the blood you have shed against me, you will suffer. You will atone for your sins if you wish to find your After, if you ever find it at all.”
His brain emptied upon hearing her words. This was his next step? No, this can’t be happening. He had to get out of here, wherever in his mind it was. If he had a mind. He had to think of a way to escape this place, and with no other immediate ideas tried to winnow but was left lacking.
Another flap of wings and the monster was within reaching distance now, massive in front of him, clawed feet out of his view as they stared at one another,
“I will hold you to account for each wrong against my children until your debt is repaid. You will not enter the land of milk and honey until your hands have been washed clean. But with the amount of blood dripping from you? ” The creature was nose to nose with him, her breath damp and rank as she whispered the last words. Swiftly moving backwards with a beat of her wings, she turned so her back was to him but looked over her shoulder back his way. The cruel smile was upon her face. “How long it will take is up to you. But as you like to say, change takes time.”
A low gurgling laugh rumbled from the creature before it whirled impossibly fast, an Illyrian blade spinning towards him through the air. In the time it took for the blade to go from her hand to him the monster cackled “You will be given a chance to atone, but even with that you will not find it easy.”
He could only watch as the knife flew right towards him.
The pain in Feyre’s body receded and the Mother eventually remembered to lower her from the stationary point on the wall where she had been held. Not gently though, the Mother simply released whatever magic was holding her up and Feyre dropped to the floor like a sack of rocks. Groaning, she rolled over to massage her hip where it had impacted the ground. There was a gap beneath her rib cage where the bond had sat. She kept seeking it out, it drew her attention like a lost tooth.
“What was that?” Feyre asked, looking at the burnt spot on the floor where that oozing substance had been moments before. It obviously had been something of Rhys’ considering the Mother’s glee at destroying it but the rest remained a mystery. The comparison to a dog’s collar seemed like an exaggeration though.
The Mother gave a very long sigh.
“That was his hold over you. From the first moment he entered your mind on Calanmai and with every bargain you made he dug a little deeper, seeing what was in your head, how he could use it. Over time he understood you more and used it to manipulate you. Encourage you towards his whims, ensure your thoughts and feelings and decisions aligned with his.” The Mother snapped her fingers and they vanished from the office, now in one of Elain’s many gardens surrounding the River House. The goddess was back in her original flowing gown and heavy woven crown with those sparkling strands of jewels that dangled from her temples. A cup of tea appeared in Feyre’s hands and though she was still various shades of irritated and confused, she gave the smallest nod of thanks to the being before her. The Mother settled down on one of the wrought iron benches, and a small low table appeared in front of her with the rest of the tea set, delicate paper-thin porcelain in butter yellow and rich blue. Moments later another comfortable chair appeared, which Feyre moved towards.
“You were young and naive,” Feyre made to protest but the Mother held a hand up to wave her off. “You have existed in this world for barely a second. No, you do not get to argue this. You became fae, yes? That made you an infant. A newborn even. Your entire existence so far is barely a year of the long life before you, an equitable comparison to the score of centuries you have now if we were scaling them to your human lifespan. And even then you died twice before your first quarter century! You know nothing of what it means to actually live.” The Mother turned away to watch the ripples on the Sidra, the occasional duck swimming along in the current, some water sprites splashing around the banks. “Provider for your mortal family. Allegedly mated, married, and a mother within that time. Savior and scourge of the Spring Court. Winner of a war. Accomplice to crimes against your supposed allies and manipulating them to your benefit. Teacher of art to the children in your starlit city but ignoring the poverty and abuse your people suffer by the inaction of your hands in the rest of your court. You mock caged females you are responsible for by flaunting wings that have been stolen from them. You are loved by the people of Velaris but deemed a whore by those of the Hewn City because that’s who Rhysand introduced you as. Ignorant to the trappings of rebellion rising up against your Circle from every corner while the Nightmare and his pets whisper in your ear that all will be well. You wanted love and you wanted power, and you were tricked by a male who duped you with both.”
Feyre watched the steam curling from the cup, whirling in unending patterns as it rose. Her head was empty, letting the Mother’s words wash over her. The proof of her failures, that she wasn’t really anything. Just an unknowing lapdog. She thought back to all the good she had done but it felt hollow, the shine of her pride on those past memories now tarnished by the Mother’s truth.
“And all of those choices you made, knowing what you know now, would you still make them?” the Mother asked, leveling a stare at Feyre. The question carried weight to it, a heavy thing pressing against her chest, buckling her ribcage. And as she thought about it, she found she didn’t know. She did what she had to do to survive. She had saved people, their whole world. But was the Mother right about all the wrongs she committed? Her thoughts and feelings were so mixed up, she no longer knew whether to be angry at the goddess before her or beg forgiveness. Right now she was still leaning towards the former as her anger lapped in her heart but she supposed it didn’t matter.
“I’m not sure. Probably… if it meant we still survived in the end,” she finally answered, swirling the tea in the cup instead of facing the Mother before her. “But I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
“I disagree,” the Mother said turning towards her and looking at her with, could that be compassion? After all this? Gods, she was confusing.
“You were finally starting to open your eyes, towards the end there. Fighting back against his orders, even if only in the barest sense. Your love for your baby. That caused the first crack to appear.” The Mother considered, birds chirping in the background for quite some time before she spoke again. “I will give you an opportunity. Like I said, you have the capacity for good. Beneath all the hurt and thorns you had a caring heart before that wretch sunk his talons into you. I believe you could do good if you are truly free. Or at least have more of a chance than you did before”
“But I’m dead,” she said flatly. None of this mattered.
“Of course it matters. You were brought back once before by my hand. Maybe I feel benevolent. I will give you time with your child. They may be able to take on a role of great importance-“
“He’ll be High Lord,” Feyre responded automatically.
“If you say so. Regardless, they have much to learn. Of Prythian, of the Night Court, of how to be a good and just person. There is much to educate them on. They will need teachers if they are to ever rule, and cannot afford to make the same mistakes you and the Master of Dark have made. Lessons you could benefit from, Feyre Archeron.”
Her mind finally caught up to what the Mother was saying. Had said. She would be gifted another chance, a chance to see her son grow. She had a chance to see him do incredible things and carry the mantle his father wore before him.
“You’ll bring me back?” Feyre whispered, daring not to hope in case it’s a cruel joke the Mother was playing on her. It couldn’t be. Did she even want it, if it were to happen?
“I am considering it, but there will be conditions.”
And there was the catch. Her lungs stilled as she waited to hear the Mother’s terms. She gave the being her full attention at the chance she could return to her son. To Rhys. No, to her son, only her son. Rhys was gone too.
“You will have no power of the Lord’s-“
“What?!”
“And you will not be daemati.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am serious. Even though not all your thoughts were your own, you said it yourself. You would do things the same. You wielded your power like a weapon instead of a tool, and you hurt many with it. You cannot be trusted to wield it for good given your past behaviors.”
“But that’s not fair, you said Rhys was influencing me!”
“You continue to not listen!” The anger was back, and Feyre quickly snapped her jaws shut to not lose this offer of another life. “I am bringing you back to be with your child because I believe you can do good things and help them become who you were meant to be. Begin righting some of the wrongs you caused. Determine what sins belong to you and you alone and atone for them. If after a century you have redeemed yourself, I will consider returning the gifts you originally received. If not, your next death will be permanent. But do not make wagers on it yet. You have much to learn.”
She thought for a while, still angry at being punished for something that wasn’t her fault. But she could see Nyx. That had to be enough.
“I want to see who you are on your own. Not when fighting to survive, and not when taking charity from one High Lord to the next. I want to see what Feyre Archeron, Cursebreaker and Defender of the Rainbow can do. I see the potential for great things if you are wise with your actions.” The Mother came close to her now, kneeling before her and lifting hands to cup her cheeks, wiping tears away that Feyre didn’t notice were streaming down her face. “I will do this because you are one of my children. From the first breath you took I have loved you and thought you could be good and kind, and I believe that human girl’s heart resides somewhere within you still. So what will it be?”
A long pause stretched out as Feyre considered. The sun above them made its way across the endless blue sky and hours later dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow upon her home and the city she loved so much. The Mother got up and wandered about while Feyre thought, pausing at various bushes and plants, bending to catch their fragrance every so often as she stepped along the garden paths. A chance to try again. A chance to be with Nyx and see him grow. Day turned to night then back to day for a full week while Feyre considered. On the seventh night when the very first stars began to shine from the darkness above them, Feyre cleared her throat to catch the Mother’s attention.
“I think- I think I would like to see Nyx in life instead of my dreams. I will accept your terms if it means I am able to be with him.” Feyre said, aiming for confidence but not sure if it came across that way. Her voice sounded as wobbly as she felt. She wanted so desperately to see her son, to feel him and listen to his heartbeats, knowing he was the one thing she would love unconditionally and love her just as much back, especially now.
The tiniest smile graced the Mother’s features, only the smallest upturn of her lips, those fathomless discs that were her eyes shining at her with what felt like hope even if there was no change in her appearance. For a second the Mother was her own mother again, a soothing presence to calm her nerves. As she rose from the bench, the silver being before her reached out a hand, and Feyre took it.
Her sister vanished.
Nesta stepped out from behind one of the latticed corners of the garden, dark green ivy threading a thick curtain that kept her from view during the week - to her sister at least - spent watching Feyre decide what she was going to do. It had been so difficult to remain hidden when she was right there. There was so much she hadn’t realized she wanted to say until she was within arm’s reach, nearly close enough to touch but unable to draw her attention. Especially given how things had been left between them when she died.
“Why did you use my face?” she asked quietly, carving a path around the flower beds and statues that dotted the garden. Her words were the barest whisper on the wind, knowing the other woman would hear regardless of her volume. “Feyre hates me, if you were trying to comfort her.”
The Mother huffed through her nose, fluffing her skirts for something to do other than avoid looking at Nesta. No longer wearing a painted version of Nesta’s face, just a little too smooth and chubby-cheeked to be a perfect likeness, she was wearing her own gown of white and gold in her own skin that shone like the sun. She waved her hand and small sandwiches and cookies appeared next to the tea tray with steam beginning to curl into the air above the pot after a minute or so.
“She is the one who chose your face for this meeting, not I.”
“What do you mean?” Feyre certainly didn’t like her, despite all she claimed otherwise to anyone who would listen. Nesta had witnessed the depths of her sister’s love towards her and found it to be the ocean next to a tide pool. Always there, just out of reach. When Feyre’s storms of emotion crashed upon her shore she was filled to the brim with her sister’s love, knocking into her so hard as to throw her off balance, but more often than not small and shallow, evaporating more day by day until some distressing event occurred and the storm was upon her once more. Even if she knew why things had occurred the way that had been so, there was nothing in that knowledge to lessen the sting of how it felt at the time when it mattered.
“When she thinks of a mother, she thinks of you. She remembers so little of your actual mother aside from that ridiculous promise she made, you sometimes take her place in her mind. You do share such similarities in your looks. She trusts you, Nesta, whether she realizes it or not.” The goddess with her golden aura sipped tea, unbothered by Nesta’s concern that her little sister didn’t truly believe all she had been shown. That she would take this magnificent gift she had been given once again and squander it. A small smirk formed over the rim of the teacup as the Mother gave a little shake of her head. “You have much to learn, Lady Death.”
“However do you mean?” She shifted and crossed her arms, already skeptical of whatever the Mother was about to tell her. She knew she had eons of knowledge to learn to truly take on the role she would become, but she felt confident in her assessment of her sister.
“Because however she feels about you, she knows you would never lie to her. That,” she said, tipping her teacup towards her, “is trust.”
Notes:
We finally see the depths of Rhys' depravity! Not only just influencing them and reading their minds, but far worse, all to gain power and control. What are your best guesses as to who each thread belonged to? And seeing the scale of his control, how far will the ramifications go?
As for Feyre, does she deserve a third chance? An opportunity to be better and figure out who she actually is and whether that's indeed a savior or a monster? If you think this means she's off the hook, well... I am a vindictive writer.
And Nesta makes an appearance! We'll see more of her next chapter.
Chapter 11: The Cauldron Reborn
Summary:
Nesta's whereabouts following her disappearance on the hike are revealed.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Before - When Prythian Awoke
The being that was once Nesta Archeron – daughter of the Prince of Merchants, poor wretch, Cauldron-born, Kingslayer, drunken whore, and one-time wielder of the Mask of the Dread Trove – woke up and could feel both everything and nothing all at once. It was a curious sensation and somewhat unwelcome, but it was primarily disorienting as she tried to determine what was happening.
She could feel nothing across her body, or what she assumed was her body. There was no feeling of air against her skin, just like she felt neither hot nor cold. It was peculiar to be so insubstantial. She could see nothing and she could hear nothing as well, nor could she perceive anything in her immediate surroundings. Until she considered it she hadn’t even noticed there was no rise and fall to her chest because she wasn’t breathing.
She immediately sucked in a giant gulp of air. The feeling did nothing though. There was no relief attached to it, just the sensation of air flowing in and out but no scent or taste associated with it. She was trying to think through her situation logically but as she raised her hands to explore her surroundings, she was yet again surprised by her circumstances. Initial confusion now passed, it became apparent to her that only her physical senses felt nothing.
The being that was once Nesta Archeron was undergoing an onslaught of emotions that most certainly were not hers. Confusion, curiosity, and an underlying thread of terror were there and matched how she should feel given her present circumstances. Those emotions were expected and could reasonably be her own. What did not make sense was also the sparkling joy she felt or the blistering rage that flashed through her the next second. Deepest grief came next, then she swung wildly back to amusement. Even love made an appearance for the briefest moment. Her emotions were chaotic, the entire scope of what one person could feel passing through her in a blur. It was at extreme odds with how she still could not feel anything physical.
But for now even more curious than feeling both nothing and everything all at once, was how unbothered she was by it at the moment. It was strange and she didn’t understand what was happening, but it didn’t seem as important to her as she would have thought. Always she had felt like a bundle of nerves and rage that had become more overwhelming once she wore fae skin. Sounds that were so much louder than before. Limbs that were just a little too long that made even the simple act of moving around difficult. Given the issues she had with her body for the last year, her lack of concern right now was a welcome relief. Despite it all, she felt light for the first time in years. Even ever, possibly. The moment she had that thought a small light sparked from somewhere far above her. With nothing better to do, she glanced upwards and suddenly found herself within it.
What is going on? She turned around but still saw nothing nearby. It was still empty, but now she could at least see that it was empty instead of guessing. Rotating slowly in a circle looking for anything of note to hypothesize her situation but nothing was there to give her any clues. What is this place?
You are in the In-Between my child, a disembodied voice rang out startling her as she whirled to see who it was. The voice sounded familiar but given how lost she felt she would take any explanation she could get. However, the knowledge that anything existed there that she could not see compared to a blank empty nothing was not as reassuring as she hoped it would be.
“And what, pray tell, is the In-Between?” She snapped, glancing around trying to place where the voice would come from. Her eyes remained alert as her Valkyrie training kicked in, however brief it had been.
The In-Between is a hidden space between our world and the After. You have died, Nesta Archeron, but I have plans for you yet.
The voice was coming from everywhere, lending credit to its statement. Nesta knew some of what magic could do but this wasn’t like anything she had experienced yet in the fae realm.
“So it worked? Am I truly dead? I didn’t know if it would work…” she petered off, a larger question suddenly pushing to the forefront of her mind. “If I’m dead, why am I not in the afterlife? I know about the land of milk and honey but didn’t think I would earn a place there. I should be in the deepest levels of Hel.”
A never ending afterlife of suffering is what she deserved after everything she had both done, or not done in her case. Although maybe this would be suffering enough if it continued to be white blankness and a strange voice talking to her for all eternity. She had barely begun wrapping her mind around what forever as a fae would be, and now she had to spend an actual eternity here? In the great wide nothing?
You are here because I think you could be of great help. I have plans that I hope will balance the world.
“If you continue speaking in riddles I will be on my way,” she spit into the void, some of her old fire returning as the other emotions she was experiencing faded back. As she did with her mental shields, she tried stacking the walls higher around her heart to block out the excess. “While I may not like where I end up, it’s nothing less than what I deserve.”
You are exactly where you need to be. You are a small piece of a larger game. I have been seeking you for ages.
Slight panic replaced confusion as Nesta began searching for some kind of anything in this space that may be useful. There had to be some kind of way out. She did not belong here.
Do not fear, I have heard your pleas through the years. I have watched you from the moment air first entered your lungs. From the first strike of a cane to your first dance at a ball. From the mansion to the cabin. When you saw through glamours and fought like a wildcat. When you clawed your gift out in the face of grave injustice. When you tried to save innocents and turned in on yourself. I watched you turn into a shining beacon on a mountainside. I have seen everything, child, and you are the one.
Ignoring all the things the voice claimed to have seen while not seeing anything herself that would help her current situation Nesta finally picked a direction and started walking. Maybe if she kept going she would get to wherever the end of this was. Maybe she could walk forever and the voice would leave her alone.
You are the one to right wrongs wrought on Prythian. You will reclaim the land and guide all my children to their destiny.
What does that even mean? Nesta thought and quickly followed with Don’t answer that! She kept on her pace while she contemplated, step by step towards great vast nothing.
“And what if I don’t want to be your chosen person? What does that even entail?” Stupid, it was ridiculous to be talking to a disembodied voice. Even when she was dead she still somehow failed at it, and now she was trapped in this insanity instead. Feyre may have been the Cursebreaker but right now Nesta felt well and truly cursed.
You will have a choice. Nesta scoffed, knowing what kind of choices were usually presented to her. Truly. Continue to the eternal land of milk and honey as you intended. There you will be able to rest. Or change the face of the world. Right the sins of others that have plagued my lands. Help those who need it most. Destroy those who plan to scar me, scar my legacy. I know your heart, Nesta Archeron. I know you seek absolution and I seek to give it to you.
“I will not make a decision based on wishy washy words from something I cannot see. A voice in my head other than my own is not something I’m particularly fond of. Show yourself, and explain in detail what this job would be.” She folded her arms even though she still couldn’t feel them, and waited. “You will find my patience is thin right now.” She tapped her foot for emphasis.
A moment passed, then two, then a woman materialized. Slowly at first, faint glimmers in the air solidified until a corporeal being stood in front of her. Her hair was spun gold, a genuine gold which made Mor’s own blonde look like tarnished bronze in comparison. She wore something on her brow more elaborate than a simple crown, a thick band of woven golden metal stretching across her forehead and strands of priceless gems hanging from her temples to loop beneath her chin. A flowing robe of brilliant white draped towards the floor with golden flakes shimmering throughout, a gauzy shawl of thread-of-gold floating around her shoulders. Her toes peeked out from under the hem, surprising Nesta. For how regal the rest of her looked, her bare feet seemed at odds with her appearance. Clouds of fabric floated after her as she moved, ethereal and light.
“Mother help me,” Nesta whispered, surprising herself even more with the blaspheme. She had never been particularly religious before but if she was right…
“I intend to,” the woman responded, in a voice that chimed like bells as she shyly smiled and offered Nesta her arm.
Hesitating a moment Nesta considered. Her life had already gone through so many twists and turns for being so young. Riches and poverty, human and fae. She was born twice and died twice. In the absurdity that has been her existence Nesta expected she shouldn’t be surprised at this turn of events.
And with that thought, Nesta steeled her spine and accepted the proffered arm. She could at least hear her out, this being, and see what exactly she was being recruited for.
The Mother was radiant. Nesta couldn’t help but stare as she watched the being next to her. They had walked in silence for a few minutes as Nesta gawked. Their surroundings changed subtly until the Mother slowed them to a stop near a golden railing. She looked around and found they were within a glittering castle, standing on a tall balcony overlooking nothing but vast beautiful sky outside. Wherever they were was attached to no structure, simply floating on fluffy clouds in a great pastel void.
“I understand you have many questions, and I certainly want to give you as much information as I can so you can make an informed choice. To do so, may I ask that you let me do my best to explain things first, before you conduct your own interrogation? I hope that will provide some answer if you give me the chance.”
Nesta hesitated, but nodded. Where else was she to go? What else could she do? She was trapped in a castle in the clouds with the Mother saying she needed Nesta’s help and she was dead. Her own capacity for doing anything but sitting and listening seemed far beyond right now, and to be frank, she was curious and did have many questions. She could hone them by learning more information straight from the source.
“Thank you,” the Mother replied, and then went silent. She stood still, blinking once or twice, and remained motionless for so long that Nesta thought about reaching a hand towards her before the being twitched her skirts and gave her a somber look. She waved and two plush, rust colored armchairs appeared, with tall backs of quilted velvet and a small table between them holding two steaming cups of tea. Tiny cushions embroidered with more thread-of-gold gleamed in the light, and the Mother took a seat and curled her feet beneath her, stretching a hand towards one of the cups. Nesta followed, vaguely interested.
“It’s a tricky thing, belief. When you do not need it that is when the most faith exists. When the harvest is bountiful, your family is safe. Thanks fly up into the sky like a flock of birds, no thought behind the motion. There are no worries to be had, because you are sure in your world and you are grateful to be in it. But when one is in desperate times and finds themselves praying to their god only to think their pleas go unheard? The right words are said and the rituals are there but there is no belief behind it, thus it has no power. Despair drains it away.” The Mother took a sip, steam curling up from the cup. “But I’m starting in the middle. There is more you need to know first.” Nesta mimicked her and drank as well, letting the warm liquid roll down her throat, allowing the honey and ginger to soothe her anxious stomach. She wasn’t sure what was coming next but based on the Mother’s resigned expression it didn’t appear to be good.
The other being was quiet several moments longer, looking out the window to the golden sun shining on the clouds before then, casting them in a mellow yellow light.
“As I said about belief, gods,” she paused, taking in a breath. “Gods only have so much influence on the waking world. The physical world. Our power truly lies in the Unseen, the movements behind the curtain if you will. Creation. Destruction. We can set the stage, nudge and prod, and we can sometimes touch the world directly, but there are limitations in what we can do.”
Gods, the Mother had said. So humans were right after all, more existed than just the Mother. A sliver of pride flared within her at humanity’s unknowing accuracy of the powers of their world. Fae always thought they knew everything but they weren’t always the wise superior beings they played at being. She wondered what the other gods were responsible for if the Mother oversaw Prythian. Or who, she supposed.
“We can try and create optimal circumstances in attempts to shape the future, but fae are such fast-acting creatures and mortals even more so, by the time we know something is wrong we are often learning of it too late. An unfortunate consequence of actual immortality compared to your believed version of it. Something you became familiar with, to my great regret.”
Nesta’s skin pebbled and ice slid down her spine, the memory of water gushing down her throat, remembering her time in the cauldron. She had lived a thousand lifetimes, human and fae, in those dark waters, eternity being spent ripped apart and fused back together, clawing and biting and gobbling down mouthfuls of magic in her rage. Yes, she knew how quickly time passed compared to eternity.
“We maintain balance, and we help our children and the land grow. We watch them rise to new heights and harness the magic of the world, and guide them towards greater things. Many problems that occur slip through unnoticed and are resolved before we see them, too insignificant in the limitlessness of time. But sometimes we are blind to problems until they take us by surprise.” The Mother’s voice wobbled, and her eyes shone. She studiously ignored Nesta, but Nesta waited, knowing that all she needed was a little time and someone to listen before continuing.
“You know of Amarantha’s reign, yes?” the Mother asked, eyes full of grief.
Nesta nodded but elaborated. “I know of what happened but only in the barest sense. That Amarantha styled herself High Queen, and she was terrifying and powerful. Feyre saved Prythian from her after she kept the High Lords locked away and powerless.”
The Mother sighed and nodded, the weight behind her eyes making her look thousands of years old. “The dark queen was clever and persuasive. Her lies were easy to believe. She waited and used her sweet words to dangle peace before she undermined the High Lords and trapped them. She ravaged the land and my children for decades. Horrors you could never believe, atrocities that soaked the earth with their blood.” The Mother’s voice finally broke and a choked sob escaped her, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. A lace handkerchief floated down from above and the Mother dabbed her eyes before it vanished into thin air.
Her own heart ached at the goddess’ grief. She imagined her own fear for humans during Hybern’s war and doubled it, and she still didn’t think it would be enough. The more she focused on it the more the emotion grew until the anguish was consuming her. Her breath came in quick gasps, she couldn’t breathe, she could find no relief-
The Mother looked alarmed and waved a hand, a wash of serenity calming Nesta down. Why had that happened?
“I apologize, I seem to have gotten carried away.” The Mother dropped her raised hand quickly, bringing it to join the other in her lap instead. “I rarely have visitors, I forget my emotions have more power here. They can become too much for someone like you as you are now.”
What an odd way to phrase that.
Nesta steadied her train of thought and tried to get the goddess back on track. She took another sip of tea, savoring the warmth, before stating “If I understand what you’re trying to say, your limitations as a higher being mean sometimes… you don’t notice awful things happening in time to stop them.” Nesta tilted her head, curious if she had the gist of part of the problem. “In your case, Amarantha’s blight upon Prythian. It slipped, as you would say.”
“Yes,” the Mother breathed out, shame darkening her cheeks, guilt buried deep within her eyes.
Nesta considered the rest of what the Mother had told her. “And because you can’t touch the direct world, Prythian, they… they thought you abandoned them, yes?”
More red flooded the cheeks of the woman before her, and even quieter she assented again. And Nesta, she understood that kind of guilt. She lived with that kind of guilt every day, that no matter what you did to atone it would never be enough to make up for all the wrongs you had let slide by with your inaction. She knew how it consumed. How it devoured. Nesta was wholly familiar with how it would eat away at you until all that remained was a thin cracked veneer hiding an abyss.
Nesta may not be a goddess and mother to all life of the land she inhabited, but she knew what it was to not do enough for the people who relied on you. So she reached a hand out and placed it on the Mother’s forearm, and said the words she had wished someone had said to her when in the depths of her despair.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” A half-century was nothing when faced with forever, the length too large to even comprehend. Despite Nesta’s simmering anger that the circumstances of her life occurred because the goddess wasn't paying close enough attention to the world she created, the sorrow that clung to the Mother diminished the feeling to strong irritation. The chasm of misery within the other being hollowed out her chest, her heart aching in the wide empty space within. “I am sorry you had to watch your children suffer.”
The Mother gave a watery smile that didn’t reach her eyes, which still held such sorrow. “Thank you, but there is more to tell you yet. You may change your mind once I finish.”
She didn’t speak again though. The Mother just sat quietly staring into nothing, and Nesta waited patiently. After a long while her eyes lost their glazed look and words came to her once more.
“Amarantha was insidious, working in small increments to enact her plan, and over such a length of time. By the time I realized what her true desire was she had already captured the High Lords and their Courts and imprisoned them under the mountain. In the blink of an eye most of my children were captives and it was too late for me to prevent it.” She tried to keep her face impassive but her lip trembled, and once more tears began to shine in her eyes.
“As I said before. Our power, the gods power, is tied to how much you believe in us. And to hear your children screaming and crying, but they believe you have forsaken them, so your power wanes and wanes until there is naught but a sliver left. To want more than anything to do something but being so weak it feels fruitless?”
The Mother looked down in shame, tears streaking down her face and her eyes filled with so much remorse it caused Nesta’s stomach to clench. She didn’t want to believe it but no one could fake that kind of bone-deep sadness. Nesta had been there, had lived in that space, and knew what it felt like. She believed the Mother, heart and soul. Believed that even though she was a goddess there apparently were limitations in the scope of her power.
“Unable to touch the true world, I tried to act through the Unseen one. Amarantha was clever and ruthless, but she was also arrogant. She was not strong enough to ward against me entirely. I passed into dreams to soothe my children and work within their minds and magic to fight her. To bring them hope where I could, sometimes small, sometimes large. It was never enough, but it helped some begin to believe again. And she had left the curse, an open door to end her reign made through her own hubris. And that would be my path.”
The Mother had asked her to refrain from questions, but Nesta still couldn’t understand why the Mother couldn’t do more. Prythian had suffered for decades and the Mother couldn’t do much about it. How could that be true? She was a goddess.
“I understand your disbelief,” the Mother sighed, setting the teacup down into the small table. “Let me try and explain on a smaller scale…” She tapped a polished finger against her chin before continuing.
“Imagine you have children,” a pang of sadness went through her. Nesta had wanted children. She had wanted a family, a loving husband and children around her. Something different from her own tense childhood. Better. A home filled with laughter instead of threatening silence. Another bolt of hurt as she thought of Feyre, soon to bring her own baby into the world. If she survived it.
“You can guide your children and give them the knowledge to succeed, but they will still be their own person. They will make their own choices, and live their own lives and despite your best efforts you can only watch and hope for the best.” She looked out the window to watch the fluffy clouds float by, from her castle in the sky. “The same holds true for gods. I can shape and nudge but very rarely can I force an action. Certainly not weakened as I was. You can pray that your work behind the scenes, as you will, will be enough.”
That made some bit of sense. She and her sisters were raised by the same parents but their circumstances were so different that they were dissimilar in every way but looks. Certainly Feyre never listened to her elders even despite all their wisdom and attempts to teach her. But Nesta had, and look where that got her.
“So Amarantha left a loophole for the High Lord of Spring, and I saw how I could save them. I told survivors that Spring was a refuge in their dreams and they would be safe if they could make it, that there were other secret pockets untouched by Amarantha’s ire. I tried to steer the Spring Lord’s wolf-sentries towards villages in hopes of a human girl stumbling upon them. When High Lord Tamlin gave up on breaking the curse I encouraged him and his Court to reconsider even if it ached to lose so many and then finally, when it was nearly over and I would lose my children forever, your sister shot an arrow and let loose the first strike to draw blood against the dark queen.”
Nesta shivered, remembering the aftermath of that incident. The terror she felt when Tamlin burst into the cabin, her need to protect Elain overwhelming all her senses, and the look Feyre gave her - scared but resigned - before she left with the beast. Shame filled her gut that she hadn’t done more.
“It was a good thing you did nothing since Feyre was part of the game, but even my plans with her failed.”
“You mean she died?”
“No, that was always a possibility. No, the Lord of Night did something I missed while looking elsewhere.”
Fury rose in Nesta like a wave, her own this time though she could feel the Mother’s too. Rhysand. That monster who entered their lives and tore apart everything she had known. The male who Feyre said had tortured her before she even went back to the fae lands and the male she would be mated to within a year. The male who was the reason her little sister would die before she ever truly lived.
“Yes. His audacity upended my planning. Your sister died when she broke the curse. I had a way to bring her back via the High Lords. She was to be the new protector of Prythian - a being both human and fae, able to see and understand all my children and the land. A being borne from magic with all the powers of Prythian, meant to be one of a kind and all in one. A human heart with kindness and empathy with the strength and magic of fae.” The Mother had a wistful expression on her face, and Nesta wondered what that future would have been like. She wasn’t entirely shocked by what the Mother was saying, she knew her sister was brave and good. But the Mother said…
“She was meant to be the protector? What happened?” The being across from her puckered her lips and took another sip of tea.
“The Night Lord claimed her. Forced a bargain upon her that she agreed to without knowing what it was. She sold him her soul without realizing and he gained a larger prize than even he expected. The bargain, on her arm?” At this she gestured to her own left arm and Nesta remembered the intricate tattoo covering her sister from fingertips to elbow. “Bargains vanish when you die, but if you come back… it goes against the order of things. And the magic he used, the spells he learned at Amarantha’s knee. Dark magic, dark bargains. He owned your sister, body and soul before she died. Combine dark magic, a god’s powers, and resurrection? It was never supposed to stick. And once he realized the power she wielded and that they remained linked?” A heavy sigh, and she went quiet for a long time. “He realized it could be his forever, if he said the right words and did the right things. And since your sister knew no better, it worked.”
Of course he would. Not one hesitation would cross Rhysand’s mind in order to scheme to get what he wanted, and she knew, she knew Feyre was too naive for it. So desperate for love, love that Nesta and their family had never given her, that she gave her whole being to the first people to show her care. Tamlin. Rhysand. That pompous Inner Circle. To use for their own gain. The anger came back hot, the tingling she felt when her flames rose within her sparking at her fingertips despite the lack of fire. That asshole had tricked her sister and harried their lives into ruin.
The Mother chuckled darkly and rested her hand on the arm of Nesta’s chair. How could she find any amusement in this situation?
“You are simply proving me right, that you are perfect for this. But I have not yet explained everything and you are weary. We can continue this conversation later.” The Mother lifted herself from her armchair and vanished the tea set. “Be welcome to explore. Simply think of me when you wish to meet again and I will be there.”
Then the Mother vanished and Nesta was left with her own confused thoughts.
She wandered the golden castle floating in the sky. The castle itself held tapestries of spun silver and gold, showcasing moments of Prythian’s history but Nesta knew none of them. There were no servants and most of the rooms were furnished but minimal, only the bare essentials. There were windows everywhere, and sparkling light illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air. Interesting, Nesta thought as she made her way to a different balcony, for there to be dust in a god’s magical floating castle.
Far, far below she could see the shape of Prythian, so high up as they were. It was strange especially to see the seasonal courts from such a height. Spring and Summer, resplendent in lush green, filled with life and vitality. Autumn was a patch of reds and oranges on the eastern side of the island and Winter was a solid white box before continuing north to the grey mist of the middle. Meanwhile the solar courts on the northern end of the island looked dim and gloomy, the beginning of winter on the horizon as the land grew cold and the nights lengthened.
Nesta had given much time considering what the Mother had told her, allowing her mind to wander and sort through the information she learned. She had thought gods were infallible, all-powerful and all-knowing. To hear they were more similar to people than she imagined was somehow both a relief and disheartening. It would be easy to blame so many things on them believing they had absolute control over the land they created. But it was so… It was so human. The Mother was grieving, and she knew of her mistakes. Knew she could have done more and felt such profound guilt that Nesta was surprised she wasn’t buried in a shroud of sadness. Though some of what she had been told so far seemed far-fetched, she couldn’t help but believe down to her toes the Mother was being honest with her. She felt it within whatever bond they shared in this In-Between space.
In the northernmost tip of Prythian below, the Night Court and its rocky peaks lurked beneath her. Velaris a bright spark on the coast and the rest of the territory made of scraggy mountains whose sharp peaks cut through the thick cloud cover. What were her sisters doing down there now? Did they know she was dead yet? Would they care?
A soft breeze ruffled her hair and without seeing she knew the Mother had returned, joining her in watching the land below. They stood in complementary quiet for a moment before she heard the Mother shift to speak.
“They do not know yet. We are outside of time here and no time has passed for them. But we should continue speaking of you and your sisters, and the rest of you need to be aware of.” She looked at Nesta, eyes sparkling. Behind them the comfortable armchairs were back with a fresh pot of tea, steam curling in the air, but they remained leaning on the balcony for a little longer.
“Before this next part, I must apologize. What happened to you, your turning… none of that was meant to be. Rhysand’s surprises caused my plans to change, but even I was taken aback by what happened at Hybern’s castle.”
Nesta’s throat closed and her lungs filled with icy water. That horrid place that she and Elain had been taken too, blinded by sacks and hauled there bound and gagged, nightgowns torn and legs and arms bloody. Left in a dirty cell terrified and alone until they were dragged to the throne room where that wretched Cauldron waited. Her breathing grew frantic and she squeezed the railing with all her strength. A warm hand pressed upon her shoulder and her lungs eased automatically. Leaning into the touch, she let the gentle magic flow into her, soothing her nerves.
Before long the Mother spoke again.
“From the time the Nightmare sunk his talons into your sister,” Nesta shuddered at the reminder of those sharp claws, “he placed thorns into your sister’s mind. Small tendrils at the start, and as your sister came to rely on him more, the more of his influence and power he pumped into her. It was easy, when she was so desperate to be loved by him. And he found her susceptible to his desires. Feyre... She was too easily seduced by his words and power. I myself do not know how many of her actions were his or his own, but regardless they needed to be stopped. The damage they caused in that short time.” The Mother shook her head, and her hand squeezed too hard into Nesta’s shoulder. “With Rhysand’s ambition and control, and your sister’s desire to please him. It was dangerous. Too dangerous. He used my voice to authorize his schemes. Controlled one of my priestesses and wed his child bride. Gave her a false title, convinced her of a false bond-“
What?
“Wait, wait. A false title and a false bond? What are you talking about?”
The Mother was angry, but not at her, and glowered. “High Lords are chosen by the land, and the land did not choose her. She is no more than a girl in a crown with a false sense of superiority. Rhysand’s line is proof the purpose of High Lords has been lost to time. It is about protecting the populace and keeping them safe. Protection, not rule. Not absolute governance. It has always been about protecting. His parents were meant to bridge the hateful gap between the peoples of the Night Court, but they did not, and he continues to subjugate them.”
It was easy to agree with that, she knew Rhysand to be a terrible ruler from her own brief experience. How awful had things been for the centuries before she existed?
“Yes, but the false bond. They aren’t mates?”
“No.” Sharp. Final. Then, “She did not go into the Cauldron, and I do not deem him worthy of a mate. He lies and lies.”
Nesta’s mind was spinning. Feyre put so much trust into her mating bond with Rhys that it blinded her to all else. She had given so much of herself in exchange for that golden thread she had with Rhysand. Using it to defer to him always, losing more of herself in the process. To hear it was fake?
“No, she is a victim. A victim with her own sins to seek redemption from if she ever opens her eyes to them, but still a victim all the same.” The Mother finally turned away from the view below them and went to sit in one of the chairs, floating a cup of tea towards herself. “You are all victims, and I am so sorry.”
Nesta leaned against the rail, still too turned around by the previous bit of knowledge. She needed to think, but the Mother kept talking.
“Your sister and you were so brave. Though I could do nothing while you were bound in the world, upon entering the Cauldron I did what I could to give you gifts. To counteract the destruction that had been wrought on my land and children, and to repair the wrongs your sister and the Mind-Killer committed. While you were in the Cauldron I worked. I wanted to give you powers both wondrous and terrible to bring balance back to this world. Unite the Courts through stronger bonds. To begin fixing the wounds that gouged Prythian. Save my children before more of them died.
The Mother began crying again, quietly this time, and her next words were low and sad.
“Your sister, Elain, to bring light to the Solar Courts after being overshadowed so long by the dark. To help them grow strong roots between them, and Sight to help them navigate the troubled waters ahead as neighbors of Night. To help her See the best path forward and avoid terrible disaster. The future centuries will be tenuous, and she could help keep things on the right path. Mates with the next High Lord of Day to rule by his side as a gentle heart and strong mind.”
She turned her gaze to Nesta, holding her still in place. Nesta was still caught up on Lucien being the heir of Day. He was Helion’s son, not Beron’s. Important to know, and she filed it away for later.
“You were meant for the Seasonal Courts, your fire and sense of justice just the thing to bring them to a new age of prosperity. Wronged, wronged so deeply in too many ways by Night and the north, all of the Courts below the Middle. You were mates with the next High Lord of Autumn to give swift vengeance to a Court that has ruled in fear for too long. Providing justice to neighbors, then allies, a rising strength in the south that relied on one another and was better for it.”
Cassian wasn’t her mate. Her stomach swooped so hard she nearly doubled over from the shock of it. It had all been a lie? I was to be mates with Eris? The cruel heir to Autumn she had heard so much about, that had left Mor for dead at the border. But she was mates with Cassian, she had felt the bond between them, however much she tried to stamp it down, and he was cruel too, even if it was in a different way.
“If Rhysand could create one fake bond, would he not create another to attain more power? Three sisters for three brothers, gifted to him by fate, all with powers and magic the likes of which have never been seen within one family. Does that sound familiar? Mates will revere one another to no end. Did the Lord of Bloodshed revere you?”
No. No, Cassian had done many things to her but worship her, praise her, defend her, love her… Those had not been things Cassian did, unless it was about her body. He acted that way towards Feyre, to some degree, and Mor most certainly; he cherished their beautiful souls. But not her. Not in the way she had desired.
“Your sister was lucky the young heir to Day spoke aloud when she exited the Cauldron. If he hadn’t, I imagine dear Elain would belong to Azriel just as you were told you belonged to Cassian. A collection of Made beings with untold power. One with the power of all seven Courts. One who can See through time. One who can create god-killing weapons. It was too good a feast to pass up. Without a way to fake a bond between your sister and the Shadowsinger, he still found a way to control her.”
Gone was the trembling voice from earlier, buried in guilt. The wet shine to the Mother’s eyes was gone too and instead they were hard, burning a hole into the table their teacups sat on.
“How?” Nesta asked, though she was almost afraid to.
“Dampening her, caging her just like he tried to do with you. Controlling her mind and spirit in order to control her magic and visions. She was already so lost from the magic used on her as a human and her experience in the Cauldron, Elain was…easier, he found, to alter.” The Mother looked at her with a grave expression.
Nesta was going to vomit. The extent of Rhysand’s control and power. To know her version of his monstrosity, the personal issues they had with one another was a shock. But he wielded power like a toddler playing with toys, doing what he wants and ripping everyone else apart in his desires, no matter the cost to others. It wasn’t just hatred towards her, but fear. Overwhelming fear of anything he couldn’t control, and she and Elain were something he feared greatly. Elain could see everything he had ever done and could see anything he planned to do. She herself rivaled his raw power and could create weapons that would destroy him, High Lord or no. And that she had almost slipped into it? That Elain had been captured and controlled by it?
Feyre was trapped by a male who wanted to use her for his own gain. Elain was dominated by magic she didn’t understand at his hands as well. Nesta herself was captured in his web of lies through her love for Cassian.
But that was fake too. Another way to manipulate her, and she had fallen for it with her heart and soul. Schemes and plans and pieces on a chess board. How far did his control of others go outside of the Archerons? Did Cassian know she was meant for him, a powerful mate, something he’s always wanted, wrapped in a pretty bow? Were his feelings during the war real or had Rhysand already planted the fake bond then? Did it come after?
Would Azriel have accepted Elain as a reward for his loyal service to his master?
Did Rhysand even love Feyre or just see her as a means to guarantee his reign?
Too many questions ran through her mind, another wave of confusion and anxiety threatening to drown her. Instead of letting it, she closed her eyes and breathed deep and slow to bring her heart rate down and soothe the nausea in her belly. She repeated the mantra she learned with her Valkyries to calm her mind. I am the rock upon which the surf crashes. Nothing can break me.
Laughter brought her out of her mind-stilling. Not loud, more like the peal of bells in a bright quick giggle. Annoyed, she opened one eye to view the Mother across from her.
“I apologize, but for you that phrase is a silly thing” she said, settling into a smirk. “Nesta, you are not the rock that is battered by the waves. Time and pressure will turn that rock into sand, and you will be washed away to the shore or back out to sea in millions of little pieces.” The Mother smiled at her, kindly and warm, standing once more to join her again on the balcony. She stopped at Nesta’s side on the balcony overhanging Prythian and the goddess cupped her cheek, eyes bright one more.
“My darling girl, you are the surf itself. You are the ocean currents that turn the world. You have power greater than anything that resides in that land down there. So no, you are not the rock to be worn down over time.” Her thumb brushed the skin against her cheekbone, the pressure subtle but there. The gaze holding her own was fire and water, earth and air. Life and death.
“No, Nesta Archeron, you are far, far greater than that. You are not just Cauldron-born. The world shook when you were Made, yes? You are the Cauldron, reborn. You are the magic of Prythian made flesh.”
Nesta didn’t know how long she stood there looking at the Mother. Upon hearing that statement, her brain became white fuzz and nothing could drown out the buzzing behind her eyes. This was impossible. There was no way she could be the magic of the land given a body. She was a wretch. She was a bane to her family - to Prythian’s - existence. She couldn’t even grieve the failures of her life correctly, turning to drink and sex in the depths of her anguish. She took and took from others. She stole magic from the very thing that gave Prythian life and now the goddess that bore their land with her magical cooking pot was saying she was this monumental magical being? No. Nesta didn’t believe it. This was some cruel joke before she really was sent to Hel.
“But I’m an awful person, this is a curse I deserve not a gift! It’s death! Pure death they said.”
“I do not jest, my child. Death is just the easiest thing that exists. It comes naturally for all of us. But you are so much more.” A smirk graced the beautiful face before her, the strands of gems hanging from her crown clinking as she shook her head. She took Nesta’s hand in her own and drew her back towards the armchairs. Shocked as she was, Nesta allowed it and let herself be led like a child and placed gently in the seat. A warm teacup was pressed into her hands, and the training of her childhood kicked in. She crossed her legs daintily at the ankles and she took a delicate sip, spine straight and chin raised. If her mind could no longer function, at least her body remembered the motions.
“Think on this,” the Mother said. “When you were a child, what did you do to keep your sisters safe from your Mother’s cruelty?”
“I took on their punishments myself,” she responded. She did her best to shield Elain and Feyre from their Mama and Grandmama. Even when they were jealous of something they didn’t comprehend or ever need to experience. Even when they hated her for all the time spent with their mother.
“Yes, and what did you do when your family fell into ruin?”
Gods she had wanted to forget that time, but at first she had written. Letters to distant relations and former clients and vendors her father had worked with. Society ladies her Mama had known that may take pity on three young girls. She had written to merchants she had only heard names of, to see it they may have business her father could support. She had tried getting jobs herself as a young governess or house mistress but the village Papa had moved them to was too small and poor for such a position. She had tried so hard to find them some reprieve from the future set before them.
“And what of the Queens when they left your people to their demise?”
More letters, more calculations. Reaching out again to those same ships she remembered from childhood. Could she use any of their fortune from Tamlin to buy the ships herself? To try and save as many people as she could? Making small investments in timber and metal to try and get funds while her Father did whatever it was when away from home.
The Mother nodded, as if Nesta was reading all her own thoughts. She asked again, “What did you do at the High Lord’s meeting, newly turned and facing down seven beings of pure power?”
Her eyes burned and her skin felt hot, still raw at the injustice nearly caused by those immortals and their willful ignorance to the plight of innocents. Willing to roll over and wait instead of being proactive and banding together to defeat Hybern. She still felt that anger beneath her skin that they were accepting of doing nothing if the alternative was working with the Night Court despite her own feelings towards the home she was forced into.
“And when you acted as bait to save the armies and buy them time?”
Yes, that too she had done. A small way to repay her sister for the extreme debt she owed. If she could die to save the rest and give the others a chance to kill Hybern then it would be worth it.
“Why did you befriend the priestesses and learn with them how to trust?”
Emerie. Gwyn. The rest of the Valkyries. She had seen a part of herself in them and they within her. They had helped give her strength when she had none, and had listened when she needed a friend. Gods. She would miss them so terribly much, the thought slamming into her with the force of a punch.
Quieter this time from the Mother, “What was your reasoning for telling your sister of her child?”
Finally Nesta broke her silence with a cry, “It was wrong!” The tension she had been holding in her body spilled over and white hot rage sparked in her gut. “My sister was going to die and they kept it a secret from her. That fucking family that harps about choices and honesty but only when it’s convenient for them. They were going to let my sister die if it meant his heir would live! I may have been angry, I may have been harsh, but at least I wasn’t willing to let her die once more!”
The tingling in her fingertips returned, stronger this time, and she could feel sparks flickering. Her fury rose, and the sparks turned to flames encasing her hands as she sat across from the Mother.
The Mother whose gaze was fire and steel to match her own. Gone was the smile and all that remained was an assessing look, hard but not cold. Determined.
“And what did you do, Nesta Archeron, when shoved into the Cauldron?”
Terror rose in Nesta once more at the memory but she shoved it down. Instead she let the flames rise, burning away her fear. If she was the magic of Prythian, the Cauldron Reborn, then she had no need to fear her experience. It was hers. It was her.
Returning the hard gaze, it was several long moments before Nesta answered. Her spine was straight as a sword and silver fire rose up her arms to crown her head, a circlet of flames upon her golden brown hair.
“I fought back. I clawed and ripped and gouged out magic. I took mouthfuls of it and laughed, and thought of my revenge on the monsters who did this to me. Who wanted to destroy my home. Destroy my family. I wanted justice. ” Fire crawled up her body, she was a beacon of light, flickering flames rising higher in her anger but Nesta felt no burn. There was no icy chill this time so unlike when she used her flames before. This time it felt right. It felt freeing. She felt strong.
When she looked at the Mother there was a fierce pride shining in her eyes. Warmth and understanding, but fire behind the pupils to match her own.
“Yes Nesta. When faced with grave injustice you fight back every time. Not always ideally, but with a ferocity unseen. I said before you were meant to reclaim the land but may not have been entirely accurate.” She paused, and reached through the flames encasing Nesta to grab her hand, grounding her. “You already are the magic of the land, by your own choosing whether you knew it or not. That makes you the one to help me fix the bastardization of my home, my children. You have taken what was corrupted by eons of inaction and given it a new purpose. And with your death, the magic went back to the land. All of the land. Futures are now in motion you could never have dreamed of, and you were the catalyst for all of it.”
Nesta didn’t know what to think, everything the Mother was saying was so at odds with what she had told herself over the life. Worthless. Pathetic. Never enough. A waste of life like Amren had told her. It was too much to take in right now. It’s a good thing I’m dead then she thought with a dark chuckle.
Across from her the Mother sat back, giving Nesta the time to sort through the tidal wave of thoughts crashing into her upon everything the Mother had said. Every piece of information the Mother had given her she reviewed and analyzed, looked to see for any tricks or hidden meanings. Despite being fae she still had her suspicions and didn’t want to put faith into the wrong hands. It could have been hours she sat there thinking before finally, the flames covering her body receded and she found herself as herself once more, sitting on a plush chair with a cup of tea still steaming before her.
Finally, Nesta spoke into the quiet stillness of the castle in the clouds.
“You said earlier I was a small part of a larger game, to right the wrongs of Prythian, yes?”
“Yes.”
“To bring balance back to the land.”
Again, the Mother responded. “Yes.”
“This is your plan then? Me, as the embodiment of the magic of Prythian, helping you fix the mess that’s been created over millennia?”
A last, final, confirmation from the Mother, this time with a sharp nod to accompany it. “Yes. I cannot touch the world as I am now, but you… You with the magic directly from the Cauldron. You are something entirely unexpected. You can touch the world. You can be my sword and shield.”
Nesta thought for a long moment, but she knew her decision had been made. Absolution, the Mother had told her earlier. A way to redeem herself from everything she had done. A path forward to make things better for everyone, even if she could never experience the results.
And damn it, Nesta wanted that. She ached for the chance to atone. But more than that she burned for the opportunity to prevent nightmares like hers from ever happening again. To keep her family safe. To keep innocents safe. To build a better future for those who had less, like her friends and their family - the priestesses and Illyrians. A chance to right wrongs.
She pulled her shoulders back and down, lengthened her neck and raised her chin, and with silver flames flickering in her eyes Nesta finally answered the Mother.
“Then I accept. I will work with you to fix this. To build a better world, for the ones who are broken. For my family,” then softer, “for Nyx.”
With those words it felt like an enormous weight had been lifted, and she could feel her flames rising again. Warming her from the inside. The Mother smiled at her, still strong, still gentle.
“Then let us get started.”
Notes:
Apologies to anyone who thought Nesta had winnowed off to a new land or is in hiding from Rhysand and the Inner Circle - she is very much dead. But she also has a cool new job to do!
Something important that I wanted to convey here (and I hope I did it well enough) is the difference between wanting power for power's sake and wanting power to genuinely better the lives of the people around you. Now that Nesta's untethered and that terrifying power of hers can't hurt her anymore I have no doubt in my mind that with her strong sense of justice she'll use all that energy for good (or at least vengeance as we've seen in the Seasonal Court scenes earlier). But she has a lot of learning to do first.
Do you think Nesta will be suited for this new role as the Cauldron Reborn?
Chapter 12: Days to Weeks to Months
Summary:
Nesta learns more about herself, her powers, and the life she left behind.
Notes:
TW: Descriptions of battle and the aftermath, alcoholism, general mentions of death.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first thing she did was go see her sisters.
Of course it was the middle of the night so both of her sisters were asleep, lost in their dreams.
The Mother had deposited her in Feyre’s room when she asked if she could visit them and say goodbye in whatever way remained before her journey began. Her youngest sister’s hair was splayed over her pillow, her mouth parted in a small o as she breathed softly beneath the midnight blue silk bedding. Rhysand’s side was empty so she was curled inwards on herself, arm draped protectively over her belly and knees tucked up, keeping little Nyx safe even while unconscious. The dark tattoos on her hands were stark against the pale skin, no longer strange yet beautiful but a horrid visibility to her sister’s situation.
Stepping away from the shadows in which she lurked, she went to the bedside and kneeled down, watching Feyre. Her lashes would occasionally flutter against her cheeks and the light freckles that dusted them, but whatever dream she was having kept her sound asleep. Nesta inched her hand towards her sister, wanting so badly to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead, but it was such a Feyre thing. Hair strewn about as it was, she could almost pass for a human like this, the murk of the room hiding the ethereal beauty that marked fae. She looked like what her baby sister used to be back in another life.
Instead, she drew her fingers back and crossed her arms, resting her head on them as she watched her sister sleep. She loved Feyre so much, but the rest made it hard sometimes. Everything that had happened. Even knowing what she does now regarding Rhysand’s machinations there was so much more to sort through that had only to do with the Archerons… She had a lot to learn, and prayed that with time and actual distance maybe she could look back at things more fondly. Hopefully she would know enough to try and save her when the time came. And if that worked, maybe trying to reach her sister through the only ways she could now.
“I love you, Feyre,” she said in a whisper. “I will do what I can to protect you. I will try to repay my debt, even now.” Her fingers twitched but she kept them where they were, tucked away beneath elbows. “Keep Nyx safe.”
She watched her sister for another half hour or more before she checked on Elain. Drawing towards the door, she kept her eyes on Feyre until it was open. Making her way towards Elain’s room she looked at the portraits on the wall, all missing her sharp face. An errant thought wandered across her mind. Will Feyre paint me now? She stopped before an image of Cassian and Azriel, soaring through a sunset sky. If she really imagined it, she could feel the wind streaming through hair as they flew, grins on their faces and wings stretched as wide as they could go. Will he miss me?
At Elain’s room she eased her middle sister’s door open and slipped inside. Where Feyre’s room with Rhysand was dark, midnight colors reflecting the Court they presided over, Elain’s was light with various plants on a long table right in front of the large bay windows. This room must have sparkled during the day, leaves and flowers stretching towards the ample sun that shone through. When her eyes landed on the bed all she saw was a mass of golden brown curls spilling forth from a smooth surface. A small chuff escaped her. Elain was still so reminiscent of the child she used to be sometimes, tucking herself in the middle to find the most warmth, leeching whatever warmth she could find so she would be comfortable. A heavier blanket was on top and she could picture Elain cuddled up within the cocoon she had made for herself. She, too, looked so human in sleep that Nesta wanted to cry. For the first time since she’d found herself on this side of the Wall her family looked like how she remembered.
Not wanting to disturb Elain, she whispered “Mother? I would like your help with a task.”
Nothing happened.
She wanted to give Elain something that would help keep her safe from the viper’s nest she was in. Or at least more protected from what she didn’t know. It had to be strong to withstand a master daemati, which is why she wanted the Mother’s help, but maybe she was powerful enough without needing her guidance. Maybe she was strong enough to be able to touch the world already.
Something that would help her.
Wandering towards Elain’s vanity, she perused the items spilled across it. Dried bundles of flowers and herbs, a small notebook with a pen nearby, an empty teacup, the tiniest rose bush she had ever seen which appeared to be a living plant in a small glazed pot, and a smattering of jewelry in a ceramic bowl. She traced a finger along the rim of the cup before picking up a golden ring from the pile. Turning it over, she looked from it back to her sister.
Something to protect. Something to keep her safe.
If Elain could better See what was coming, would that be enough?
She hadn’t gotten far in the strength of her magic while still alive but after her earlier conversation with the Mother she was less frightened of it now. Instead of the overwhelming vastness it was before, now it felt like an ocean moving along with her, with her floating in a little boat across the surface. Still large, still terrifying, but more manageable in her mind.
It also helped that the threat of dying or killing everyone she loved if she got it wrong was gone now too.
But less frightening did not mean much in the way of skill, which she still significantly lacked.
Fingering the ring again, a gold band with a cushion cut amethyst stone, she cupped it between her palms and tried to draw forth her magic to funnel into the ring.
Protect. Keep safe. Help her See.
The ring grew warmer and warmer in her hands until suddenly they were encased in silver flames. She dropped the ring to the ground, tamping down the smaller flames that peppered the carpet in her surprise. Tiny scorch marks could be seen where the embers had landed and the ring looked only somewhat bent out of shape. So I can touch the world like she said.
Picking up the ring she held it once more. Maybe it’s too small. Too delicate.
Returning to the desk she assessed the other pieces and grabbed a thicker silver bracelet, runes of some kind carved into the metal, a gift from either Azriel or Lucien if she had to guess. Once again taking the jewelry between her palms, she dropped into her well of power and tried to spear the smallest amount into the bracelet. It again grew warmer in her palms but pleasant instead of burning. Let her See. Let her stay safe.
The bracelet was liquid fire now but no silver flames engulfed her this time. It took far more concentration than she ever would have thought, but after fifteen minutes or so she held an imbued bracelet in her hands, with as much of her power she could fit into it to help Elain. It had been much easier at the blacksmith’s.
Gently, she placed it onto the pillow next to the mass of tangled brown curls. Elain wouldn’t miss it upon waking in the morning, and Nesta could only hope she would wear it enough for it to work.
“I love you Lainey,” she whispered to her other sister. “Now it’s your turn to protect Feyre.” Resting a hand against the mound of curls, Nesta took one last look at her sister and winnowed away.
As she left she tried not to think about what she had seen on both her sisters, now it was visible to her here in the Unseen. The glittering black cloud of stardust that resided above their napes, pulsing against their skin and hair.
There was so much for her to learn. For all the Mother’s talk about her being the Cauldron Reborn, she unfortunately did not receive the Cauldron’s innate wisdom that came with its existence. She had the power, but she didn’t have the skills or knowledge to use them yet. At least not effectively.
So she became a student once more. When her time wasn’t spent shadowing the Mother and practicing, sometimes a few hours and other times weeks spent learning how to draw her power safely, mold it to herself so it became as easy as breathing, she most often found herself in the Thousand Libraries of Day seeking out histories and manuscripts so rare the only known copies existed there. Ancient tomes that weighed as much as she did and were nearly as tall with records of wars that were fought throughout Prythian’s history. Hidden books of crumbling leather that listed the lines of all the High Lords going back dozens of millenia. In an airy glassed room she pulled out maps of Prythian and their world from cubbyholes that showed the changing borders between the Courts from a time before High King Fionn banded them together. She saw the rise and fall of Dusk inked out on vellum, the map so aged that the lines were a faint blur. The theoretical knowledge she was gaining was just as, if not more important, than the physical manifestations of her magic.
If she occasionally took a break and went to the cozy wing that held romances, curling up like a cat in an oversized velvet chair next to a painting of some ancient creature, almost like a dragon but with a long serpent-like neck and body with outrageously long whiskers, no one was there to yell at her about being lazy or ungrateful.
Sometimes when stepping away from her studies she would go to the golden atrium, one of the central locations where wings of books spiraled out and up, and try to be part of the world again. Pale yellow tiles lined the floor, helping keep the space cool under Day’s relentless sun. Tall stained glass windows, nearly fifty feet high, cast watercolors along the floor, always changing with the sun’s journey in bright shades of pink and orange and yellow. Here she could see the librarians buzzing about, stopping for quiet conversations tucked into the alcoves or hurrying along, bags of bulging books bouncing against their hips.
If the Library, even in its abundance of beauty, started making her feel claustrophobic she would magick herself and her books away to a random spots in Prythian. Sometimes a wooded forest, other times a busy village square, anywhere she could be out in the open instead of caged in by walls and expectations. Making these little side journeys helped apply her education to the real world, seeing the Courts she was reading so much about in action.
More often then not she would take her books from the Thousand Libraries and bring them back to her library, the one that was meant to be a refuge. The place where if it had been offered to her as a true option instead of attached to her prison sentence, may have been a place she could have been happy to be in. The beautiful jail where she had been trapped.
But it would be wrong to deny that it hadn’t brought some good, like Gwyn and the other priestesses that gave her something close to a family. A sister by choice during the brief time they were friends. When she stopped by her library, she would try and find where Gwyn was working just to watch and see how she was. Shelving books, finding books, spending time with Emerie ever so often if Azriel agreed to bring her to and from Windhaven after the female-only training dissolved.
One of her true regrets was disappearing without a trace to Gwyn and Emerie. What had the Inner Circle told them? She doubted anyone but Azriel and Cassian would care to inform them, but even they wouldn’t know the actual truth. The current story told to the world had been a terrible training accident, and condolences were given and then forgotten. However much it hurt that all she was was a faded memory, she wasn’t ready to try and connect with Gwyn yet, still too fragile and far too new in the Unseen world to do anything.
Even though she wasn’t brave enough for that, it was nice to sit with Gwyn even though the veil divided them for cherished moments here and there. When she would read her histories and hear Gwyn cursing Merrill under her breath while working on projects, it almost felt like nothing had changed.
“Come along now,” the Mother called out from somewhere ahead of Nesta. They were tromping through a dead forest that was surprisingly dense given the lack of any life or greenery nearby. The trees surrounding them rose like finger bones from the ground, dead hands stretching towards the sun and life away from the rot they came from. A lone bird spun lazy circles above and she could hear sticks snapping beneath her feet as she and the Mother crossed the wasteland that was the Middle.
Why they were here Nesta had no idea, but she dutifully followed her mentor all the same despite the snarls in her hair or rips in the fabric of her dress. She could wave a hand and repair them now, but no point in doing so until they reach their destination.
Why they couldn’t winnow was a mystery, but the Mother insisted on making the journey by foot.
After another hour of following the Mother’s voice she popped out of the dead shrubbery to see the base of a tall mountain. That she hadn’t noticed the dark peak looming on the horizon was a surprise, but she attributed it to her focus on not getting a rogue stick in the eye. Though nothing could physically harm her anymore, she was far beyond that, the sensation was still unpleasant to say the least.
The Mother stood before the mountain, hands on her hips and glowing bright as sunshine here in the grey wastes.
“This place used to be holy,” she said, her voice wistful.
Nesta looked around, having a hard time believing that based on the devastation surrounding it. “And how long ago was that?”
“Millennia and millennia,” the Mother responded. Her face was turned to the mountain peak as if she could see whatever may reside on top.
“What happened?”
Her books had told her many stories of the Middle, all with some similar through lines that may lend toward fact, but none could say definitively what had happened to cause the Middle to be this way. The most common was simply the land dying as the Courts became more isolated from one another, and growing more dangerous as misunderstood fae were dumped there. Now it was a home for the wicked and monsters lurking in the shadows.
“The Courts stopped working together. This was meant to be the meeting ground, a place of neutrality and peace among the land. As you can see…” she gestured to the desolation around them. Thin, dead trees arcing in ominous groves.
“So why are we here?” Nesta didn’t understand what this had to do with her lessons, but she wasn’t about to start arguing either.
“You’ve got quite a lot of power and quite a lot to learn. Seeing as your magic is one with the land, you need to be with the land. Practicing in the castle will only get you so far.” The Mother took one last look before striding off toward the mountain, veering to the right a little ways to a dark opening at the base where stone met dirt. She was a golden star brightening the landscape.
“So we’ll practice here?” Nesta called out, following a few paces behind.
“Yes. We’ll be able to learn just how much you can do without having to worry much about neighbors.” She tossed a ball of light into the tunnel mouth waiting as Nesta caught up. Upon reaching her, Nesta tossed her own ball of light in, two orbs of silver and gold floating in the dark.
“And we’ll begin by cleaning this place up.”
Death, more often than not, could be beautiful.
For many all it required was going to sleep and never waking up again. Sometimes surrounded by treasured loved ones, other times as quiet as an exhale of breath, the soul leaving the body in a hush before going still.
In the heat of battle it would occur surrounded by violence and gore, swooping over the battlefield and picking up souls as it went, legions being carried off into the land of milk and honey with glory and honor imprinted on their souls. Whether the individual was right or wrong, to them fighting for their beliefs and home was honorable enough, and they could leave the world proud.
Oftentimes death arrived hand in hand with love, mated fae following one another into the After within weeks, hearts too broken to sustain them for any longer without the other part of their soul. But love could also be harsh, death guiding the hand of a lover to right wrongs made against the one they love. Harsher still, death could be at the hand of the one most loved, though those were more common than she cared to admit.
It came for all shapes and sizes, lesser and high fae alike. It did not discriminate, and rarely could it be negotiated with.
As the Mother had said, death was the easiest thing in the world, the moment one slips from there to not happening in the blink of an eye.
But only death was easy. That pinprick moment between alive and not. Dying was entirely different. It was natural to fear dying. Stepping into the next life, not exactly sure what would be waiting for you on the other side of the veil. That is what most fae feared. She had feared it too until she became so tired after endless, exhausting, excruciating lives had passed through her in mere minutes during her time in the Cauldron. Then it was welcome.
So Nesta observed. Hours and days and weeks spent watching. Fae died so infrequently that she had plenty of time before to shadow the individual before they passed. Seeing what life before death looked like. Listening for any prayers that may be calling upon the Mother during their last moments to grant them peace. Knowing what scared fae the most in those moments right before death came to sweep them away, swift as a current, if they were scared at all.
Death was easy. Her first goal in this new eternity would be making dying easier.
Feyre and Elain grieved for longer than she expected, if she was being honest with herself. How she felt about that fact she still wasn’t so certain on. For the first few days her sisters had kept to themselves, subdued by their sadness, alone in the master suite and barely leaving except to gather food from the kitchen or more often asking one of the Wraiths to fetch something. To all other residents of the River House that entire wing of the home was off-limits. Feyre herself had held out against allowing anyone in her bed but Elain for at least five days before finally relenting to Rhysand and bringing him back to her side. Once that happened Nesta retreated to spying on Elain every so often, posthumously fulfilling the duty to watch over her that she had failed so spectacularly at before.
Besides, now that she could peek into Rhysand’s thoughts instead of the other way around, she had no desire to spend much time near him. Aware of his secret machinations, it was difficult for her to not act against him every time he took up space in her mind. The Mother had expressly forbidden it, giving another vague “I have plans” before changing the subject. While she wanted to push, something told her to leave it be. That along with the quiet fury the Mother carried whenever Rhysand was thought of there clearly were plans in place she wasn’t privy to yet.
After the initial all-consuming sadness her sisters began to move on. Feyre charged forth with trying to save her baby, fruitless as that would be without Tamlin’s assistance, still believing every word Rhysand fed her. Nesta tried to catch Feyre alone as much as she could. When she was creating art in her airy studio Nesta would seek her out to watch Feyre’s imagination spill forth onto the canvas, and Nesta would smile to herself if dollops of color would make their way to her cheeks instead, smearing across the skin when she would wipe her brow. Always when a new painting was finished she would feel sad for a moment that she still wasn’t worthy yet, and vanish with her mouth pressed into a thin line. Less frequently she happened upon Feyre humming softly in the nursery, stroking her belly through the soft sweaters she favored. Sometimes her little sister would be telling Nyx whispered stories from their own childhood, back when they pretended to be princesses and fae were still monsters. Before they knew the fairytale was real.
Elain spent more time with the Wraiths, keeping everyone aside from them and Azriel at a distance, even Feyre, but especially the rest of the Inner Circle. Quiet and small even before she grew more distant from the others, they would find her motionless in a room, eyes hazy, with more frequency as time went on. Now Elain was back on the outskirts of the group, but luckily ignored instead of antagonized like Nesta had been. Her doe-eyed sister remained meek and mild, tending her gardens and her breads, and if she seemed a little more strange than before it was to be expected.
Sometimes, months after Nesta had died and given her that bracelet, when she was checking in on Elain, she could have sworn that Elain knew she was there. Sitting at the small table in the kitchen watching her sister soothe her grief and anger by kneading dough or viciously pulling weeds with the occasional tear rolling down her cheek. Elain would then wait with that unnatural fae stillness and turn towards wherever Nesta was, as if she could feel someone was there. The few times this happened she would touch the bracelet on her wrist with one finger, maybe two, furrow her brows and squint as if trying to see what may be hidden, before giving up and turning back to her task.
Even if Nesta wasn’t ready to see her yet, it was nice to know Elain could sense her without knowing it. Maybe soon she’d be brave enough to try and talk with her.
Her practical training had begun with easing the passage of fae already dying. Those who were sick or injured and soon to succumb so all she had to do was guide them to the next life. Sit with them as their essence seeped away and draw them with her into their After. Once there the Mother would do her work, but Nesta assisted with the transition.
In the beginning she could only meet fae after they passed, the first thing they saw before the next step of their journey. A beautiful face to put them at ease. Soon after she was able to be there before they died too. A disembodied voice here, some wispy smoke there. Oftentimes terrifying at the start since she hadn’t quite gotten the knack for being corporeal yet, but once she began to speak some fears would ease. The majority of who she met with assumed she was a ghost come to haunt them in their final hours, a bad omen of their impending doom. She tried to right those misconceptions as soon as she could and calm the fae again, which sometimes worked. She was curious to find out whether there was some latent aura that lent some credence to her words when she did this. An innate truth in her speech that came with whatever level of godhood she had achieved. However, she did stop attempting to connect prior to the point of death. Her job wasn’t to frighten them into the land of milk and honey so she refrained from meeting them before. Not anymore at least, until she got more practice.
That practice took the form of rituals. Moments where she was called upon and thus more stable in the land of the living. Fae had long-held beliefs of ceremony and magic, from the high holidays to smaller moments meant only for the person invoking it. Centuries of custom passed down from family to family, specific ceremonies tied to types of fae that acted as funeral rites or prayers for salvation. When rituals occurred she could feel it, a tug somewhere behind her navel drawing her to the place she was most needed. Oftentimes she found herself at bedsides listening to loved ones pray for safe passage into the land of milk and honey with candles flickering and the scent of oils in the air. Sometimes it would be a person begging for a second chance for their loved one. Whispering words, gathering herbs and bones and stones, lighting candles, and spilling blood to ensure their prayers were heard.
Though they didn’t know it, the blood was the key to most success in calling her for help. She could hear prayers and feel the emotions of fae in the background of her mind at all times, but at first she could only listen to these moments while not being able to do much to change things. The first ritual where blood was spilt in Mother’s name she could feel the energy buzzing in her body, being pulled there directly by forceful magic that begged her to listen. She couldn’t have stopped herself from winnowing to that point if she had tried, that ancient magic too strong to ignore. In that case, it was something she could prevent. A young fae, a rare frost giant from Winter with far too much life ahead of her from a Court that had already lost so many. So she pushed her magic out and shoved death away from the girl, whose family burned extra offerings in thanks for saving her.
Where one ritual succeeded, more followed in a trickle then a flood. She found herself drawn all across Prythian listening to prayers and saving who she could, easing to the After those she couldn’t. So began her journey through the Courts and learning all she could about them and their people.
It shouldn’t have been surprising that Spring would need her desperately. Ironic, really. One sister to ferry on its destruction and the other to help heal it. There were a hundred prayers nightly from the citizens that remained asking the Mother to make certain their dead arrived in the land of milk and honey. Whispers, tears, and hushed words that though they knew not where the bodies were, could the Mother please care for them until they could meet once more? Nesta couldn’t have ignored Spring if she tried with the amount of blood being spilt into the ground.
They needed her help and it had to be done, much as she still disliked Tamlin. Even though she knew now he was as surprised as she was at the turn of events in Hybern’s castle and not the true perpetrator, he had still provided for her and Elain. Both helped and hurt Feyre. Conflicted she may be with that new information, Spring was a gaping wound in Prythian. Its magic was screaming at her, howling and gnashing its teeth in agony as feral and bereft as its High Lord. An ever-shifting beast he would roam the land happening upon evil creatures and brigands that threatened the scant population remaining in his Court. His wanderings kept them safe from physical threats but even his self-inflicted punishment wasn’t enough for those who still bore scars from recent years. So quickly centuries of love and devotion were erased, as quick as a winnow.
Her time in Spring was spent following Hybern’s monsters and keeping them away from the small dots of civilization that were scattered within the meadows and valleys. Death rolled over these lands, so many dead and gone without proper rites it felt like she was moving through dense fog when there. To ease those souls later, she would have to help Tamlin with ridding him of his problems now. The male was in no shape to perform the ceremony required for that number of noble dead if he could even remember it. Nesta bit her tongue and got to work, if she was to relieve the perpetual pain she was in due to this Court’s misery.
Tamlin was an ineffective hunter on his own in the condition he was in. His magic was wild and untamed, and worse still when she looked at him through the Unseen world she could see a glittering black cloud swirling at the base of his skull. She did not know which was worse or the cause of his current state, but for now she may only be able to help with one of those things. She could let her mind wander on what exactly Rhysand was doing to Tamlin later once her very soul was no longer bleeding when she stepped foot here.
Nesta did her best to lead him to enemies using her magic in the physical world. It started with snaps of twigs and the rustling of bushes to draw his attention, then minute pulses of power he would immediately be pulled towards. A few mishaps at first as she got used to the actions in the real world she eventually got the hang of it and could fly through the forest with his massive beast form galloping behind. It was so strange to be attuned to him this way, her magic of the land calling his High Lord’s magic, both one in the same. This male she had hated for so long, and now she was spending days with him at a time causing and preventing death hand in hand and she practiced pushing her magic through the Unseen veil into the real world.
During one visit around year’s end, they had a close call with one of Hybern’s creatures. After the initial fear that her magical flares and Tamlin’s actions weren’t able to save their first person from immediate and certain death, her worry had given way to joy upon learning the person had been a human. After the Mother’s gentle encouragement lifted away some of her concern about her speed and what could have gone wrong, Nesta practically danced around the fire after Tamlin had winnowed away. Now that her panic was gone, the rush was invigorating. They had saved the citizens of Spring in a roundabout way by removing threats to them, but they had never directly saved a person, let alone a mortal! Warm satisfaction bloomed in her chest, and at her feet wildflowers began to shoot forth from the dewy grass.
Slowly, Spring began to regrow. Nesta’s strength and control grew along with it.
Cassian’s grief was a wild, vengeful thing. She had honestly wondered how he would grieve, now that she knew their mating bond was a lie. Would he drink and fuck his way through Night like he had following the first war and learning of his mother’s death? Would he still rage and go mad before following her into death as his supposed mate? How close of an imitation to a true mating bond was Rhysand’s cage on his heart? Though she wished against it she had a small suspicion that he would be relieved, no longer tied to nasty Nesta Archeron. Now free to find some other female, perhaps an Illyrian warrior like himself that he could love unconditionally, one that his family would approve of. Someone more like Feyre, strong and kind. Perhaps even Mor, now she was no longer there to get in between them.
Instead she found guilt in his heart. But not due to reflections on his past behavior or the actions of his family. Certainly nothing that could even hint at problems within the Inner Circle. No, his guilt was about how he was given a mate and lost her and his shame at failing to protect her from herself, his belief in the so-called training accident solid as stone. It hurt, to see him so easily believe lies while the truth remained hidden beneath Rhysand’s obfuscation. That maybe somewhere in his mind he really did think it was her fault, and not something his whole family had driven her to gleefully.
She watched him rage and batter warriors, killing them indiscriminately as he warred with his emotions. She would keep him company while he emptied bottle after bottle of whiskey in his cabin in Illyria, harsh shadows playing on his face from the fire in the hearth, the only light in the room. Sometimes she would train before him with the priestesses before their sessions petered out. And during the few occasions where she caught him weeping at night, she would keep him company as he cried his pain away.
On particularly bad nights sleep would never come and he would sit on the steps of his cabin in the woods of Illyria, a bottle dangling from his hand staring at nothing but trees and shadows. During those times he looked almost dead himself, dark shadows beneath his eyes and his hair lank. His stubble would be several days past dashing and his eyes were mossy pools of sorrow. It was on these nights that her name would cross his lips in a sigh, and his own eyes would fill with silver, a poor imitation of her own caused by grief and confusion. Her name upon his lips would be a caress to her soul, finally hearing it be filled with love and longing, even if that love may not have been real.
It was hard not to want him still, all the feelings far too fresh to avoid being painful.
Even if he had been enthralled by a fake bond, even if she had fallen in love with a male who was never destined to love her back, she still felt an ache in her heart when watching him. Sitting down on the stoop next to him during the times he was lost in his own nightmares, hidden away with the veil firmly between them, she would tangle her fingers in his hair, finger-combing the knots and strands. Her hand would pass through the glittering black cloud of stardust that sparkled at the nape of his neck, feeling frozen to the bone as she did.
She would pretend she wasn’t coward enough to ease the pain, hoping that he might be able to feel her and know she was okay. That even now, she still loved him in some way.
“What is the first thing you remember?” she asked the Mother one day when they were together in their home in the Middle, Nesta practicing with her magic under the Mother’s careful eye. In today’s session she was learning how to coax things back to life. A delicate matter requiring precise threads of power and a soft touch, something that had rarely ever been said about her in all her years.
Even when acting with a courtier’s grace her words would be the perfect mix of elegance and femininity when she was overheard but when paying close attention her words became a battering ram breaking others down. Her actions had been much the same, bold moves that she was stubborn enough to back up even when it was better she didn’t.
Nesta Archeron was simply not a subtle person.
As she practiced weaving minuscule threads of magic into the blood and the bone and muscles of a youthful fae female, repairing what normal fae healers would be unable to after she had taken a terrible accident, she heard the Mother shift behind her. Her tutor ready to step in at a moment’s notice should Nesta err in some way.
“This will sound quite boring to you, but it was the sun.”
A golden glow drifted into her peripheral as the Mother stepped towards her, now watching from over her shoulder as her hands played across the female’s body. It was quite like playing piano in truth, her fingers gently curving and dancing along veins and bone, knitting like to like.
“The sun?”
“Hmm, indeed.”
Little threads of magic spooling from her fingertips, seeking where death took hold. Wrists soft as she moved.
Prior to this when Nesta had quickened death along or intervened when the call was strong enough she had to answer, she had brute forced her way. Against those who committed frequent acts of evil with no remorse she had no guilt of her own regarding their demise and wielded her power gladly. When it came to saving others from death and she was more forceful than required, she wished she had more finesse with her powers. What she did was effective but sloppy.
“What happened next then, after you saw the sun?”
Like playing the keys of a piano, arched fingers and caressing keys. Softly, gently.
“A touch more here,” the Mother said and a pinhead flare of golden light indicated a spot where she hadn’t fully healed a vein. Stopping death in its tracks as it tried to flow into the female’s body.
“Everything was golden. I suppose that’s why I look the way I do. Gleaming golden light, and every color you could imagine making a beautiful watercolor in the sky. Pinks and blues, greens and yellows and red. Blending together beautifully next to that warm ball of golden light.” Her voice was so fond, a warmth to it Nesta hadn’t quite heard before despite their many discussions at this point. The Mother was witty and somehow clinical, prone to a factual sass that could be unnerving at times. A bizarre mix of goddess and talkative friend and occasionally family, here in her new life. Not always the latter, but sometimes, and growing in frequency. This was one of those moments.
“So there really was nothing here before you created Prythian?”
“No, there was, but Prythian wasn’t a part of it yet. This world was a swirling mass of land and sea below me when I-, when I arrived I suppose.”
The golden glow receded from the edge of her sight, but she kept her eyes firmly on her patient. Lucija of the Summer Court, who if her current future panned out would die before ever having the chance to advocate for lesser fae rights and work with High Lord Tarquin, an impactful advisor on his council firming up the new changes the High Lord was enacting. That possible and likely future had to have a chance to happen, and instead she had taken a terrible fall when her horse spooked and now hovered between this world and the After.
Life and death, two sides of the same coin. If she could control death, she could control life. Death was just easier.
“I had so much raw power. It was vibrating out of me, begging to be released. I couldn’t contain it myself so I used what spilled forth from my hands to shape a cauldron.”
Nesta’s hands froze, the reaction still instinctual after spending more than a year terrified of that wretched thing. Keeping her hands steady she breathed in through her nose deeply, counting like Cassian had taught her, then exhaling just as slow. I am the Cauldron and the Cauldron is me.
“Below me, oh your world was a beautiful open space. It had so much potential. I eased all my excess magic into that cauldron. Poured my love and my heart and my soul in with my golden magic, filling that cauldron to the brim with unbridled raw power.”
Nesta’s fingers started dancing again, her own silver magic flowing once more.
“I tipped the Cauldron over and out gushed magic, right onto this very spot.” Nesta heard the shuffle of feet behind her, indicating the ground they stood on beneath the sacred mountain in the Middle. No longer a tomb but a cozy stronghold. new growth stretching out a little closer to the borders each day they spent here yet still too terrifying for others to go near.
“It crested and dipped, gushing forth and creating mountains and valleys, deserts and forests of all kinds, icy tundras and grassy plains, rivers and lakes of all depths and sizes. Nothing divided like the Courts you know now, Prythian was all one land, wild and rugged. It was beautiful.”
Nesta focused her attention on the last parts of Lucija that needed healing, a furrow in her brow as she delicately patched together the final nerves. Her silver threads fizzled out and the tension she had been holding in her back sluiced away as well. The Mother strode over to check her work, hovering her golden palm over the female and seeking any missed parts. The Mother would find nothing though, Nesta’s job at repairing the snapped neck perfectly precise.
Giving an approving nod, the Mother stepped back from the female on the work table, frozen in time to allow Nesta however long she needed to work. A small golden harp stood on a narrow ledge nearby, one of the strings giving the faintest hum, as if plucked at one point in recent hours and still singing all this time later.
Nesta dry-washed her hands to bring some life back to them after so long sustaining intricate weaves of magic, then reached towards the Harp. She would bring Lucija back to the muddy road in Summer she had been found on, neck no longer broken and no time having passed in her real world. Another Miracle of the Mother as the fae of Prythian had taken to calling it.
She returned to the female in an enchanted freeze and looped her thumb and forefinger around her wrist. Before winnowing away with her and the Harp she turned back to the Mother, one last question on her lips.
“If you were here long before fae and humans and creatures came along, what did you call yourself before we came to call you the Mother?”
A thoughtful look came across the other being’s face, as if trying to remember something she had forgotten long ago. She smiled fondly after a moment, a twinkle in her eye.
“You all were close in your version of my name,” she said, tapping her finger to her nose, a gesture she often did when her children unintentionally amused her.
“I called myself Marit.”
The battlefields of Autumn were bathed in various shades of crimson. Red blood, scarlet cloaks, fallen pieces of armor enameled in rubies scattered across the ground. Warfare in Autumn didn’t solely exist on open battlefields where troops lined up in orderly boxes, like the skirmish with Hybern she had been in, her only practical experience with warfare. That, terrifying as it had been, had some semblance of strategy to it; one side against another and obvious differences between the armies of Prythian and their enemy. The clashing colors of the Court armies distinct against the claws and teeth and charcoal-colored soldiers they were defending against.
No, civil war in Autumn was brutal. It was held in the dense forests of the Court instead of the open fields dedicated to farming. However Autumn nobles felt about the transfer of power, their soldiers and citizens weren’t stupid or vindictive enough to burn the fields to ash starving their people or their primary source of income. Instead they kept to the woods; leaves in all colors of flame falling to the ground providing a screen that kept the gleam of armor hidden in the shadows and thick tree trunks that provided cover against blasts of flame from Beron’s loyalists, set on removing the new High Lord of Autumn and reinstating one of the younger and more cruel Vanserras as seat of the High house and the Court. Eris’ own forces, the bulk of the pre-existing army fighting in defense of their general and his new crown, were ruthless in decimating the enemy when they came across them but a great cost was paid on both sides.
Forest battle meant it was slow glowing, smaller skirmishes scattered about and longer stretches between scouts confirming coordinates and making attacks against the enemy. Numbers meant little when space was so tight, and rivers of blood ran through the dead leaves on the forest floor. Eris may have had numbers, but the loyalists had older power and better skill. The wilds of Autumn themselves made them easily matched, more soldiers meaning more ability to flank and surround enemies but greater finesse in magic meaning precise attacks were common.
The civil war had been going on for months.
Between her time practicing her corporeal magic and cleaning up Spring, studying history, having her frequent private lessons with the Mother in the Middle, and checking in on her loved ones in Night, she spent much time working in Autumn. Great swaths of soldiers felled by walls of fire, others pricked by ash arrows in a more bloodless but no less deadly fight. Death sang to her from these deep, dark forests, where smokehounds raced through tree trunks tearing throats open and fae in color-shifting cloaks of all shades of orange raced in the tree tops. It called out Lady Death in the moans of the dying, golden light filtering through the canopy to halo faces spackled in gore. Prayers to the Mother by the few brave priestesses who traveled untouched through the battlefield, giving blessings to the glorious dead where they lay, lighting pyres each night in whatever glen was nearest and giving the bodies back to the earth and the souls back to the Great Flame. Invoking ancient magic themselves that seeped into the bloodied land imbuing it with power.
Nesta walked with them, drawn by their hushed pleas for grace and strength, and a swift journey guided by the Mother’s hand. Fae didn’t die frequently when left to natural causes, but battles like this meant many numbers of dead, and many souls she had to bring to the After. She wore gleaming silver armor with a sparkling silver cloak pinned to one shoulder fanning out behind her when she walked, the edge hissing against the detritus on the forest floor. Her hair was done in battle braids in the Autumn style, four narrow braids on either side of her head feeding into one long thick braid trailing down her spine. Tiny bones rattled against her jaw, strands hanging down from silvered clips of the sun and moon, the only indication she wasn’t an Autumnal goddess of old, a holy warrior to ferry their dead to the Great Flame.
Pressing palm to cheek, she would warm the dying soldiers and ease their passing, letting her own flames shine in her eyes when she did so. It gave them some comfort to latch onto during their final moments. She would help. She would soothe their pain. She was of fire and blood, here to take them from this plane to whatever came next. For hours in the daylight she would do this, stepping invisible through battle and kneeling often to grant another safe passage. It broke her heart to see so much death so soon after the great loss experienced only a year ago.
At night, once the dying had finished for the day and before she would return to her home in the Middle, she would slip into Eris’ war tent. Nesta had stayed away at first, especially since she was still processing so much of what she had been told, sifting through lies and truth with the Mother, Marit. Sorting through her contentious feelings on her sisters. On Cassian. It had felt too raw, still, to spy on him when she still was so conflicted on her other love.
But with time spent with dying soldiers, both those fighting in his name and against, she learned many things about him. From the nobility who despised the new laws Eris was trying to enact upon his ascension, it was unadulterated hatred with an undertone of fear. However the males who fought for him, loyal to their general, held him in high esteem. Being paid fairly for their service, an apparently far cry from their tenure under Beron as High Lord, had done much in earning their respect. But what had earned their loyalty was his dedication to his males, High and lesser fae alike. Fighting shoulder to shoulder with them, however foolish that may be, protecting them with his new-found powers, ensuring they would be able to go home to their loved ones. Within two months he knew each soldier in his forces by name, and who waited for them back in their towns and villages. When meeting with his captains he listened to them and genuinely considered their advice even if it contradicted his plans. He made sure to sit with his foot soldiers and servants at meal times instead of exclusively dining with the nobles who backed him or senior officers. He frequently visited the healer’s tents hidden like mushrooms around the forest, personally checking on every injured soldier before retiring for the night.
It was so strikingly different from what she had been told about him. Though Cassian did many of the same actions, a good general as well caring for the people who fought under his name, he hadn’t been able to inspire this kind of loyalty in the Illyrians, not to this level. Some camps and leaders, certainly, but not the bulk of the Night Court armies. She doubted it would be even half, especially once the Dark Bringers were considered. What was Eris doing so differently that his results were the opposite of what she expected?
So she watched Eris and when he would finally make his way to his own tent late into the night, she would follow. Just to catch a glimpse of the male she was truly mated to, to see what other surprises he may hold. His routine was the same each night once he cleared the boundary of his personal wards. Before taking off his sword belt or removing his armor he would kneel down and ruffle the fur of one of his smokehounds’ scruff, who would swiftly go belly up in his presence. In those quiet moments of peace amidst carnage the sharp angles of his face would soften and Eris Vanserra, bane of the Inner Circle, would sing to his dogs. Low notes threading into the wind and making her shiver with their haunting beauty in a language she couldn’t hope to understand yet. Low vowels that stretched on endlessly, his smooth baritone calming the creatures that shifted in and out of visibility like smoke on wind. He would croon to his pets, and they would settle in a pile of fur and thumping tails to listen to their master. Once all were asleep, only then would he remove the heavy metal that covered him and go to the small folding desk in the corner to spend another hour or so reading reports and noting strategy for the next battles to come.
Nesta would watch from the edge of his bed, often humming whatever melody she had heard him sing before. Studying the fireling Marit had thought would be her match.
Sometimes, she thought Eris heard her echoing his earlier song. His pen would stop scratching and he would cock his head to the side like one of his many dogs, and then he would give a faint upturn of his lips before returning to his work.
Nesta decided however she felt about the male and what she was discovering about him, she liked that smile. The secret one. The one just for her.
Velaris, for all the Inner Circle went on about their beautiful city of starlight, was still at its core just a city. Aside from the House of the Wind suspended in the clouds on the red mountainside, a striking construction grown right from the stone yet untouchable to the mere fae residing below, Velaris was made up of buildings and streets and plazas and squares. It was clean and beautiful, and at night it did dazzle, but it very much looked like other cities Nesta had visited during her travels across the Courts. After seeing so much of the world around her by now, she couldn’t see the appeal of this one place after experiencing the beauty of everywhere else.
She may live beyond the mortal planes but Velaris still felt claustrophobic.
Her little sister would be dying tonight, and though it was Nesta’s job to meet her and bring her to the After, the Mother explicitly forbid it in this instance. When Nesta kept pleading with Marit, begging her to at least let her be with Feyre in the final hours, she was strong enough to do so now in the living realm, be the older sister she always should have been, Marit’s eyes had gone glacial and Nesta knew immediately she had stepped too far.
They had spoken of this day many times before, planned for it and how their actions in the seconds between Rhysand dying and the New High Lord being chosen would impact the Night Court and Prythian millenia into the future. They had studied the possible futures and made their selection on who the next ruler would be, and now they waited. Nesta knew why Marit did not want her there, her emotions regarding Feyre still too fragile to not be able to control them around her little sister and possibly alter the path right here at the turning point. It would be the most difficult thing she would ever have to do, once again doing nothing while her baby sister suffered, but she understood the reason why things would have to occur this way even if she hated it with every fiber of her non-existent being. Feyre could find herself thrice-blessed with life but only if she could understand the truth.
Nesta was terrified her stubborn, stupidly brave little sister wouldn’t.
So instead of helping her through this pivotal journey she was seated on a bench near the Sidra watching the early blooms of spring be blown off the mostly-bare trees by gusty winds, landing in the running waters below and drifting out towards the sea. She sat there, useless once more, and tried to think of all the good things she had done in the last six months on her journey to redemption that could even slightly make up for her inaction now. Watched the moments drift across her mind much like the pink petals drifted by before her.
Saving a school of sirens in the turquoise sea in Summer when they had been pulled into a water vortex, sending them far deeper far faster into the water than what was safe. While flashes of jewel-colored fins spun faster and faster within the funnel, Nesta had tossed her magic out like a net and caught them. Indelicate, but effective, and the enchanting sirens darted away further into the blue.
There had been a female in Dawn, so seductive and charming, weaving intricate glittering threads around her victims, trapping them in a vision in their mind - not daemati magic, just a touch of glamour on the eyes - while she tortured them, robbed them blind, then killed her victims. Beautiful with a kind smile and a friendly word, it had been interesting to watch her work on Nesta before Nesta delighted in returning the favor. Her vengeance was swift though, and a frequent murderer hiding in plain sight was eliminated before she could murder dozens more.
In Winter an unexpected avalanche had crashed down the mountainside with a small village directly in its path, sure to be buried beneath the heavy snow. An entire town lost. In her panic at the sheer size of the wall of ice headed its way, she blasted out a massive fence of silver flame turning the snow into mist with her icy power and keeping the village safe from demolition.
One time when she had been given the opportunity to remove an enemy of Eris’, a ruthless noble she found forcing himself on one of the many females found in war camps. She had seen the flicker of tall orange flames in the corner of her eye after the deed had been done and the male’s life lay spilling away at her feet. As her opponent took his time in dying, she turned to get a closer look at the fire only to see an enormous bronze elk. A monstrous rack of horns, easily a dozen feet wide and blazing with fire, illuminated its powerful body below. Gleaming in the flickering light of its own making, the mighty creature reared back on two legs before it stomped down, blowing gold and orange leaves away from its feet. An ancient god of Autumn, a god only to the fae who resided here, giving its approval of her decision.
And Night. In the last month or so the Mother had requested her presence and power in Night more frequently. “Preparing for what is to come,” she would say ominously and then tell her to get back to her studies. Now she knew why she had been asked, though she still didn’t much appreciate the how. Her work here had been purposeful, doing her best to clear the rot Rhysand had left. “All part of the plan,” Marit would mention even as Nesta’s methods became a bit more…brutal in certain scenarios.
Rhysand’s actions just made her so angry.
So she watched and she learned and she listened and one by one she began removing the worst criminals from Night when it became clear no one else would. The individuals Rhysand allowed to exist because he couldn’t be bothered actually ruling anywhere but Velaris. Ones who believed that because they were stronger, more powerful, more ruthless than the rest, that gave them a right to subjugate others. Because their High Lord turned a blind eye to their brutality, proving to them their behavior is allowed and accepted and turning their victims more meek knowing nothing would be done to save them.
In her time lurking in the Court of Nightmares and Illyria she had seen so many fae all with glittering black clouds against the base of their skulls, thousands of Darkbringers, Illyrian warriors, and more, but only a few of the fae she fought against did. Already the worst sort that could benefit Rhysand’s facade of torture and fear here without his influence.
She held no guilt about their ends. She was preparing for what was to come.
“Come, it will be hours yet and we have other places to be,” Marit suddenly said from behind her, jolting her out of her thoughts. The sun was still making its journey to the sea but more time had passed than she expected. Golden light gleamed along the rippling water.
“Feyre, is she?”
“Doing as well as she can manage. She will die, as will Rhysand. I will be here when it happens. The babe will survive.” The Mother placed a warm hand on her shoulder as she stared into the water. A knot that had been in her stomach unraveled.
“Come, Lady Death. You will not be needed here tonight.”
And they vanished from the banks of the river.
Notes:
More insight into what exactly Nesta has been up to in the months since she died!
As Nesta gains control over her powers and learns what it means to be the Cauldron Reborn, she spends a lot of time reflecting and trying to better things - both in herself and Prythian. We glance over a lot of the mental and emotional healing in this chapter, but that will be more of a focus in Part Two. For now I wanted to give an idea of how she's been spending her time and why exactly she hasn't made herself known to her sisters and the Inner Circle.
Which is to say, this entire story is essentially a prequel for the story I actually want to tell. The work has been updated to now be part of a series, and we're coming up on the end of part one. I hope you'll still around with me for part two!
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