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The laughter filling the tent nearly drowned out the distant rumble of thunder. Feyre smiled weakly at the sound of Rhys’s adorable belly laugh. Miryam and Mor were both doubled over, their wine sloshing dangerously in their glasses, while Drakon glared between them with mock-severity.
“Right into the washtub,” Miryam gasped around her fits of laughter.
“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” Drakon pouted.
Rhys clutched at his sides with a renewed wave of laughter, leaning into Feyre.
A sob seemed to be wedged in the back of her throat. She wanted to join their merriment, wanted to give into this beautiful moment of release after all the bloodshed and horror. But everything felt so—surreal. Every detail seemed clear and crisp, and yet it all seemed so far away, like she wasn’t properly anchored in her body.
“Wine?” Mor asked, reaching towards Feyre’s half-filled glass.
“I’m good,” Feyre said, voice tight around that suppressed sob.
Rhys waved Mor off when she held the bottle out to him in silent offer.
His glass was still full; his bowl of stew sat similarly untouched on the table before him. Steam still rose from the hot dish. He’d made the effort to stir the contents around while the rest of them ate, but hadn’t brought a single bite to his mouth.
His performance was convincing, really—near flawless. Even Feyre almost believed in this mask of good humor. Except, underneath it, she could sense his pain. Those towering shields of black adamant around his mind were still intact, but brittle. His skin had a gray, ashy quality she’d only ever seen on dead things.
Dead things.
Dead.
In a flash, she saw him again, sprawled on the ground, so still.
A hand squeezed hers. She blinked. Rhys was leaning against her, warm and alive. She forced herself to take a breath. Rhys nuzzled his nose against her neck affectionately—comforting, like he knew exactly where her thoughts had drifted.
Thunder rumbled again, wind picking up and pushing against the tent.
“Storm’s about to break,” Drakon sighed.
“Like clockwork,” Rhys agreed. At Feyre’s questioning look, he added, “All that power concentrated in one place always ends in a mighty storm, like the world’s releasing a pressure valve.”
Miryam nudged Drakon with an elbow. “We should go make sure everything’s settled and secured before the deluge.”
“I’ll head over with you, see if I can help with anything,” Mor offered.
Rhys made to pick himself off the cushions with a groan.
“Don’t trouble yourself, old friend,” Drakon said, emphasis placed on the word ‘old’ while amusement danced in his eyes.
Rhys gave a playful growl, but settled down again. Feyre wrapped her arm around his to keep him in place.
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Miryam said, coming over to give Feyre a kiss on the cheek. Nodding towards Rhys, Miryam added, “Look after this one.”
“I will,” Feyre promised. She didn’t trust herself to say more.
Mor leaned down to hug Rhys before she followed Miryam and Drakon out, her arms squeezing him tight. “Love you,” Mor whispered to him, so soft Feyre only just heard.
Rhys kissed Mor’s cheek and gave her a final, one-armed squeeze in return before releasing her. “Love you, too.”
Over the din of farewells, she heard thunder again, closer now. The sky was an ominous gray, she noticed, when the tent flaps moved aside allowing for the trio’s exit.
Alone at last, Rhys loosed a long, relieved breath and went limp on the cushions beside her. “Finally,” he sighed.
“You could have asked them to leave,” she said.
“It’s nice to see them—catch up.” He scrubbed his hands over his eyes, muscles flexing around her hand still gripping his arm. “Would have been nicer if my brain wasn’t trying to hammer it’s way through my skull.”
She winced at the image. “Headache?”
He grunted. His arms dropped back to his sides and he turned his head to look at her. “Are you all right?”
“Me?”
“You,” he said, a fond little smile on his lips.
She swallowed around that hard lump in her throat. Not now, she ordered herself. She couldn’t break now, not when Rhys still needed her. “I’m fine.”
He looked at her with such tender understanding that she had to look away.
“It’s all right not to be, you know,” he said. “I don’t have to imagine how it feels—how awful it is when that bond goes quiet. Like there’s too much space in your head.”
Her jaw locked and she shook her head, fighting the wave of horror back.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
When her eyes fell back on the table with his untouched food, she said, “You didn’t eat anything.”
“My stomach’s a little grumbly.” At her frown, he promised, “I’ll eat later.”
“Anything else?” she asked, flat.
“Hm?”
“Headache, upset stomach,” she ticked off. A hard bite edged the words, anger brewing. “Anything else wrong?”
“I’m a little sore,” he admitted.
She nodded stiffly.
“Feyre?”
He’d been hiding from her, from them all—again. She pulled away from him, hands clenching into fists. He’d been laughing and joking while he suffered in silence, keeping them all out—keeping her out.
He groaned as he sat forward, a hand touching her back gently. “What’s wrong?”
Her head whipped around to face him, teeth clenched. “You shut me out.”
He sighed.
Thunder cracked overhead. Rain hissed outside, a sudden downpour beating down against the tent around them. She could hear shouts, scrambling outside as people rushed for shelter, boots squelching in the mud.
Her eyes stayed locked on his. Grief and pain swirled, but she tried to hold onto the anger—anger was always easier, preferable to the black hole threatening to suck her in. “You knew what would happen and you shut me out.”
“We didn’t have another choice. If I hadn’t—you’d be dead. Everyone would be dead, sucked into that void. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“I don’t care. Let the world end. Let everyone else die. But not you. Not you, Rhys. Nothing is worth you.”
“You are,” he retorted.
She glared at him.
“I’m not going to apologize,” he said firmly. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. If there’s something I can do, some way to keep you safe, to make sure you can have a life, I’ll do it. I’ll always do it.”
“You could have at least told me. Talked to me—warned me.”
“You’d never have let me do it,” he said.
“That’s for gods damned certain.”
He shook his head. “And telling you—it would only have upset you.”
She growled. “Sometimes I need to be upset—I deserve to be upset. You can’t always protect me. When bad things happen, I want the chance to worry, to try to solve the problem with you. I don’t need you to pretend that everything’s fine for me, like I’m a frightened child.”
“You’re not a child. You’re my mate, my equal. And I trust you to help me more than anyone in the world. But I love you, and I’ll never stop wanting to protect you from fear, or hurt, or pain.”
One of his most beautiful qualities, and his deepest flaw.
He’d rather take on all danger and evil, sacrifice until he was drained and gone, than risk his loved ones’ safety and security. A noble sentiment in theory, but it had the effect of leaving those he loved blindsided when the worst came to pass. His Inner Circle, their family, had suffered it when he’d disappeared Under the Mountain, just as she’d suffered it today.
It was a difference of philosophy between them, in how they expressed their love—a gap they weren’t likely to bridge tonight. Not when Rhys was sore and hurt. Not when he’d been dead not so long ago.
Dead.
Her lower lip wobbled. “You were dead.”
“But you were safe. You were all right. That’s all that matters to me.”
“Nothing was all right. If you were gone, nothing would ever be all right for me again.”
His thumb brushed over her cheek, wiping at a tear that had leaked from her eye. “I’m right here.”
She grabbed at his leg, needing to feel him, but released him quickly when he hissed in pain. She'd been grabbing his right knee, she realized. She brushed her hand over his leg more carefully.
“Let me take care of you,” she said. “Please. Don’t shut me out.”
He went limp, leaning against her and giving up the pretense of being all right.
She fumbled with the straps of his armor, wanting to make him more comfortable. He grunted as she shifted him, jostling him as she took off the breastplate, then clumsily attempted the complicated fastenings of the shirt beneath.
His wings were splayed out, like he didn’t have it in him to hide them. They made getting his clothes off a little more complicated, but she managed eventually, stripping him down to his shorts.
Puffing from the effort, she said, “You’ll have to teach me that magic you use to undress yourself when you’re feeling better.”
“I don’t think I fully trust you with that knowledge,” he said, voice a little raspy.
“Why?”
“One vivid fantasy from you and I might find myself naked in the middle of an important meeting.”
She gave a surprised, weak laugh, a little of the pressure in her throat easing. Pressing her lips to his temple, she asked, “What hurts the most?”
“Everything,” he groaned.
“Massage?” she offered.
His eyes filled with gratitude. “Yes, please.”
“Lie down on your tummy,” she directed, touching his shoulder gently to push him in the right direction.
Slowly, he obeyed, stretching out across the cushions on his stomach, his arms crossed before him so he could pillow his head. With great care, she maneuvered herself so she was straddling his narrow hips. She summoned her fire, warming her hands, then eased her palms over his tight, aching muscles.
She let her fingers trace over the swirls of his tattoos, the lines of his scars, caressing his soft skin with a light touch. Her palms soothed over his shoulder blades, around his wing joints, and pressed in gentle, kneading motions along his spine. Then she slid her hands back up to his sore shoulders. She worked her fingers into the knots she found, applying firm pressure and heat until she felt the muscles begin to relax.
Next, she moved her attention to his wings, easing up on the heat for the more sensitive area. He loosed a long, almost sensual groan when her fingers brushed over a particularly sensitive spot.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked, pulling back.
“No,” he said. “It’s perfect.”
She resumed the steady pressure. When his shoulders seemed looser, his wings drooping lazily around him, she turned her attention to his lower back, then his glutes, his legs, rubbing all the soreness and tension out of his body.
Ice replaced the fire in her hands when she came to his painful right knee. She let the cold sink into his skin, numbing the ache in his joint before gently massaging around the knee cap. Under her gentle ministrations, the muscle in his thigh stopped twitching, the pain easing away.
His body shifted, turning onto his side. “Thank you,” he said.
She kissed him, nipping at his lower lip.
He smiled into the kiss, and whispered, “You always take such good care of me.”
Memories flashed through her mind—Rhys lying in the cold mud, full of poison, calling after her; Rhys flinching by that lake after their first visit to the Court of Nightmares, cut by her words; Rhys collapsing against the wall of her cell Under the Mountain, brutalized and exhausted, while she glared at him.
She paused, her hands resting on his back again, just feeling him breathe. She would never stop being grateful, never stop thanking the Mother that Rhys had been returned to her. Those memories would have haunted her—all those times she’d been cruel or selfish in the face of his constant love.
“Hey,” he said, drawing her attention. “You are the farthest thing from selfish.”
“But I didn’t always take care of you,” she said.
“You did. Of course you did. Just like you’re taking care of me now. You saved me, Feyre. Too many times to count. You have nothing to regret—not when it comes to how you love me.”
She settled down beside him, head held up on a hand as she looked at him.
He looked more relaxed, the pained stiffness gone. Dark circles still underscored his eyes, though, and his color didn’t look quite right. She reached out tentatively with her mind, trying to sense him.
A crack opened for her, small, but allowing her to slip inside his mind. A wave of love and tenderness swept over her. Her throat went tight as she felt it, but she pressed on, inching further until she could sense the dull throb of his headache. A remnant of nausea roiled in his belly, and exhaustion plagued him, but he seemed otherwise in one piece. More comfortable than he’d been before, certainly.
Much better, he said into her mind.
“Anything else I can do?” she asked.
He smiled weakly. “Hold me?”
She shifted closer, arms wrapping around him to hug him close. His chin fit over the top of her head as his arms wrapped around her in turn, cradling her against him. She lingered on his side of that bridge between them, basking in the love emanating from him. As he relaxed into her, his shields easing, she felt something else beneath those waves of affection, a dark cloud eating at him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, peeking up at him.
His shields slammed down. “Nothing.”
“Rhys,” she pressed, squeezing him close.
He took a shuddering breath. “I can smell the smoke.”
She inhaled carefully, and over the smell of damp grass and mud, she too could smell a hint of smoke in the distance.
“They’re taking care of the dead,” Rhys said flatly. “So many. So many lost.”
That lump in her throat returned. Her own father counted in that number, already honored and burned. But all those bodies lining the field—they’d be working through the night and well into tomorrow giving them all their due as the honored dead.
“They can keep the fires going even with the rain?” she asked softly.
“The High Lords help shield the area.”
“Not you,” she said, panic fluttering. He was so drained, so weak. To expend that kind of power through the night—the horror of waking up beside his still body flashed through her imagination.
“Not me,” he agreed, somehow soothing and bitter at the same time.
His nose pressed into her hair, quiet lingering between them. She sensed something more was weighing on him, and tried to give him the space to work through it, to share. Her palm drew circles on his lower back again, gentle and soothing.
After some minutes, he whispered, “It wasn’t fair.”
“What?” she asked.
“Why me?”
She pushed away from his chest to see his expression, crumpled with pain and guilt.
He continued, softly, “Why do I get to live when so many others died? They had loved ones, too. People who will mourn them. Lives cut short too soon.”
Oh.
Oh, Rhys, she thought, sighing.
She recognized that feeling all too well. When she’d first woken Under the Mountain, while those two young Fae remained gone, she’d felt the same way—why her? What made her so special? She hadn’t sacrificed any more than those two younglings. The unfairness of it, that she got to live while they were gone forever, still woke her in the night.
Maneuvering a hand between them, she cupped his cheek tenderly.
“You’re right. It’s not fair,” she agreed. “Life’s not fair. But sometimes…sometimes that’s not such a bad thing. Sometimes we just get lucky. You being gone wouldn’t bring the others back. And I’ll never stop being grateful that I got you back. Never.”
His jaw was tight, but he nodded a little, holding her close again.
Tears stung at her eyes as she nuzzled closer to his chest.
“It’s all right, you know,” he whispered. His hand traced down her spine, fingertips grazing over her new tattoo—his mating gift. “It’s just me, just us. You can let it out, now, Feyre.”
The gentle invitation broke through her tight control. Harsh, ugly sobs wracked through her, deep and choking, as she clawed at him to bring him closer, closer, like even pressed against her he was too far away. Gods, he had been far away today, so far away, almost beyond her reach.
She’d nearly lost him.
Her father had been lost. Amren had nearly been lost, too, some fundamental part of her sacrificed. And her people…so many of her people. Thousands of Illyrians dead with one blast of the Cauldron. So much death, so much horror.
It was too much, all too much.
The thought of what this night would have been like without the miracle that had returned Rhys to her slammed into her, and she sobbed harder, chest aching with the force of them.
“Don’t leave me,” she begged. “Please don’t leave me ever again.”
“Shh,” Rhys whispered into her hair. His breath was unsteady, shuddering, as he too surrendered to buried tears. “I’m here. I have you. I have you.”
His wings folded over them, closing them into a warm little cocoon. The rain continued to hiss down outside as they held each other, comforting each other as dusk turned to night. She kept her face pressed against his chest, nuzzling into him, until sleep claimed her.
They slept, deep and undisturbed, curled around each other until the first rays of morning light crept into their tent.