Chapter Text
The hours following his death had been the worst ones she’d ever experienced in her entire life. The day after, the weeks following, were just as bad. She didn’t stop screaming when she felt the bond go taut, didn’t stop screaming when Mor dragged her body from his limp one, and didn’t stop screaming when they winnowed her back into her and Rhys’ bedroom and a burst of flame sent Mor out. She only stopped screaming when her flames engulfed herself.
The hours after, Feyre curled up in a ball on the bed, smelling the sheets, missing Rhys’ scent. She let a tear drop out of her eye and suddenly she was sobbing until she was coughing until she was hurling up her guts on the wooden floor.
The inner circle left Feyre alone the entirety of the first week. She did not change her bloody clothes, did not bathe, did not eat. She felt like she was dying without him and she wished she was too.
At the end of the first week, Mor entered the bedroom to find Feyre looking like death, curled up on the mattress, still in her bloodied clothes, a dried pile of vomit on the floor.
“Feyre,” Mor put a hand on Feyre’s shoulder. Feyre did not budge, and if Mor did not have fae hearing, she wouldn’t even have known if Feyre was still breathing. “Feyre, come on. You need to take a bath. And eat.” Feyre did not make a sound as Mor carried her to the bathroom and set her on the edge of the tub and turned the water on. Feyre only let out a blood-curdling sob when Mor tried to take off her top.
“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Feyre breathed out through her sobs. Mor could tell it was because the shirt still smelled of Rhys and Feyre did not want to get rid of his scent, even though the shirt was covered in his blood too.
“I’m sorry, Feyre,” It took everything within Mor to not join Feyre in her sobs. Mor lifted the shirt over Feyre’s head, then removed the undergarments that lay beneath. She slid Feyre’s pants off, grasping the underwear with them, and lifted Feyre into the warm bath. Feyre couldn't care less that Mor had seen her bare and she knew Mor didn’t care either.
As Mor reached to put shampoo in Feyre’s hair, Feyre gave her a look that pleaded, please no . Mor understood somehow and let Feyre wash herself. When Feyre finished washing herself, Mor helped to lift her weak body from the tub, drying her off in a towel, then dressing Feyre in clean underwear and one of Rhysand’s shirts. Mor, to Feyre’s gratefulness, didn't have the sheets changed, but had the floor cleaned. So, Feyre climbed back into bed and let the darkness consume her once again.
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It had been three weeks since Rhysand died. Feyre only knew this because she could hear Morrigan and Cassian arguing outside her bedroom door.
“She’s been in that room for three weeks straight! She barely eats! She won’t let us come see her! She’s fucking falling apart, Mor!” Cassian yelled.
“She’s doing her best! Her mate died ! Rhysand died ! A piece of her is gone. Don’t pretend that you would be doing any better in her position!” Mor yelled back.
“She is our High Lady! She needs to be helping us prepare for things that are to come! You think I don’t know Rhysand is gone?! He was my brother and he is gone! But life has to go on, Morrigan!” Cassian sounded like he was crying.
“I know, Cassian! I know! But what else can be done?! She is a shell of who she used to be. Azriel is, too. He’s always out, doing who knows what. Rhysand’s death has destroyed us.”
Feyre knew they were right. She was their High Lady. Cassian and Azriel and Mor, they all deserved better. She needed to be doing a better job. For the first time in weeks, Feyre sat up in bed on her own and slowly but surely limped, standing upright, before winnowing to the one person who would grant her wish.
When she opened her eyes, she was standing in front of Tamlin in his study, still only in underwear and Rhys’ shirt.
“What are you doing here?” Tamlin snarled at her. She gave a fake, wicked smile.
“You know, even if we’d gotten married, even if we were mates, I never would’ve been satisfied with you.” She was insulting him with purpose.
“Feyre, watch your tongue,”
“I probably would’ve snuck out with Lucien at some point, and I wouldn't have even felt bad.” Tamlin took this personal and launched up from his chair to grab her throat with his beastly hands.
He squeezed, cutting her air supply off slowly but surely, but she continued with a raspy throat, “You are not half a man that Rhysand is- was. You- will- never- be- as- good- as- him,” she managed.
“Careful, Feyre,” Tamlin’s rage was increasing as was his grip on her throat.
“Do it,” she begged, “please!” and for a moment, he gave her a look of pity before releasing her. She wanted him to kill her. It was a cowardly move, but she could not fathom the idea of living without Rhys. “No! Please! Tamlin, please!” She pleaded.
“Go home, Feyre.”
“No. No! You don’t understand-” she was gasping for air now, “I- I can’t,” Tamlin was at her side, winnowing her back into the Night Court.
Morrigan and Cassian were standing on the balcony where they landed. Feyre couldn’t stop the tears. Tamlin gave her one last look, one of pity, then winnowed away. Feyre sank her knees to the ground and relished in the sound of her bones cracking against the stone.
“What were you doing with him, Feyre?” Cassian asked, anger lacing his voice. When Feyre did not answer, he asked again. When she kept quiet he walked over to her and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “It’s been three weeks and you already went back to him?!”
Feyre did not have the energy to explain why she went to see him. “I-” She did not finish.
“You’re pathetic, Feyre. You know that?” Mor let out a gasp and scolded Cassian, but he continued, “Rhysand would never have abandoned us like you.”
Feyre stood up from her knees and looked Cassian in the eyes with hurt. “I am sorry.” She breathed out.
“It should have been you instead.” Cassian scoffed.
Feyre turned around on the balcony, muttered her agreement, and jumped from the ledge.