Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with Feyre going to her sisters’ rooms to fetch them for dinner.

The Inner Circle tries to arrange a family dinner once every two weeks, if not twice a week. This time around, they’re meeting at the townhouse, but there are two people glaringly missing from the dining room. Feyre tries to not let it dampen her mood. She has high hopes for this get together. She feels like it could be the first one without any underlying tension and no cutting comments. She’s not sure how many pointed stares and high pitched laughs she has left in her.

Laughter floats through the air as everyone finds their seats, Mor and Cassian fake fighting over who gets to sit across from Azriel and next to Amren. Nuala and Cerridwen are setting the table with food that smells so decadent that Feyre nearly forgets for a split second that everyone is not present and accounted for. But Feyre sees the two empty seats at the end of the table, lets out the smallest sigh, and tries to give her sisters the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they forgot when she mentioned it to them a week ago. After all, she can’t remember seeing much of Nesta and Elain these past few days; she never had a chance to remind them.

Feyre gives a quick knock on Nesta’s door, knowing that Elain prefers to spend time in there with her older sister, before entering the room. She expects to see her sisters sitting next to the window, reading or chatting.

Feyre does not find her sisters.

Instead, she finds a thin layer of dust covering the room and a short note left on the small table next to the window. The handwriting is simple and the light from the window makes it easy for Feyre to read, although she wishes she has it wrong. The note reads, “Feyre, We left of our own free will. We don’t want you to worry, only to be happy. We’ll miss you, and we will see each other again. Nesta & Elain.”

The air is no longer in her lungs, the ground is no longer steady, and the words begin to shake and it takes a moment for Feyre to realize it’s because her hand is shaking. She doesn't know if it is out of fear or fury and it infuriates her even more that she can’t get her hands to be still. Even with the clear evidence in front of her, Feyre cannot believe that this is happening.

They left? A strangled laugh escapes her throat, despite the fact that Feyre finds nothing humorous about the situation. Where do her sisters think they are going? To somewhere else in Velaris, to another city in the Night Court, to another Court entirely? The word prank doesn’t ever cross her mind as Feyre is well aware that her relationship with her sisters leaves little to no room for things such as pranks or even simple jokes.

Feyre nearly rips the paper in her anger but her fear is too strong to let her do it. This note could be evidence, because despite the words on it, Feyre can’t help but worry that it’s a fake, and that her sisters were taken again. Taken while under the protection of Feyre and the Night Court. She focuses on that fear instead of the fear that maybe her sisters did leave, didn’t tell her why or where, didn’t say goodbye, and didn’t ask for help.

She inhales deeply and tries to count to ten but doesn’t make it past four. She can think about this rationally. She can approach this calmly.

Feyre’s sisters are gone- she can’t hear them on the property and she can’t sense their minds anywhere nearby. They have not been in the room for as many days as it would take for dust to accumulate. There is a note and no signs of struggle in the room. The bed is made, all the books are on the shelves, and Nesta’s slippers are tucked underneath the window chair.

Carefully, Feyre picks up an item stuck between the windowsill and window chair. It’s a wooden figurine. Her hand fits easily around it and she grips it so tightly that her nails dig into her palm.

At the sight of her father’s discarded figurine, Feyre throws rationality out the window. Her sisters being taken is a much more plausible answer than them leaving in secret, Feyre decides. It has to be. There is no other option that she can accept.

Prythian is still healing from the war with Hybern and the ruin that Amarantha left. There’s a power struggle in many Courts and while the governmental forces are squabbling to remain on top, the citizens are in a disarray as the faeries pick up their broken pieces. What better way to get leverage over the Night Court than to kidnap the Cauldron made sisters? Not many knew of Nesta’s and Elain’s powers, but it didn’t take a well practiced strategist to know that the High Lady of the Night Court's sisters would be excellent bait.

Feyre swallows and blinks rapidly, telling herself that it is only the dust that is bothering her, and not her own disgust at herself for wishing that her sisters had been kidnapped, instead of leaving of their own will.

She’s taken too long and she’s forgotten to fully block her emotions from the mating bond. Rhysand’s voice enters her mind, a sensation that Feyre is well used to, but she still jumps at the sudden intrusion.

Darling? I didn’t think getting everyone for dinner would take this long.

There is concern in his voice and Feyre knows what he is really asking. She never does this, preferring to not abuse her powers and she also likes walking, but she instantly winnows to the dining room.

The second she stabilizes in the room, she ignores the shocked looks and goes straight to Rhys, wordlessly pushing the note into his hand. She stuffs the figurine into her pocket.

They might be the only two people in the room, the way the High Lord and Lady ignore the rest of their court as they have a silent conversation. Rhysand quickly reads the note and Feyre notes the pause he takes after reading before saying something. I’m so sorry, Feyre.

Her eyes burn, but Feyre refuses to let the tears fall. Her chest aches at the effort. I don’t need apologies. We have to find them.

Rhysand hesitates a second too long, and Cassian cuts in. “Everything okay?”

Feyre hides her wince and doesn’t look at Cassian. She should be honest with her friends, her family, her counsel, but she doesn’t have the courage to be the one to break his heart. Her family was gathered here today for an evening full of laughter and good food. The smell of it now adds to Feyre’s nausea. She strangely feels like a burden announcing this issue that everyone has to now focus and worry about instead of enjoying their evening. An issue that she knows Cassian will not take well to.

Rhys carefully says, “Nesta and Elain left.”

Everyone immediately stands up, except for Amren. The small fae sits at her place and picks at a roll of bread in her hand and has no other outward reaction. Feyre is grateful to see that Azriel has already begun sending out shadows to search for answers without question but her gratitude withers when she sees Mor and Rhysand share a look that she cannot interpret.

They are wasting time.

“They’re missing?” Cassian asks, oblivious to the chair he accidentally knocked over and almost hitting Azriel with a wing.

“No,” Rhys clarifies, passing the note around, starting with Mor, “they left.” Something inside Feyre burns at the tone of his voice. She can’t place it, but she just knows that whatever is happening is wrong. She purses her lips and tries to ignore the ringing in her ear, tries to ignore the feeling that everything that everyone is saying and doing is wrong.

“How do you know it’s real?” Azriel asks and Feyre resolutely does not throw a vindicated look at her husband.

But she has to be honest in order to make sure they follow the next steps correctly. “I don’t know my sisters’ handwriting.” Feyre knows her face is bright red as she admits this. She doesn’t know the shape or slope of her sisters’ handwriting, having never cared to look as a child since she couldn't make sense of the letters.

The Inner Circle swaps uncomfortable looks, everyone admitting that they don’t recognize the handwriting either. It does little to reassure Feyre, who sees little use in discussing this. What does it matter if the note is real or not? Someone could’ve forced them to write it.

Feyre sends a glare to Rhysand, who is unnervingly calm, and mentally says to him, We need to find them.

She feels as if she is losing her mind, the way that she is the only one upset and concerned about her sisters. Feyre knows that her sisters don’t get along with everyone, but she thought at least Cassian would be more adamant about searching for them, to make sure Nesta was safe. It’s well known that Azriel periodically visits Elain in the garden. Why is there no sense of urgency? Feyre doesn’t fail to notice Mor and Amren’s lack of responses.

Rhys doesn’t answer her, but she can tell by his eyes that he is communicating to everyone else in the room before he swiftly moves, grabs hold of Feyre, and together they disappear into darkness. They land in his office.

“What are you doing?” Feyre asks out loud, breaking out of his hold and taking a step back. She watches as Rhysand stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at her with the most practiced face Feyre has ever seen. Her temper reaches a near breaking point. Why aren’t they doing anything? “We have to act fast. We don’t know how long-” She stops as she remembers the dust in Nesta’s room. How long have her sisters been gone? And how did no one not notice their absence for dust to be able to collect in the room?

Her pulse reaches an impossible rate as Feyre rewinds the past few days. She had gone through several days without thinking about her sisters. Their absence around the houses had been left unnoticed and when they were, Feyre didn’t think much of it. Nesta and Elain spent the majority of their free time post war holed away and out of sight. No one wanted to bother them and risk an uncomfortable conversation.

Like honey, Rhysand’s voice is smooth and gentle as he says, “Your sisters left willingly.”

Feyre erupts. “We don’t know that! They could’ve been taken outside the house. Someone could’ve threatened them to not call for help. We can’t let more time pass for the trail to get colder.”

His eyes, so often like starlight to Feyre, are pools of sympathy. She clamps down her intense distaste for it so he doesn’t notice. She doesn’t need to be pitied. She needs them to move, to act.

Rhysand remains a picture of calm. “I hate they did this- are still doing this to you. But they left of their own will. The wards didn’t set off any alarms. The note doesn’t look rushed or panicked. And we’re daemati, darling. Either of them could have called for us if they were in danger. Lucien hasn’t come crashing in with worry, so he hasn’t sensed anything either.”

Feyre can hardly believe what she is hearing. It has hardly been 10 minutes of knowing the situation, and he’s already decided that there’s nothing to be done? “Anyone could have written that note,” Feyre points out, trying to keep her voice steady and stern, but not accusatory. “We can’t read minds across entire cities or hundreds of feet away. We can’t read minds that are unconscious. We can’t say it’s nothing without even bothering to check.”

“I didn’t say it was nothing,” Rhys cuts in placating. “And Az is already searching with his shadows to see if there is anything else to be missed. But Feyre,” Rhys looks at her imploringly and once again with pity. Feyre feels the surprising urge to scream. “You have to prepare to accept the possibility that they left on their own accord.”

“And so what if they did? Am I supposed to just carry on without knowing where they are? If they’re safe? If they’re alive?” Her voice cracks on the last question. The note had said that they will see each other again, but her sisters failed to mention when.

A memory that Feyre hadn’t thought about in years hits her full force and she imperceptibly takes an uncomfortable step back from Rhysand. Her, five years old, tearfully asking her father why Elain couldn’t play with her. Her father, looming over her, explaining that Elain was grounded and wouldn’t be allowed out of her room for a week. She shakes the memory away but the parallel likeness leaves her on edge.

Rhysand doesn’t notice. “Lucien will be able to feel if Elain is in any danger. And…Cassian…” He trails off and looks meaningfully at Feyre and she understands his intent. Everyone all had their suspicions about the nature of Cassian and Nesta’s relationship but no one dared to voice it.

Feyre is stunned into silence. This is the single being in the world that Feyre is closest to- both physically and emotionally. They have seen each other at their worst and know each other better than anyone else. Nothing that Rhysand does should come as a surprise, and yet the shock nearly makes Feyre stumble.

Is it that surprising? a small voice asks in the back of her mind. Feyre knows that he doesn’t like her sisters, but she loves them. Surely, that has to be enough. That has to be enough to warrant more concern and to think of something more than using the mating bond as an alarm system.

Before Feyre could start a tirade, Rhysand continues. “Besides, this could be good for them.”

The shock is too much. “Good for them?” she blurts out, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” Rhysand continues, oblivious. “They’ve spent their entire lives depending on others' hard work- mostly yours. They did nothing to help you in the woods and they treat you as they do while they live in your house, eat your food, and spend your money. Maybe, as they make their own way, they’ll find a newfound gratitude, not to mention a new attitude.”

A tingling sensation starts at the base of her skull and it spreads until the foreign sensation has taken over her entire head. Feyre’s not sure if she’s breathing with the way her chest feels so tight. In a panic, Feyre clamps down on the bond between her and Rhysand.

He looks up in surprise. “Feyre? Are you alright?”

Feyre makes sure her shields are in place as her mind begins to answer. No. Nothing about this is alright, you two faced bastard.

“Yes.” She flounders for a reasonable response. “This is just…a lot for me all at once and…I’ll miss them.” You don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care. You never liked them and now they’re neatly out of the way and things can go the way you want.

Rhys nods slowly. “I understand.” And that’s when Feyre nearly starts screaming. She wonders how deep scratches she could make on his face with just her nails. “They’re your sisters.”

Yes, they’re my sisters and you don’t care that they’re on their own, practically defenseless, facing Prythian with barely any knowledge of what it holds and no training on how to deal with it.

“But I really and truly think that this could be a good learning experience for them.” Rhys continues to dig himself into a hole that he is completely blind to, his expression earnest and genuine.

Feyre briefly wonders if he would consider being trapped in the cabin with the weaver as a learning experience.

The Night Court had Bryaxis caged in their library. And he was now released. The amount of creatures that her sisters could encounter, the amount of fae with ill intentions that could try to get to them...Feyre’s mind whirls with the possibilities. She recalls when she first came to Prythian and how Tamlin forbade her clueless self to leave the manor grounds due to the dangers that could befall on her. Now her sisters, almost as clueless as Feyre had been, are…are…facing what? Doing what?

She doesn’t know. And that’s the problem. And Rhysand is refusing to help.

Feyre sharply inhales and turns to her husband, her mate, her supposed love of her life, and pastes a weak smile to her face. “I need to get some fresh air.” She swallows with some difficulty. “Go on with dinner with the others. I’m going to take a walk.”

Rhysand steps close to her and gently takes her hands. She wonders if he can feel the sweat collected on her palms. “Do you want me to go with you?” His face is a picture of concern, concern that he is clearly capable of feeling, just not for his sisters.

Feyre is sure not to protest too quickly. “No. I’d like to be alone for a bit. To process. I’ll shout down the bond if I need anything.” Which was a system that Rhys clearly trusted. Feyre fights to keep her race impassive and her heartbeat in check as Rhysand looks at her with sympathy. He presses his lips to her forehead and she bites her lips, the pain helping her focus. The few seconds of him touching her stretches like it’s been hours, and then he quietly leaves the room.

Feyre breathes deeply through her nose, hyper aware that Rhysand can still hear her, and winnows to the outside of the house, also hyper aware that Rhys would sense if she jumped somewhere far away.

The crisp air is a balm to Feyre’s heated skin. Wind washes over her and pulls bits of hair out of its braid. Feyre looks at the townhouse, where she can hear low conversation in the dining room, and then looks outwards- towards the city.

She doesn’t think twice before heading into Velaris, her pace precise and fast. She trips over her feet the first few steps before finding her stride. Feyre doesn’t have a destination in mind, her only goal is to get away. Her mind is too distracted to realize that her sisters’ may have had a very similar plan.

The fresh air helps soothe the ache in her chest but the burning sensation in her mind is stronger than ever as she takes in the sights of Velaris. It’s as if someone had replaced the Velaris she knew with the version she sees now, this version that she does not recognize.

Velaris is supposed to be beautiful. It’s supposed to be safe. It shines the brightest and showcases its splendor in the dark, and yet as night falls, the lanterns illuminating the streets reveal a very different picture. Why is Feyre surprised to see battered looking buildings and fae who look even worse for wear? Why is she unsettled to see groups of fae- lesser fae, she can’t help but notice- huddled around a fire and arguing over clothes? Why are her boots- a pair out of dozens that she owns- crunching on broken glass and broken cobblestones?

Why is she nervous as she approaches a street vendor, with a quick glamour thrown up to disguise her features, to buy a cloak? Feyre does her best to avoid eye contact as she hands her bracelet- a gift from Rhysand, of course- to the crone, protesting when she says the payment is too much.

“Please,” Feyre murmurs, taking the dark cloak and slipping it on, fixing the hood. “I have no use for it. It’s yours. Sell it, keep it- it’s yours.” The crone gives her a suspicious look but says nothing more and pockets the bracelet.

Feyre keeps walking forward, deeper into the city that she apparently has never seen before. In a way, she never has seen Velaris before, because what has she seen? She’s visited the Rainbow, she’s been to a few restaurants, she’s flown over Velaris- she’s even signed and officiated documents for the city. And yet, Feyre can’t even figure out how Elain and Nesta would leave Velaris, much less the Night Court. They don’t know how to winnow and she can’t imagine they planned to walk the entire way, wherever their destination is. She tries to put herself in their minds, but Feyre can’t wrap her head around why they left, much less how they left.

But that’s not exactly true- for Feyre knows very well why she is now walking, nearly running, deep, deep into the city and away, away, away from the house.

There is too much to think about- her sisters, Rhysand, the disillusioned Velaris- and her mind is whirring in order to keep up with it all. Did her sisters walk these roads? Did they also have cloaks on and their hoods up to hide their familiar features as they ran away from her? Were they just as surprised as Feyre as they tore through Velaris? Did they face any issues, get backed into any corners? Feyre’s creative imagination runs wild and she starts to truly panic as she realizes she has no idea what the possibilities are of what her sisters face or are currently facing. She has no idea about crime in Velaris, if it even happens, but surely it has to happen?

Rhysand always described Velaris, above all else, as safe. He prided himself on this secret city that housed dreamers and was left untouched by the war. But he never explained how Velaris came to be, and how can a secluded city thrive so well when it’s so cut off? Feyre doesn’t know who helps govern the city when the Inner Circle is not around, because she knows as well as anyone that they are not constantly focused on the ruling of Velaris. But Rhysand has only ever complained about dealing with Keir and the council at the Court of Nightmares. There must be a council for Velaris and if there is, Feyre doesn’t know anything about it.

She remembers her father griping about thieves and a bar that he no longer enjoyed after one too many public stabbings. He wanted to share a barrel of ale with dignified civilians, not the common squalor. For Cauldron’s sake, her father’s legs were broken because he couldn’t pay his debt. Those were tamer crimes in a world without magic. Why couldn’t Feyre think properly of all the ways her sisters could find their misfortune here- in a world with monsters of every variety?

The answer is very simple and very clear. Feyre thinks she may collapse head first in a rain collector and never come up for air if she faces that particular truth.

So, she doesn’t.

Instead, she slows her brisk walk until she stops at a tavern and peers inside.

It’s dimly lit, with only one big fire in the center to light the room. In the corner, there are three faeries providing live music, two whose fingers fly over their string instruments and the third is pounding away at his two sets of drums. The music is different here than the kind at Rita’s. The words are in a language that Feyre doesn’t understand but the singer’s voice goes hauntingly well with the music. The melody seems to dance and twist with the fire- the louder the sound, the larger the flame.

Distantly, Feyre thinks the beat of the drums remind her of Calanmai.

The tavern is full of patrons, some dance around the fire, others are grouped at tables, and there a few lone stragglers hunched over their drink. There are games of cards, raucous laughter, and a revelry that Feyre can’t imagine Rhysand partaking in. Rhysand is all dark, leather suits and carefully styled hair. He loves a glass of wine and dancing to sweet, melodic music. The patrons are dressed in simple clothes and Feyre, despite everything, smiles at the sight of one faerie pouring their drink over their friend’s head, the whole table howling in approval.

Feyre knows that Rhysand would stick out like a sore thumb in an establishment like this, with the paint peeling on the walls and moss covering the ceiling. She can’t imagine him walking by the tavern, much less walking in.

A sharp twinge hits her ribs and she presses a hand against it. Even though Feyre doesn’t allow anything to come through the bond or in her mind, she knows that Rhysand is asking about her whereabouts. She does not send a response and a pit grows in her stomach at the idea of returning to the house, to Rhysand. She dreads the thought of returning there and lying in bed next to him, pretending as if everything is alright.

Nothing is alright.

Everything is falling apart around her. She feels as if she is trying to hold sand down during a windstorm. The more she thinks about what Rhysand said and did, her surprise lessens and her anger rises. Her astounding lack of knowledge- of Prythian, of her sister's whereabouts, of the Court she's supposed to rule- leaves her rattled and shaken. 

Feyre wants to bang her head against the wall. She’s such an idiot. A gullible, naive fool. She is 21 years old and is irreversibly tied to this centuries old male who couldn’t even fake concern at the vanishing of her sisters. What is the next thing that Rhysand decides isn’t worth his time? What sorry excuse will he give for ignoring the pleas of his people in order to maintain a status quo that suits him best?

He’s the High Lord of this court, not the High Lord of my Cauldron damned family, Feyre thinks bitterly. She ignores the dulling pain at the back of her head- caused by the increasingly incessant knocking of Rhysand. She doesn’t want to talk to him. She doesn’t even want to look at him. 

The ground underneath her suddenly feels unstable. What is she going to do?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her heart is beating along to the fast rhythm of the drum and there’s a ringing in her head that has nothing to do with the music. For the first time in a very long time, Feyre doesn’t know who to turn to, doesn’t know what to do. The Inner Circle responds to their High Lord first, to Feyre second. They were Rhysand’s family long before Feyre was even born and Feyre can’t imagine there was anyone that wanted to go behind the Lord of Nightmares' back to help her, High Lady or not. She doesn’t know her own court well enough to know anyone capable and willing to help her. 

Feyre is the High Lady to one of the seven courts of Prythian, has powers from each of those courts, and she has never felt more powerless.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Feyre’s ribs ache as she strains to focus on the beat of the drums, the one thing keeping her tethered to the ground. She leans against the wall of the tavern for support when her legs threaten to give out.

Rhysand told her that her sisters had caused her too much pain and that their dangerous journey could be good character development. Feyre has half of a mind to return to the townhouse so she can scream within an inch of her dear husband’s face that they are her sisters and she can decide what is hurting her.

The instant the Inner Circle met the Archeron sisters, they stuck their noses in their business and acted as if they were there, with them, in that cabin in the woods. They constantly throw events into Nesta and Elain’s faces as if it isn’t the Night Court’s fault, Feyre’s fault, that they were kidnapped and brutally murdered so that they could be created into something they feared. Nesta and Elain lean on Feyre and her dime for support because Feyre and Rhysand took everything from them.

Maybe they left before we could do more damage, Feyre thinks, almost hopelessly.

She is hopeless, she decides. She does not know where she is, where her sisters are, or if she’ll ever see them again.  

But the drums continue to ring and their sound bolsters something within Feyre, pulling her from her bleak thoughts. 

Leave. Leave. Leave. The words sing in her bones as they follow the cadence of the drums. The message is loud and strong and refuses to be misunderstood.

Leave. Leave. Leave. Feyre swears it is not her own voice nor Rhysand’s that she hears echoing in her ears, but someone else's entirely. 

Leave. Leave. Leave. It is the Suriel’s voice, clear and distinct as the night sky above.

Leave. Leave. Leave. Clare Beddor’s voice begs Feyre to run, run, run and Feyre clutches onto the windowsill for support.

Leave. Leave. Leave. It is her mother that urges her now and that is when Feyre knows she is truly losing it. She closes her eyes and carefully inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth. She ignores the splinters she now has in her hands from the poorly made windowsill and turns away from the tavern, away from the drums, and looks up at the Night sky.

The tears that Feyre refused to let fall in front of her family now slowly streams down her face.

It feels as though it was just yesterday she had fallen in love with the dark sky that was bejeweled by the stars. Feyre was often seized by deep emotions any time she looked at the constellations for too long. This world, this life, these people that she held so near to her heart- a gift, she had said. And she would not squander it. So she would protect what was important.

Feyre Archeron- not High Lady, not Feyre Cursebreaker, Feyre Archeron- knows what is important. Feyre, even through her tears, has never seen things more clearly than she does now.

She knows what she has to do. Feyre sends a quick prayer to the Mother that she’ll have the strength to do it.

She does.

Chapter Text

It’s been over ten years, and Feyre still thinks about Tutor Winchell.

He had only been her teacher for eight months, but Feyre still remembers the wrinkles in his brown skin that appeared when he smiled, which was often. She remembers his patience when she struggled to answer questions, never letting her give up and refusing to move to a different topic until she understood the current one. And, above all, Feyre can never forget his kindness in how he never ridiculed her or made her feel inferior for her inability to read.

Since Feyre couldn’t complete written work, the majority of Feyre’s lessons were conversations and hands-on activities. The day she learned about gravity was a happy one, spent by dropping things from the balcony and dissolving into a fit of giggles when a sock hit Nesta on the head.

Tutor Winchell’s last lesson with Feyre was held as a conversation. He sat her down and explained that he would no longer be her teacher. His wife was very sick, and he needed to go to the Continent to search for treatment, he had said.

Before Feyre could process what he said and be upset beyond belief, Tutor Winchell asked her two questions.

“Who are you? And what do you want to be?”

Befuddled by the topic change, Feyre kicked her feet in her chair and scratched her hair. Tutor Winchell patiently repeated the first question. “Who are you?”

She scrunched her nose. Was this a trick question? “I’m…Feyre?”

“Is that a question, or an answer?”

“I’m Feyre!” She threw her hands in the air for emphasis as she cheered.

He smiled. “Yes. And who is this Feyre?

“Me. That’s me.”

“And?”

“And… I’m 8 years old. I can climb a tree and eat the most amount of cookies over my sisters and Mama says I like to cause a ruckus. And I like that word, it’s fun to say. Ruck-us.”

His smile never faltered, but Feyre was too busy trying to pronounce “ruckus” in different ways to notice the melancholy that had fallen onto Tutor Winchell. “Yes. And you’re smart. Never forget that you are a very bright girl, Feyre.” He clapped his hands together once. “Now, what do you want to be?”

Feyre didn’t need to think twice about that question. “A pirate. But not the kind that hurts people on Daddy’s ships.”

“Good. What else?”

“I like drawing. And listening to Lainy play the piano. And playing tag with Cara.” She paused. “I like lessons with you.”

Tutor Winchell shook her small hand. “That is high praise coming from you. I like lessons with you, too. You’ve taught me many things, Feyre. I hope you’ve learned something from me as well. But if you one day forget what I’ve taught you, that’s fine. I just want you to remember one thing.”

Feyre’s curiosity was thoroughly piqued. This felt like a secret, and adults never shared any secrets with her. “I can remember.”

“No matter the situation, no matter the circumstance- you can find your happiness. Happiness is something that you choose. You can choose who you are, you can choose what you do, and in that, you can choose your happiness.”

Feyre tilted her head and frowned. She didn't think it was a very fun secret.

Their lesson ended. Her father paid Tutor Winchell one last time, lamenting on Feyre’s progress in reading and writing, and wished the teacher and his wife good fortune. Feyre never saw him again.

Her next teacher forced her to read out loud the same sentence over and over again until she read it without stuttering and stumbling.

Twelve years later, the conversation has not left Feyre's memory. She may have forgotten menial lessons about erosion and the universal postal system, but she remembers what Tutor Winchell wanted her to remember.

Usually, thinking about their last lesson brought Feyre feelings of bittersweet nostalgia. She had a better understanding of his last teaching and thought about her Tutor with fondness. She would take a moment to wish that wherever her teacher was, it was somewhere he wanted to be. Sometimes, his words bolstered her in her low moments.

Now, she finds herself almost angry at his advice.

Tutor Winchell, Rhysand, the Circle- they all talked about choices, and that no matter the situation, the choice was hers. As if that meant anything. As if that gave Feyre power over the situation and that it was all within her control.

What good is free will in a situation where all the options are horrible? Tutor Winchell said that her actions made her who she was, and Feyre never put too much weight into that, but now she can’t help but think of every implication for every choice she makes.

Does it make her a coward to choose to magick a single sentence of a note into the kitchen of the townhouse, rather than talk to Rhysand? If that’s the case, she’ll gladly take that title. Feyre would rather nearly drown while attempting to steal from the Summer Court than tell Rhysand to his face that she’s leaving.

She magicks the note into the townhouse the second she writes it, using a scrap of parchment she finds and a stylus from the tavern. The moment the note vanishes, Feyre follows suit.

Feyre hits the Illyrian ground running as she winnows into Windhaven. The need to constantly be moving is demanding and unrelenting. She’s like a shark in the way that she has to keep moving. Instead of avoiding death in doing so, she is avoiding the risk of Rhysand being able to find her.

To her, both options have the same weight in severity. 

Quickly and quietly, Feyre moves in the shadows, careful to remain hidden by any observing eye. Her glamour is still up, but she’s not taking any chances. Even in times of peace, the Illyrian camps have guards stationed during all times of the day and the camp is alight with giant, burning fire pits every hundred feet.

Every too sharp breath, every accidental kick of a pebble makes Feyre cringe and she fights the urge to freeze up. The paranoia that someone will take notice of her is near paralyzing, but her fear of losing in her race against time is stronger.

Feyre doesn’t have to wonder if her following actions make her a thief- she already knows the answer. She is a thief, sneaking into Devlon’s personal armory under the guise of night and stealing leathers, a bow with a quiver of arrows, and a knife. Guilt does not weigh her down and she feels indifferent at best for inconveniencing him. She knows his pride will prevent him from telling his “smarmy” High Lord that someone successfully stole from him right out from under his nose.

The next bit of thievery goes just as smoothly, although Feyre wishes she had something to leave behind as payment- something that wasn’t too obviously hers. Still, there is no foregoing these items.

Shoving the two freshly dead chickens into a sack and shouldering it with a second cloak, Feyre winnows out of the Night Court. It doesn’t feel as monumental as it should.

It’s a half baked plan and Feyre knows it. It’s a half baked plan that heavily relies on luck and the Mother answering her frantic prayers. With a plan like this, Feyre should have a few fail safes in store, but she refuses to think of how this could go wrong.

This has to go according to plan.

Feyre may have been a hunter, but she ignores the first rules of tracking by refusing to start at the beginning of the trail- in the Night Court. Finding her sisters has the same priority of putting as much distance between her and Rhysand as possible.

Feyre lands in a thick forest in the Day Court, close to the mountain range, and falls to her knees the moment she arrives. The pain in her mind nearly quadruples and Feyre knows that Rhysand has sensed that she is no longer in Velaris, no longer in the Night Court. Her mental shields still stand, but she can almost hear his voice distantly- as if he is standing on a cliff and roaring her name into the ravine. Feyre catches the brief echoes of it.

Her eyes shut close and she grips the grass, nearly ripping out a foot of soil in the process. Her head feels as if it’s about to split into pieces and her ribs ache and seem to try to tug her in one direction. A direction that undoubtedly leads to Rhysand.

Feyre takes sharp, heavy breaths as she tries to compose herself. She knew that this would not be easy, she knew that it was maybe even cruel to leave behind a single sentence of a note to explain her disappearance but-

What could I have done? Feyre asks herself desperately as she tries to justify to herself, to the Mother, to the universe her actions. I told him I wanted to search for my sisters and he gave me a pat on the head and said they were better off. My feelings didn’t matter, their lives didn’t matter, and I couldn’t waste time in trying to convince him to give a shit.

Her tirade sparks memories- Rhysand going behind Mor’s back to form an alliance with the male she hated the most and gave her no warning to prepare, Rhysand deceiving Tarquin despite the Summer High Lord’s trust and desire to help fight against Hybern, Rhysand trapping his friends in Velaris and taking their choice away in fighting against Amarantha.

Oddly enough, the memories help calm Feyre, allowing her to draw strength and fortify her mental shields and to close off the bond. She allows herself to let go of a fraction of the guilt she feels.

Rhysand always makes his choices for himself and others. Feyre is making hers.

She takes note of the dew in the grass that she clutches at, the slight breeze softly drifting through the forest, and the humidity despite of the breeze. It is still dark here in the Day Court, but the stars are mostly hidden by clouds.

Feyre rises to her feet, and sets the trap.

It’s mindless work, but she double and triple checks every aspect of it. When she’s satisfied with her work, she climbs a tree in two pulls and waits, trying to not think about the first time she did this.

She should feel different from the Feyre that recklessly took the advice of a petulant red-haired fae to seek out her own answers. She should at least feel more knowledgeable about the land.

Instead, Feyre finds herself feeling almost jealous of her past self. She used to be so self assured in the decisions she made and had no qualms about who she pissed off in making them. She had no problems embracing whoever her decisions made her be.

“Don’t leave the manor grounds, Feyre”? Fine. Not only will she leave manor grounds, she’ll go out in dangerous lands just to get answers about questions Tamlin refused to answer. She was reckless, she was determined.

“Go home and forget about us, Feyre”? She’ll march straight into the mountain with no plan, no back up, and end up freeing all of Prythian. She was desperate, she was in love.

“Don’t go looking for your sisters, Feyre, you have to let them go”? Feyre refuses to even entertain the idea.

She was, for the very first time in her life, alone.

Each time, her decisions never felt like a choice. What were the other options? Remain clueless to the dangerous and foreign land she was held captive in, giving more power to the people around her? Leave the male she loved in the hands of a psychopath? Live everyday in uncertainty of whether her sisters were alive and well?

Those were not options to Feyre. She’s not sure what that would make her- crazy, stubborn, stupid- but she can’t leave people she loves behind. She takes care of them, because that is love. That is the way that Feyre has come to know love.

Now, there is no one to rush in to help her against a Naga attack. There’s no one to heal her or give her the right answer.

Until she finds her sisters, it is just Feyre.

And that will be enough, Feyre tells herself firmly. Even if the trap doesn’t work, she’ll find a way- because that is what she has always done, long before she had ever stepped foot inside Prythian.

As luck and the Mother will have it, Feyre doesn’t have to wait long.

“The illustrious Feyre Archeron…Come to kill me too?”

Feyre jolts in her seat, almost falling out of the tree. She finds her balance before scampering down, relief coursing through her. She leaves her bow on her back, the arrows in her quiver, and her knife in her boot. Approaching the trap to see what she has caught, Feyre is not disappointed at what she finds.

The Suriel.

Feyre blinks in surprise, despite the fact she purposefully searched out the Suriel. But the creature before her looks nothing like the creature she had in mind.

Its body is formed by what looked like branches of a black oak, twisting together to form limbs and a body. The branches are frayed and spotted with holes, the biggest holes are in what appears to be the face, where white, glowing eyes sit. It looks nothing like the Suriel Feyre once knew, but she has not a single doubt that this is a Suriel.

Feyre is only slightly unsettled by its eyes being the sole source of light in the forest.

The Suriel grins at her, or at least, she thinks it’s a grin. It bares its teeth at her, all jagged and pristinely white. “My, my. To whom do I owe the honor of being slaughtered by Feyre Archeron?”

Feyre frowns, her mind temporarily sidetracked from her mission. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The Suriel’s ancient voice has no volume, echoing and vibrating in a way that it sounds both loud and quiet. “Really? You’ll have to forgive me for the confusion. The last time one of my kind met with you, they also met their untimely demise. But of course, that’s not your fault, is it?” Its mouth stretches even further, a sadistic glee glinting in its milky white eyes.

Feyre blanches at the memory of the Suriel’s crushing grip in her hands as it tells her to leave the world a better place than how she found it. She used to comfort herself with the fact that she followed through on its request. Now, Feyre is unsure, and she chokes on guilt.

“I didn’t know,” Feyre begins stiltedly, and her excuse sounds pathetic even to her own ears, “about the tracker Ianthe had on it.”

The Suriel tilts its head. “Would you have searched for it if you did know?”

Feyre stays silent. She definitely would’ve sought one out still, foolishly certain that she’d be able to protect it.

“It doesn’t matter,” the Suriel continues, looking far too comfortable for someone caught in a trap. “It knew about the tracker and went to you anyway. For all of my knowledge, I never knew why.”

“It said…it said I was kind,” Feyre recalls softly, and feels horribly unworthy of the adjective.

The Suriel presses its mouth into a thin line, unimpressed. “Like I said, I never knew why.”

The silence that stretches between them crackles with tension. Feyre, who had no less than a thousand questions for the Suriel, can’t think of a single thing to say. Apologies flit through her mind, but nothing sounds genuine. Her sorrow and guilt won’t change the fact that the other Suriel died for her, because of her.

The Suriel before her sighs. The sound is akin to shattering glass. “Spit it out, then.”

Feyre blinks in confusion. “What?”

The Suriel waves an impatient clawed hand. “You trapped me to ask questions, did you not? Ask them.”

Against her better judgment, she hesitates. Feyre knows that she has little time to waste and should immediately get to the heart of the matter. Instead, she blurts, “What’s your name?”

It makes a whirring and clicking sound from the back of its throat and Feyre takes that as a questioning sound. She stumbles through her clarification.

“I know…I think the first Suriel who helped me had a name. It never had the opportunity to tell me before their death. I would like to know yours, if you are willing to tell me.”

“Names are a powerful thing, Cursebreaker.”

Feyre refuses to react to the deliberate name change. “You don’t have to tell me.”

She’s beginning to think that the Suriel is going to appear unimpressed throughout their entire conversation. She wants to avoid previous mistakes, but time demands that she forgoes the politeness she was attempting at. “Fine. Forget I asked. Where are my sisters?”

No smile could look nice on the Suriel, but Feyre hates the way this one mocks her. “You don’t know?”

She huffs, impatient. “You know that I don’t know where they are. The faster you tell me, the sooner we don’t have to be near each other.”

“And here I was thinking that you enjoyed my company.”

Feyre’s constant headache threatens to spread. “I need to find them. Every second that passes where I’m not with them is another second of them in danger. Please. Help me. Help them.”

The unnerving smile remains. “Ah. And you think that they would be better off if you were with them? Tell me, why do you think they left?”

A part of her knows that it is being difficult on purpose. She wonders if this is a common trait amongst the Suriel, or if this one is just particularly upset about the death of their own. The anger arises regardless, scraping at her throat and begging to be released. Patience is quickly running out, although she was short in supply to begin with.

“I have two chickens and a cloak.” She shows her offerings, but makes sure it is out of reach from its grasp. “Can you tell me where my sisters are or not?”

The white eyes flash with greed and Feyre almost thinks she’s won, but then the Suriel hums- a screeching sound, like broken and rusted lyre strings. “Answer me a question as well, and you have a deal.”

Feyre all but snarls. “You’re in no position-”

“No, you’re in no position to be striking any bargains and clearly, yours can’t be trusted.” It pointedly stares at the tattoo on Feyre’s hand. She resists the urge to hide it behind her back. “Answer me one question and I’ll answer anything you’d like.”

“What could you possibly ask that you don’t already know?” Feyre asks in exasperation. She has never been one to pull at her hair in aggravating situations, but the reminder of her bargain with Rhysand is pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

Focus. Think about that- later. It can be dealt with later.

If the Suriel is aware of Feyre’s inner turmoil, it doesn’t show it. “As much as you High Fae view the Suriel as next to Seers in knowledge of past and present, there are some....topics that elude us.”

“The Cauldron can make its location and others invisible to you,” Feyre recalls impatiently.

“Yes. And matters of the mind and heart…often fall outside our reach. So tell me this, Feyre Archeron, and I'll answer your question. Why were you kind?”

Feyre stills and refrains from blurting her thoughts- I thought you didn’t think I was kind?

The Suriel guesses her thoughts anyways. “I know you set them free after your first encounter, so that they would not be shredded apart by the Naga. I know you held their hand and stayed with them until they died. Why?” The Suriel tries to hide its distress, but Feyre catches onto it anyways.

Feyre should be relieved that the question she has to answer is an easy one, but all she feels is a drowning sensation that suspiciously feels like grief. She hates that this is something that has to be explained. She had painted a rose color tinge over Prythian throughout these last few months. The rose color started to fade the second she found an empty room instead of her sisters and now the Suriel’s question wipes the last bit of it away.

“I was kind because it- they-” she corrects herself, recalling the way the Suriel in front of her referenced their kind. “-were kind to me first. Prythian was foreign to me. I was here for a curse I knew nothing about and no one told me anything. I was kind in that first encounter because they helped me, a human. Even if they didn’t, they didn’t deserve to die because I had trapped them. And when they did die…” Feyre shoves down the urge to cry as she recalls her sorrow and her tears from that day. “No one deserves to die alone.”

That should be enough to satisfy the Suriel and grant Feyre her answers.

And yet-

“I died…you know that.”

The Suriel, pensive, nods.

She pauses, struggling to find the right words to convey her thoughts. “It was…a brutal death.” Her voice is shaky and she concentrates on a red flower next to the foot of the Suriel instead of their face. It’s easier this way. “I wasn’t alone- there were people around me and calling out for me but…”

Excruciating pain, from the top of her skull to the bottom of her feet- her lungs no longer crying out because she had no air to breathe- Tamlin screaming, Lucien screaming, Rhysand screaming- Amarantha thrashing her around like a doll but it didn’t matter- she was worthless after what she had done- crack, crack, crack-

Feyre blinks hard and rapidly, digging her fingernails into her palm to help ground her. The humidity has her hair stuck to her neck and it feels almost oppressive. “There were people there,” she continues, hoping the Suriel will grant her the courtesy of ignoring how hoarse her voice is, “but they weren’t with me. There were no reassurances. No lies of ‘everything is going to be okay’ and- I died alone, really. I can say it firsthand, no one deserves to die alone. Besides,” she tries to make eye contact and she tries for a smile, but manages to give a grimace over the Suriel’s shoulders, “they were my friend.”

The Suriel stares at her, unblinking, and Feyre’s face flushes red.

She has never talked with anyone before about her death like that. She wonders if the Suriel knows that, too.

“You don’t know much about our kind, Feyre Archeron,” the Suriel says, not as an accusation, but as a statement.

Feyre nods. There’s no use in pretending that she does.

“Our existence….my existence, is a curse,” the Suriel rasps. “We are burdened with knowledge that all crave to know. We are forbidden to settle down, to grow roots in a home- we must wander throughout Prythian with only the possessions given to us. That is the will of the Mother.”

“That’s awful.” The words come out in a hush. “Are you bound by magic?”

Feyre thinks it’s a silly question to ask, but she and Suriel have both shared personal truths and she is well past being embarrassed. She realizes she doesn’t know anything at all about Suriels- how do they know so much? How does the extent of their knowledge work? How are High Lords not squabbling over them daily? Are they immortal? If they can only use what is given to them, and are immortal, do they starve for eternity?

It sounds...lonely. 

The Suriel shifts in their trap. Feyre has half a mind to let them out but her rationality talks her out of it. They may be talking to each other personally right now, but that does not mean Feyre knows for a fact that they wouldn’t run.

“Some creatures are created to fly,” the Suriel begins, eyes dim, “some creatures are created to swim. My brethren are created to roam. And like all other creatures, we know our place. We do not dare to change it.”

But the other Suriel- they were a dreamer. They wanted something more. The words are on the tip of her tongue but Feyre knows the words will not be welcomed.

It’s not like she considers herself a dreamer now, either.

Instead, she reaches into her bootstrap and pulls out the knife. She offers it to the trapped Suriel, hilt first.

If the Suriel had eyelids, Feyre is sure they would blink in confusion. They stare at the knife in her hands and make no move to take it.

Suddenly nervous that she’s offended them, Feyre explains. “Your possessions are only things that have been given to you. So.” She gestures the knife towards them. “This is yours now.”

Slowly and carefully, as if waiting for Feyre to snatch the knife away or lunge forward with it at the last second, the Suriel takes the knife.

A moment too late, Feyre realizes that the Suriel could use the knife to set themselves free, and while the realization starts a small panic- Feyre can’t be mad if they do. She doesn’t even think she would try chasing them down if they did.

The Suriel stares at the knife in their hands as if they're not entirely sure what to do with it. A beat in silence passes- Feyre tries not to fidget- and she then realizes they have no where to put it. She takes out the cloak and presents it to the Suriel. “Here. This has pockets where you can put the knife.”

The Suriel takes the cloak, but doesn’t put it on. They hold their new possessions in their hand so carefully, as if they move too fast, their items will shatter. “You,” the Suriel begins, and Feyre could be imagining it, but she thinks their voice is softer, “never were like the other High Fae.”

It’s a compliment, but it doesn’t feel like one. It’s not an insult either, but Feyre doesn’t know how to take their words.

She opens her mouth- to say what, she’s not entirely sure- when a splitting pain pierces the base of her head.

Feyre keels over and desperately grabs the trunk of a nearby tree to keep herself from properly collapsing on the ground.

Feyre. Feyre. FEYRE. FEYRE!

She nearly bursts into tears. She can feel it all- Rhysand’s anguish, his fear, his anger- but she doesn’t feel any sympathy. She wants to scream it from the top of her lungs- shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

The only thing stopping her from shouting it at Rhysand is that it would require her lowering her own mental shields to do so, and that is not an option.

She tries to focus on anything other than the pain- the cool breeze against her heated skin, the chirps of insects around them, the rough bark against her hands- but both the pain and Rhysand are relentless.

Feyre bites a knuckle- the copper taste of blood bursts in her mouth- and she lets out an aggravated shout. The Suriel is the furthest thing in her mind as she is overwhelmed with emotions- ones that aren’t hers.

It’s all against her will but- Feyre aches at her mate’s agony. She is seconds away from weeping in the grassy meadow from the sorrow and for a brief second, Feyre wonders if carving out her heart would stop it all.

Her useless, bleeding, human heart.

There’s a distant rustling sound but Feyre is too preoccupied from keeping her skull from breaking into two to pay attention. She almost wishes that she had left a longer note explaining why she left. At the very least, perhaps Rhysand wouldn’t be so insistent on her mental shields.

But by the Mother, did she want to make him hurt and make him feel the way she did when she saw her sisters’ note. At least she had the courtesy to look for her sisters in a way that didn’t threaten their mental stability.

A strange texture at her elbow causes Feyre to jump, but whatever is holding her keeps her steady. She whips her head up to see the Suriel, free of their trap, and holding onto Feyre with fingers made of what looks like twisted roots.

Her astonishment sidetracks her pain. Wordlessly, Feyre straightens with the help of the Suriel, and the two stare at each other. Feyre can’t even pretend to be able to read their face.

“It would do you well to remember that a Suriel cannot predict the future,” the Suriel starts. Feyre frowns, puzzled, but distracted from her pain. “They can tell you about events that happened but never attended themselves, they can tell you information about people they have never met- but they cannot tell you which path is best for you.”

In front of her, Feyre realizes, is yet another choice to be made.

She either learns where her sisters are and continues forward, or she gives in to the badgering in her head and allows Rhysand to find her.

Once again, there really is no choice at all. And Feyre knows what this choice makes her.

Taking a deep breath, she builds another wall around her mental shields.

Feyre swallows, but her throat is dry. Her gaze is steady as she meets the blindingly, but mesmerizing, white eyes of the Suriel. “Please. Tell me where my sisters are.”

Dawn begins to break in the east- all soft hues of pink and peach. Night is over and a new day has begun.

To her surprise- the Suriel smiles. It is not menacing nor mocking. It is not comforting nor calming. It promises her something- this smile tells Feyre that the Suriel, as always, knows more than they are letting on.

“A deal is a deal, Cursebreaker. I’ll tell you where your sisters are.”

Chapter Text

Feyre whacks the branch in front of her out of her way and her shrieks echo as the branch slaps her in the face.

“These stupid, fucking trees ,” Feyre grumbles under her breath, “in these stupid fucking woods .”

Because that's where she is right now- the woods. In the godsdamn Middle. Feyre muses to herself that it almost makes sense- where else would the Archeron sisters be, if not the woods?

If not for the everything about her conversation with the Suriel, she would’ve thought they were lying when they said her sisters had just entered through the northwestern border into the Middle. Feyre can’t help but wonder how they managed to travel across three Courts in such little time, but her frustration with the situation far surpasses her curiosity. 

The last eighteen hours have been a losing battle against nature and Feyre has had to talk herself down from burning everything in her path three times now. She has prayed to the Mother for strength and to the Cauldron for patience, but the Mother must’ve grown tired of Feyre’s pleas for help after the Suriel and the Cauldron- well. 

The Cauldron must still be upset at Feyre for her attempt to weaken it. Perhaps that’s fair, but Feyre isn’t feeling too charitable after what is now the ninth bleeding cut on her face and the fifth burr stuck in her hair.

She tries to create a space between some brush for her to squeeze past with her bow, and Feyre swears through the entire ordeal. “You just had to give the Suriel your knife. Couldn’t have just given them the two chickens and cloak- which was a goddamn deal , I only had one question- but no, you had to go and give them your only other weapon outside the stupid arrows.” 

She grits her teeth as several thorns scrape across her forehead. She’s unable to continue her tirade vocally or else she’ll be spitting leaves. You couldn’t have taken more than just the knife? Everyone knows to bring a spare knife. That rat bastard Devlon wouldn’t have missed it. Can’t winnow, can’t fly, can’t even run with this little space.

If she winnows, there’s a chance that she’ll miss her sisters. If she flies, she risks someone catching sight of her and the news getting back to the Night Court. And if she runs, then Feyre is certain she’ll trip and impale herself on a sharp root almost instantaneously.

Which, in all honesty, would be a bit of a reprieve right now. That kind of pain would definitely distract her from her empty stomach and her neverending headache.

She reminds herself once again that this is the decision she has made, and this is the decision she is sticking with. So what if she is poorly staving off her hunger with a handful of berries collected and deemed safe by Feyre before leaving the Summer Court? So what if the fog is so thick she can barely see ten feet in front of her? She may not know her exact whereabouts, or what creatures are making those light chirping sounds, but she knows she’s on the right path to find her sisters.

This knowledge is formed by the fact that Feyre refuses to believe or even entertain the opposite. She either finds her sisters or…nothing. There is no other alternative.

The mating bond may demand and chafe and tug at her side, begging her to return to Rhysand, but when the demands become overwhelming, Feyre closes her eyes and lets the scene that came into her mind the second the Suriel said her sisters were entering the Middle wash over her.

Her sisters- desperate and tired- stumbling upon the Weaver’s cottage thinking they’ve found a shelter, only to be ripped into shreds and feasted upon. 

It’s not real, and Feyre has no prophetic abilities, but the horror that grips her when she thinks about it is very real. While she knows it’s not certain that anything like that has happened or will happen, she cannot live in that uncertainty for an undetermined amount of time, no matter what Rhysand says.

So, she does not think about warm dinners and roaring fireplaces, she does not think about the luxury of having someone with her to answer her questions and to wipe the blood of her face with a tender hand, and she does not think about her art studio and what used to be her muses for her art.

If she has to make commentary to herself in order to keep herself from raging in fury, so be it. If she grumbles and groans about her small injuries to keep her from thinking about any deeper, emotional pain, then that’s perfectly fine.

Or so she tells herself.

Feyre grabs an arrow and starts cutting at the hedge in front of her. It’s difficult and slow-going work, but there are animal tracks under the hedge and the tracks are big enough to make her believe that if she gets to the other side of the hedge, there will be a clearing of some sort.

She’s torn away enough branches that Feyre feels confident that she can squeeze through with minimal damage. She’s almost proven true except for her hair getting caught in a branch just as she’s about to step out onto the other side.

“Cauldron boil and fry me and lock me up in the Prison,” Feyre curses and tears well in her eyes as her hair is yanked back. She bits on her lip to keep herself from any more swearing and to stop any more tears. It’s not fair. She can see that there’s a path- she’s standing on it for Mother’s sake- and she is so close to catching a break. 

Feyre places her arrow back into the quiver and tries to untangle her hair with little results. After two minutes of useless work, Feyre holds her hair at the base of her neck, closes her eyes, and yanks.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” Her hair is successfully out of the hedge, with several twigs, leaves, and thorns adorning it. Feyre winces as the hodge podge of nature brushes against her neck. “Ow, ow, ow. ”

“Feyre?”

She freezes at the familiar voice and finally realizes where she has stepped into. She is not so much of a clearing, but a well worn path with enough space for horses to ride through. And as she turns, she sees them. Less than ten feet away.

There they are. Her sisters.

Looking at them feels like a punch to the gut- and Feyre has already felt like the universe’s punching bag for the past forty-eight hours. This blow somehow feels like the worst.

The Archeron family, back together again.

Distantly, Feyre wonders how their relationship has come to this. How their situation has come to this- standing with a safe distance between each other with barely anything to their names. Feyre does not miss the small pack that they each carry, the boots on their feet, and the way their hair is tied back. Their cloaks are bland and unassuming. 

It's obvious that they’re dressed for travel and Feyre wants to scream at them and ask where they are traveling to. It itches at her, underneath her skin, the idea that they may have a better grasp of Prythian than she does.

But she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t yell. There are a thousand and one emotions bubbling within her, fighting each other to be heard. She’s relieved to see them, she’s angry beyond belief at the mere sight of them, she’s so happy to see that they are whole and in one piece without a scratch, and she is devastated to see that they are surprised to see her.

Do they think that Feyre wouldn’t want to see them? To make sure they were safe? Do they think they would leave, and that Feyre would forget about them? 

I was worried. The words are on the tip of her tongue, but her throat is so dry Feyre doesn’t think she can cough, much less form a sentence. I missed you. I was so afraid. I’m sorry, how could you? I left them, too, I get it- how could you do this to me?

Almost as if she can hear her thoughts, Nesta purses her lips. Feyre watches as Nesta’s silver eyes narrow in suspicion and watches as Elain mouth drops open, as if even with her Sight, she could never conceive this happening.

Feyre wishes she could blame her.

“Feyre?” Elain repeats, taking a tentative step forward. Her honey brown eyes are wary, but the concern in them is clear. “What are you doing here?”

Feyre knows that they should go and find somewhere safe before they have this conversation that will undoubtedly end in an argument. She should even hug her sisters in greeting, to let them know that, despite everything, she is happy to see them.

Feyre’s feet are firmly rooted in place. Her mouth wobbles. There is nothing she wants to say but there is everything to tell them. Her mind wars with herself on what to say and all of her inner monologues created as she searched for her sisters have vanished from her mind. 

There are much more important things to say but the one that Feyre feels the most strongly is, “You left me.”

The wind rustles in the background, chirps of an unknown creature resonate in the distance. Silence stretches between them and the knot in Feyre’s stomach tightens. “You left me,” she repeats, her voice stronger and her tears disappearing as her anger takes place. “You left a note of not even three sentences and practically no way to find you-”

“Are you serious right now?” It shocks Feyre to her core that it is Elain that yells this at her. Nesta, who has not spoken a word, places a hand on Elain’s shoulder as if to calm her, but Elain shrugs the hand off and continues. “We left you? Feyre- you left us first. ”

Her words nearly knock Feyre over and she scrambles to understand their meaning. “Me? I left you first?” She throws her hands in the air as a mock surrender. A part of her knows that she shouldn’t go down this path and should try to be genuine and honest, but sod it all, it is so easy to fall into the steps of arguing with her sisters. “Right, of course. Forgive me, then, for leaving you all in the mortal lands when a fae beast knocked down our door and took me away. I suppose I should’ve just died- ”

“You did die!” Elain nearly shrieks. She looks a step away from insane- her fists clenched at her sides; her eyes wide as she yells at her younger sister. “You left us and went Under the Mountain, and you died and yes, you came back, and I am so glad - but you left us and then sent no word, no letter, no messenger- nothing when you did survive. We thought you were dead.”

As easily as Feyre’s temper rises, it then crumbles and falls. Elain’s words wrap around Feyre’s throat and crush her windpipe. 

She has never thought about what it was like for Nesta and Elain after she left to fight what was almost certainly a lost battle. Feyre knew that they were fed and had a roof over their heads, and so few thoughts were spared on them. Especially not when there were more pressing matters at hand.

But afterwards? 

How can she look at Elain and Nesta in the eyes and tell them that after Under the Mountain, she had forgotten to send word that she made it out alive? Nesta told her to go after the male she loved and to not come back, knowing she would be happier in Prythian. But Feyre knew she didn’t want to completely cut contact. Nesta saw Clare Beddor’s house. She wasn’t an idiot- she would have connected the dots of what months of silence must’ve meant.

There is nothing but the sound of the sharp breaths Elain is taking as she stares at her younger sister. Feyre’s shame and guilt hang over her, their weight making it impossible for her to look into her sister’s eyes. She doesn’t need to look at her to feel her gaze boring into her skin.

“Do you know what it felt like?” Elain continues in a small voice and Feyre almost begs her to stop. She doesn’t want to hear this. “The glamour didn’t work on Nesta, but it worked on me. Do you know how it was for Nesta to try to break its hold on me, to convince me that we didn’t have an Aunt Ripleigh, that you weren’t taking care of her, but were killed at the hands of fae? Do you know what it was like to realize you had been living a lie and have your reality shatter like that?” 

Nesta’s face is stone when Feyre looks at her, but she can read the furrow in her eyebrows and the twist of her mouth. Feyre’s imaginative mind can see it all so clearly- Nesta telling Elain to think , to remember that they’ve never had an aunt, that both of their parents were only children. Elain shaking her head in disbelief and calling Nesta crazy and- if there was no Aunt Ripleigh, then where was Feyre? 

Dead, Nesta chokes out. Elain scolds her for making such a dark joke.

It’s all make belief and it’s all in Feyre’s head, but she knows that there is some truth in it. Of Nesta having to try to convince Elain that she wasn’t crazy, and that their baby sister was dead. Of Elain having her entire worldview go up in flames around her. 

Feyre can’t think of a single thing to say. What is there to say? That she was drowning after what happened Under the Mountain? That her sisters were the furthest thing from her mind afterwards? Except, of course, when she told Ianthe about them. Apologizing seems too small for what she did.

Elain ignores her silence and mercilessly plows forward. “We thought you were dead. And then you finally contact us to bring them into our home, where all they did was try to intimidate us and make us uneasy on purpose, when we were the ones risking our lives for you. ” 

Feyre’s mouth is full of sand the way that she can’t swallow, and the sun is too bright the way she keeps furiously blinking. Her head hasn’t had a moment’s rest since the Night Court, she hasn’t had a decent meal in days, and her head is littered with thorns, but Elain’s accusations are creating a pain that Feyre doesn’t know how to deal with.

“Stop it,” Feyre pleads. The words are so hushed that if her sisters were not turned fae, they wouldn’t have been able to hear.

Elain pays no heed. Her voice doesn’t go above a quiet, controlled tone, but the words echo in Feyre’s ears as if she’s yelling. “And after we died, you were gone. In the Spring Court.”

Feyre flinches and a single tear streaks down her face. She can see the point of Elain’s tapered ears peeking out of her hair. My fault, her mind whispers.

“And I know that you had to, that it was part of the plan to help all of us escape.” And the worst part is that Elain truly does look like she understands, but Feyre is having a hard time looking at her face. It’s like looking at an open wound. “But we experience all of that, suddenly we’re stuck with your….friends, and they hate us, and you were gone. So yes, Feyre. You left us first.”

She’s unsure how she is still standing on two feet. There is nothing Feyre wants more than to collapse on the grassy floor and weep for all she’s worth. 

An arrow of fear pierces her heart and her head spins. What will she do now that her sisters have scorned her? She can’t stomach the idea of returning to the Night Court. She tries to imagine explaining herself in front of the Inner Circle and her empty stomach swings.

Another tear escapes her eyes and Feyre can’t help her small hiccup. She is seconds away from bursting into tears and she just feels so, so young. She feels an unfamiliar ache of missing her mother, her father, somebody to hold her and tell her it will be all right, that they’ll figure it out for her.

Rhysand used to do that, Feyre considers and immediately squashes that line of thinking. It makes her want to tear her hair out for reasons she can’t articulate.

Distantly, Feyre thinks it would’ve been easier if it were Nesta screaming at her. If Nesta were to be an inch from her face and was throwing back every little thing Feyre had done wrong in her life, Feyre would be able to weather it. She’d stand tall and give Nesta everything back to her.

But it’s Elain in front of her- Elain who is shaking with an anger Feyre never thought she was capable of, Elain who is eloquently proving her point that Feyre left her sisters first. 

And it’s Nesta who quietly takes in Feyre’s appearance, glances at Elain, and looks back to the youngest Archerin. “Elain,” Nesta begins softly, “you’re not being fair.”

Elain crosses her arms and looks away, appearing to be completely captivated by a purple plant on the ground. She is resolutely unrepentant. 

Nesta takes a step closer to Feyre cautiously, as if she is approaching a scared and wild animal. Through her tears, Feyre is floored to see that her silver eyes are full of sympathy. It was always Nesta and Elain, united as a front and synchronous in their thoughts and opinions, while Feyre stood on the outside, waiting to be let in. 

Despite the sympathy, Nesta shifts uncomfortably and says, almost awkwardly, “Are you alright?”

Feyre almost laughs at the question. Not because Feyre is woefully well past “alright,” but because it is so unnatural for the Archeron sisters to ask one another a question like that, that it is uncomfortable for both parties.

Said question brings a wave of exhaustion that sweeps through her, almost bringing Feyre to her knees. She should be apologizing, she should be pushing back at Elain, she should explain that no matter what their grievances with each other are, she has never wanted to hurt them.

Feyre should tell them that she gave up everything for them. 

But if she opens her mouth to speak, she will bawl. If she tries to communicate with them telepathically, Rhysand will surely take the opportunity to delve into her lowered mental shields. So Feyre looks at her eldest sister and hopes that Nesta will be able to understand. 

Miraculously, Nesta’s demeanor melts from uncomfortable to comforting. She walks closer to Feyre until they are inches apart. Feyre refuses to let herself hope, knowing very well that Nesta could still reaffirm Elain’s words and leave Feyre behind.

Nesta does no such thing. Instead, she slowly lifts a hand and gently touches the hair that frames Feyre’s face. “You have half the forest in your hair,” Nesta remarks, her voice light and a touch amused.

The banal comment helps Feyre to reign in her emotions. This isn’t an explosive topic that’s layered in hurt feelings and personal perspectives. It’s simple.

“Here.” Nesta guides Feyre over to a tree stump for her to sit on. Feyre mindlessly moves and practically collapses onto the stump. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

Nesta begins to methodically go through Feyre’s hair to take out the thorns and brush. If it hurts, Feyre doesn’t notice. It is pure bliss to sit down, and even if there is tension in the air, Feyre feels herself relax just a little bit. Her sisters will not turn her away. She knows it in her gut. It is clear in the way that Nesta carefully fixes her hair, and it is in the way that Elain sits down herself, across from Feyre, on the forest floor.

The tears and panic ebb away. Feyre closes her eyes and grasps the wood she sits on to brace herself. Perhaps if she starts calmly, everyone will follow suit. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is scratchy, so she coughs a little and tries again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know you had good reasons to leave.”

She opens her eyes to see Elain blinking at her in surprise. Feyre is nothing short of relieved to see that the intensity is gone from her sister’s face. Her voice is at a more natural volume as she says, “You do?”

Feyre gives a half of a wry smile. “I’m here too, aren’t I?”

“Well, yes,” Elain concedes, fiddling with a blade of grass, “but I thought you were here to make us come back.”

Feyre tries not to wince at her choice of words. “No. I don’t want to go back.” The words come out in a rush before Feyre can stop them and while she still doesn’t want to voice it, it is the truth.

If possible, Elain’s shock grows and even Nesta’s hand falters for a second before yanking on a particularly stubborn patch of thorns. “Sorry,” she mutters.

“Feyre,” Elain starts slowly, looking straight into her sister’s eyes, “what happened?”

To Feyre’s dismay, the question ignites new tears in her eyes. She never cries this easily and blames this recent development on extenuating circumstances. Averting her gaze from Elain’s in hopes that she doesn’t see, Feyre answers. “You left.” It is no longer an accusation but simply the truth.

“I think we’ve established that.” 

She can hear the wry smile in Nesta’s voice, but it does little in assuaging Feyre’s nerves. Out of the three of them, Feyre has always been the worst and conveying her thoughts and explaining things clearly.

Where does Feyre begin? That s he is quickly learning at a concerningly rapid rate that she doesn't know Rhysand as well as she thought she did? That she can't tell her sisters about the monsters she was afraid of them encountering when Feyre herself knew very little of them? That she is one of the most powerful fae in the country and has experienced things that centuries year old fae would balk at, but currently feels as if she is fourteen years old again with nothing but a bow and some arrows against the world?

Feyre gestures at herself helplessly and makes a small scoffing sound.

Elain sees her struggle and tries to help. “We didn’t think of it as leaving you behind. We didn’t think there was a chance you would want to come with us.”

Feyre tries to picture how that would’ve gone and draws a blank. She can’t think of a way they would’ve been able to catch her alone and ask her without anyone else hearing or knowing.

The knowledge pulls her heart a little bit farther apart. How did it come to this?

Nesta finishes with the last of the branches and smooths Feyre’s hair out with her fingers. “Feyre?” she prompts.

“You left and I….” The tears begin to spill and Elain is in front of her instantly, sitting in between Feyre’s legs and resting her arms on her thighs.

Feyre knows this is meant to be reassuring but it just makes her cry harder. She can barely think about why she left and why she wants to stay away; voicing it is near impossible. Not only will her pride not allow it, but saying it makes it real. And the reality is that Feyre has nothing to her name that matters to her except the two sisters that currently surround her. 

“Can I come with you?” she blurts out, completely skipping the explanation. She silently promises that she will tell her sisters the truth someday- soon- and all of it. 

Just- not today.

Feyre sees no need to put on any performance or facade. Her sisters know who she is, what she’s done. Her lips wobble and her voice shakes and she feels like she is nine years old again, asking her sisters for help because she scraped her knees as she says, “Please.”

You’re all I have left, hangs unspoken in the air between them.

Elain’s eyes are shining as she looks up at her younger sister. She offers her hand and Feyre recognizes it as what it is- a peace offering. She takes it and allows her older sister to pull her into a hug. Feyre nearly falls off the stump from the force of it.  

Elain’s arms around her are like vices but Feyre finds that she doesn’t mind the security they bring. The feeling that she can fall apart and it would be fine, the world would keep on turning, because Elain would keep her together and Nesta would push the world in rotation. And so the tears fall freely, dropping onto her sister’s shoulder as Feyre clings to Elain’s waist. The words that Feyre cannot speak are hanging in the air. Feyre and Elain pull each other in closer when Nesta’s hand rests on Feyre’s shoulders.

“Of course you can come with us,” Nesta says softly, the words sealing the Archerons’ fate. “Of course you can.”

Chapter Text

A growl from Feyre’s stomach causes the sisters to untangle themselves from each other with some laughter. Feyre can’t even pretend to be embarrassed by the sound, especially since it brings Elain to give her some food from her pack.

The tinkling sound of laughter is foreign to her ears. Feyre welcomes it with a relish. If her decision to leave leads to more opportunities like this, then for the first time, Feyre can firmly say that she doesn’t regret what she’s done.

The atmosphere feels lighter as Feyre inhales the apple and slightly stale bread- she swears she has never tasted anything finer in her life- and while her fatigue lingers, a confident feeling settles in her bones.

She is not alone. She is with her sisters. She can do this.

Feyre sits back against the tree stump and splays her legs out across the ground. When she is done with the apple core, she wipes her hands on her legs and poses the most important question. “What’s the plan, then? Where were you heading to?”

Elain and Nesta, still standing, glance at each and don’t give an immediate answer. An uncomfortable, apprehensive silence stretches between them; nothing but the sound of a flurry of birds flapping can be heard. 

Feyre inwardly cringes. This definitely should’ve been sorted out earlier before anything else. Feyre already knows she is going to hate the answer and Nesta confirms it as she says, “The mortal lands.”

Tension lines Nesta’s shoulders and jaw after she says it. Perhaps Feyre should take that into consideration before she responds. Perhaps she should remember that she just experienced a failed argument with her other sister. But navigating a conversation with each other is something that the Archeron sisters have never learned how to do with caution and care.

And so Feyre doesn’t bother to hide her shock and disdain for the plan. “Are you serious? You’ll get killed out there.” 

Despite that they’ve seen it for themselves that there is no place in the mortal lands for the fae, Feyre is not surprised to see how her sisters cling to their old home. However, she at least thought their rationality would outweigh their sentimentality. 

Nesta scoffs, and it doesn’t sound derisive. “Do you think they would be able to kill you ?”

Feyre knows how to recognize an insult from Nesta, but recognizing a compliment is much more difficult, and she doesn’t think that was supposed to be one. “You think I want to go to the mortal lands and kill mortals.” 

It’s not a question. Feyre wants it to be clear how inane she thinks this plan is. 

Nesta flushes, but doesn’t back down. “Don’t twist my words.”

Feyre is starting to think that her jaw is going to be agape the entire conversation. “Why would I want to go to the mortal lands knowing that once we get found out- and we would get found out, I promise you that, Nesta- I’d be forced to kill them? Killing mortals to protect ourselves- you think that’s what I want to do?”

“Of course not,” Nesta snaps, “but you’re acting as if we’ll enter the lands and you’ll have to immediately raze a village to the ground-”

“ Nesta,” Elain quietly scolds, her face white, but she goes unheard.

“And you’re acting as if the remaining mortal queens are dead,” Feyre says in exasperation, “but they are very much alive and hate you, by the way. If someone so much as wonders out loud if there are fae living around them in secret, they’ll be like bloodhounds on a scent.” 

Avoiding her younger sister’s accusatory gaze, Nesta scowls. “We weren’t going to flaunt the fact.”

With every sentence, Feyre is able to fill in more gaps of information with the words that Nesta does not say. She purses her lips and considers not calling her sister out on it for a moment. The moment quickly ends. “So you’re going to hide? You’re going to live in secret for the rest of your immortal lives?”

Elain flinches at the word immortal. 

“There’s no place for us here,” Nesta argues, gesturing around her. “We cannot live anywhere here; there is no High Lord who wouldn't know who we are or allow us to live there in secret- no strings attached.”

The last words are bitter. They carry a sentiment that causes Feyre to pause.

She can’t just tell her sisters their plan is destined to fail without providing any suggestion. She can’t approach the situation with a hammer when it requires the work of a steady needle.

Feyre quickly flits through the seven courts. Night, Autumn, and Spring are immediately out. Day has too much connection with Night and Summer still has a fat, red ruby over Feyre’s head. Winter’s High Lady is too close to Mor, Feyre knows too little about Dawn to try and risk it, and she knows that neither court would allow them to stay without anything in return. 

Admittedly, the options are slim, but- 

“Even if we did go to the mortal lands, what then?” Feyre has no suggestions to offer. The next best thing, she decides, is to make her sisters’ realize that the mortal lands aren't an option either. “You hide yourselves away or use glamour for the rest of your life and live with muted colors and food that tastes like dust? That’s living?”

“We’ll make it work,” Elain insists, not looking as if she believes it. She is not at all discreet, sending Nesta worried glances.

“How?” Feyre demands. It’s a little strange for her to be having this argument sitting, while her opponent towers over her, but she can’t muster the energy to both stand and fight. “How will you get food in the markets where everyone knows your face? What items will you trade that they won’t see as foreign?”

“There are more towns in the world than the hovel we grew up in, Feyre,” Nesta says flatly, “and you asked to join us, so that doesn’t mean you can complain about our plan or make changes.”

Nesta’s words leave a sour taste in Feyre’s mouth. If her sisters think she’ll follow everything they say blindly out of gratitude, they have another think coming. She’s grateful, not stupid. “You’re leaving the Night Court to make a new life for yourself- you can’t make that life one where you hole yourself up and wither away in the process.”

“And where, precisely, do you suggest we should go?” Nesta demands, her voice rising. “All the High Lords know who we are. They may not know what we are, but they know about us, and that’s dangerous. We can’t stay in Prythian.”

“Right,” Feyre immediately agrees and everyone notes the sarcasm, “it is dangerous. For you, and for them.” She stares at the silver flames that dance in Nesta’s eyes, flames that refuse to be quelled, no matter how much Nesta tries to even her breathing.

Dormant, my ass, Feyre curses. The Cauldron may have gone quiet, but Nesta’s powers certainly have not. She has to assume that Elain’s abilities are awake as well.

Nesta’s nose flares when she understands Feyre’s meaning, but doesn’t deny it.

“Perhaps we should rethink things, Nesta,” Elain suggests, a little nervously.

Nesta gestures wildly with her hands. “Then what do you suggest we do? There is nowhere for us to live your silly, idealistic, vision of a ‘fulfilling and satisfying life.’ We’re immortal now. And if ten of our eons of life are lived in misery, then what does it really matter?”

Elain and Feyre still. Something inside her aches for her sister and her bleak outlook. 

“You can’t mean that.” Elain’s voice is wounded and delicate.

Nesta’s eyes widen as if she has just realized what she’s said. “No, yes, I- you also were on board with living in the mortal lands!”

Elain’s face is unnaturally red, but Feyre thinks it’s the thick, white fog of the Middle that makes the blush appear so bright. 

“I didn’t realize about the queens and- we just wanted to get away from the Night Court. I thought maybe we could blend in with the refugees and start again in a small village somewhere. You know, anonymously.”

It’s now Nesta’s turn to have her jaw fall to the floor. “When were you going to bring this up?”

Elain, who Feyre is certain has never looked more sheepish in her entire life, holds up her hands defensively before stuttering, “We hadn’t come across any promising places, I thought it would make things more stressful if I-”

“‘Less stressful?’” Nesta repeats incredulously. “You thought changing our entire plan wouldn’t make things stressful? You were the one who wanted to go back to the mortal lands so badly!”

Feyre can’t help but be somewhat enthralled by this new dynamic. It’s oddly gratifying to see her sisters bicker like this, while Feyre receives none of the heat. If the Mother decides to punish Feyre for not interrupting her sisters and staying as silent and still as possible in order to continue watching the show, then- well. 

This is a cause Feyre is willing to suffer for. 

Elain is just starting to point out that she was the one who did all of the luggage preparation without anyone noticing- her counter to Nesta’s claim of doing all the map studying- when Feyre hears it. Her ears perk up immediately.

“Shut up,” Feyre orders, straightening her back and straining to listen.

“Excuse me?”

Feyre doesn’t register which sister is offended by her command but shushes them anyway. “Be quiet,” she hisses, “I’m trying to listen.”

Elain and Nesta fall silent. Their faces scrunch in concern and confusion as they strain to hear what Feyre is hearing. Feyre’s heart begins to beat rapidly and the hairs on her arm stand up as she realizes what is happening.

She surveys the land around her and lets nothing go unnoticed. Not the fog that seems to be getting thicker and thicker, not the vines that slope from the trees to the ground, not the flowers that were trampled by something other than the Archerons.

Something isn’t right.

Because Feyre is listening to the steady sound of silence.

There is no buzz of insects, there is no scampering of small animals, and the birds have stopped their chirping. Feyre hasn’t been a hunter for five years of her life to not know what that means. 

“We need to get out of here,” Feyre whispers in a rush, leaping to her feet. “ Now. ”

Later, Feyre will badger herself for not grabbing her sisters’ arms and winnowing away. Later, she’ll tell herself that it’s not fully ingrained in her, it’s not second nature, to just winnow away at the first sign of danger. Later, she’ll blame her sisters for immediately bolting down the path, leaving Feyre no choice but to follow them.

She swears under her breath as she stumbles forward, off balance from trying to run and pick up her quiver and bow at the same time. She jumps over roots and swears again when her now loose hair, free from nature’s mark, gets caught in her mouth.

She catches up to Elain and Nesta easily. Nesta turns and sees her youngest sister and pauses with a panicked look on her face. She steps to the side, clearly waiting for Feyre to go ahead of her, but Feyre shoves her forward and rips Nesta’s dress when it gets caught in a branch.

“Move!” Feyre shouts, and that’s when she hears the rumbling begin. “Don’t stop, keep moving!”

Feyre can’t help but try to catch a glimpse of what’s behind them. Though she can barely make anything out, what she sees is enough for a spike of fear and adrenaline to make her pick up the pace.

“This way!” Elain calls from ahead, finding a smaller path off of the trail. Without a second thought, Feyre follows. 

For a moment, Feyre allows herself to wish that there was someone with them who could answer her questions. That she could shout, “What is that?” and they’d explain the hulking creature with pure white fur that blends in with the fog of the Middle and makes all creatures fall silent in its wake. They’d explain what the creature does to its victims and, most importantly, they’d explain how to defeat it.

Of the three of the sisters, Feyre is the one who should know this.

But she hasn’t the faintest idea of what there is to do about the creature and so she runs, and makes sure that Nesta and Elain are not closer to the creature than she is.

“Up ahead!” Elain calls out again. “I see it!”

If Feyre were not short of breath she’d question what, exactly, Elain sees. There is no shortage of brush and bramble surrounding them. The fog has become less of a mist and more of a wall, her visibility worsening with every step. 

She follows her sisters on blind faith, more than anything else. She tries to block out the stomps and slobbering of the creature to focus on the ragged breathing of Nesta and Elain. If she can keep track of their raging heartbeats, then Feyre knows where to go.

Feyre prays and prays and prays that whatever sanctuary Elain is seeing is real.

There’s the sound of a door creaking open, Elain huffing as she presumably uses all of her strength to pry it open. Feyre takes this as a good sign. It likely means that the door will be heavy enough to keep out the creature.

Feyre can hear Nesta’s steps slow down and she turns around to check how far away the creature is, and is pleased to see that some distance was put between them and the beast. 

She turns back towards the direction of her sisters and then Feyre finally sees it.

Feyre stops so suddenly her body flings backwards, as if she’s hit an invisible wall. Her heart drops down to her stomach and her feet refuse to move a single step closer.

No.

“Feyre!” Elain shouts from the doorway of the entrance. “What are you doing?”

Feyre, in all of her worry about the Weaver and the creatures of the Prison, had completely forgotten about this.

“I thought they destroyed this place,” Feyre breathes, completely uncaring about the approaching creature. Her eyes water from not blinking as she refuses to tear her gaze away from Under the Mountain. 

Ice floods Feyre’s veins as stares in horror at the towering rock before her. It’s supposed to be gone . She’s not sure what is running faster- her heart or her memories.

Her memories wash over her like a tsunami, and the force of it nearly knocks her over. Feyre has tried so hard to put this godsforsaken place behind her since the moment she left it. She does not think about the days shut away from sunlight, she does not think about inhaling mud as she runs for life, and she does not think about what she cannot remember.

Nightmares about Amarantha and the Mountain are practically unheard of. Feyre can dress and act like Rhysand’s whore without a flinch. She stumbles through a letter and doesn’t feel the crushing pressure of a loved one’s life dependent on her ability to read. 

So why does high pitch ringing echo through her ears? Why does Feyre want to scream until she is frothing at the mouth at the sight of this place? Why does she feel the stab of betrayal so keenly that she half expects to see a knife protruding from her stomach?

Every instinct is telling Feyre to flee, but she has grown roots. A wild image flashes in her eye, of bark spreading up her legs and over her entire body. Distantly, she thinks it would make a good painting. She’d white out her eyes and have her mouth open in a wordless scream.

Her fear and exhaustion feed into one another as her mind spirals, and it feels as though nothing can take her out of it.

Suddenly, Nesta is in front of Feyre, jostling her by her shoulders. Feyre gasps with a start as if she has just broken through the surface of water. 

Feyre blinks several times, trying to adjust from the feeling of settling back into her body. Elain’s shouts are soundless to Feyre’s still ringing ears and Nesta’s eyes have a wild look to them as she drags Feyre forward. “We need to go!”

Feyre’s body moves on its own accord as she digs her feet into the earth and tries to wrench herself out of Nesta's grasp. “I can’t- you can’t make me-”

But Nesta ignores her protests, strengthens her iron grip, and wrangles Feyre like the wild cat she’s acting like- kicking and bucking- into the entrance of the mountain.

The door slams shut behind them and Feyre falls to the floor when Nesta lets go to slide the wooden barricade against the door. Nesta sags against the door in relief, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Her eyes narrow as she looks down at Feyre. “What- what were you thinking?”

Feyre shakes her head and doesn’t respond, too busy trying to orient herself and make sense of her surroundings. The corridor they are in is pitch black and the only reason Feyre can just faintly make out anything is because of her enhanced sight. 

There’s no way to tell if she’s been in this corridor before. There’s no way to tell if this is the place where the Attor caught her. She shudders, phantom claws digging into her shoulders. 

Feyre can’t even begin to think of how to explain herself. Instead, she turns to look up at Elain, who is looking around the dim hallway in a mystified horror. “What were you thinking?” Feyre hisses in a hushed tone. Her voice echoes. “We don’t know if this place is abandoned- it’s supposed to be rubble- we don’t know who is in here-”

“Then check,” Elain says in a strangely calm and serene voice. “You can do that, can’t you? With your mind?”

“No,” Feyre refuses immediately and her fear is so palpable that she can taste it- tang and coppery. “We need to leave, now-”

“And what, go back outside with that thing out there?” Nesta interrupts. The beast outside roars in frustration, as if adding emphasis to the argument.

“I’ll take care of it,” Feyre improvises, because that’s what she does regardless. Anything would be better than staying here.

“You have no idea what it is and how to handle it,” Nesta accuses.

“I’ll figure it out,” Feyre insists, desperate, “because I refuse- we can’t stay here-”

“Why? What is this place?” Nesta tilts her head. “I can’t hear anything. No talking, no footsteps-”

“They could be sleeping,” Feyre tries.

Nesta stares at her, unimpressed. “Then check. Because we can’t go out there and we have nowhere else to go.”

Pools of sweat collect in her palms and the apple and bread settle like stones in her stomach. Elain is the one that has the prophetic abilities, but Feyre has a suspicion as to how this is going to play out and wants to delay it as much as she can.

Stalling is a tactic that Feyre is not very familiar with. When pressed into a corner, she’s more likely to press back violently and confidently. The art of mist and shadows is the Shadowsinger’s expertise, not hers.

Feyre stares at the floor and through her periphery, watches a drop of blood fall from a cut on her face and splat on the ground. Her head is full of cotton and she cannot think of a single thing to say to deter her sisters from learning more about this place.

Her only option is to tell them the truth. And her vocal chords have decided for her that that is not an option.

Resisting the urge to scream through her teeth, Feyre closes her eyes.

She closes her eyes and, carefully avoiding Rhysand’s constant presence, searches around the vicinity. 

Feyre knows she can’t scour the entire mountain, but instinctively knows it doesn’t matter, regardless. She knows that no one is here. 

She can’t wrap her brain around it. Either Rhysand didn’t tell her that the Mountain wasn’t destroyed, either Tamlin lied about it being scheduled to be destroyed, or nobody knew it was still here. She doesn’t know which one she would prefer. 

Feyre opens her eyes, drops of sweat slide down her nose and onto the floor, and her headache has unsurprisingly worsened. She rises to her feet, albeit shakily, and announces, “There’s no one here.”

She hates saying it. She feels as if she is placing stones at the foundation for the decision of her sisters deciding to stay here.

Relief makes Nesta’s eyes look lighter, and Feyre swears that they faintly glow silver in the dark. “That’s- that’s good.”

Feyre couldn’t disagree more.

Nesta helps her sister stand and Feyre tries to not put all of her weight on her. “What exactly is this place?” Nesta asks, squinting around them.

The scowl engraved on Feyre’s face is unflinching. “Oh, now you want to know?”

“I’d much rather have this argument knowing that there’s no one else around to hear it,” Nesta replies loftily, and Feyre hates to hear how carefree she sounds as she says it. She should not feel relaxed here- shouldn’t she see Feyre’s stress and know that something isn’t right?

“Yes, I’m so glad that no one will eavesdrop on us when you call me a stupid bint and I say you’re being ignorantly stubborn.”

Nesta cuts her gaze to her, attempting to look unamused. “I don’t resort to name calling.”

Feyre chokes on what she loathes to admit as unwilling laughter. “Right. Because it’s childish and beneath you.”

“Precisely.” Nesta’s small smile almost makes the crushing panic Feyre is feeling bearable. 

It’s entirely bizarre, this feeling. Feeling like glass, teetering on the edge of a table, about to fall and shatter in millions of pieces, yet still being able to dredge up a smile.

“But tell me,” Nesta continues, “what is it about this-”

“Feyre?” Elain’s voice, coated in fear, calls from a distance and cuts into the conversation like a knife. “Feyre? What is this?”

When did she leave? Feyre curses as she spins on her heels and races down the hallway, Nesta close behind her. With practiced ease, Feyre sets her right hand ablaze to light the path and within seconds she finds the doorway that Elain slipped through.

“Elain,” Feyre huffs as she turns into the room with Nesta beside her, pressing a hand to a stitch at her side, “you can’t just disappear like that-”

“Feyre.” Elain cuts her off in a wobbly voice. Even with her flame, Feyre can't make out where her sister is. She is enveloped by the shadows against the wall. “What is this?”

Following the sound of her sister’s voice, Feyre arrives at Elain’s side. The middle Archeron sister is standing very, very still with her shaking hands at her sides. Her eyes, lined with tears, have a glazed look to them, and Feyre wonders if it was Elain’s will that brought her here or a higher power. 

Feyre frowns. Elain doesn’t seem to be hurt and there isn’t anyone else in the room, so she follows Elain’s petrified gaze-

Nesta steps off into a corner and promptly throws up. The sounds of her retching are the only noise in the room, other than Feyre’s ragged breathing.

For there, strung up on the wall on display, is a decaying corpse.

Gravity and time has clearly done its job, with pieces of rotted flesh littering the floor, hair completely gone, and blood dried and cracked all over the stone wall. The body was high above them, but Feyre, almost gagging, could still smell the stench. A few bones had fallen to the floor, the corpse was completely missing the bottom half of its body, and the face was unidentifiable.

But Feyre still knew who she was. 

Feyre gulps a shallow breath. “That’s- that’s-”

“Clare Beddor’s body,” Elain finishes for her, which confirms for Feyre that her Seer powers are definitely not dormant. 

But that almost means nothing right now, because she is right. To anyone else, the body would be unrecognizable beyond belief, but this may as well be the one thing Feyre knows the most since discovering she knows nothing. 

Nesta makes a horrible sound that’s a cross between a whimper and a curse. “Why,” she breathes, “why would they do this?”

Blood thunders in Feyre’s ears. Because I gave Rhysand her name. I gave him her name, and instead of calling my bluff or just returning to Amarantha empty handed, he told her. 

Feyre remembers his explanation of how he took away the pain from Clare- but gods, she still saw it, didn’t she? He wasn’t there when she was taken from her bed. She still saw everything that happened to her when she managed to stay conscious. 

Thinking about Rhysand’s tears over Clare makes Feyre want to scream and rage. He doesn’t get to cry over her- he doesn’t get to feel sorry.

He said that he didn’t think Amarantha would send her cronies after Clare after sharing her name. Bull-fucking-shit. He gives Amarantha the name of the human girl living with the male he is obsessed with, one who could potentially break the curse, and he thinks Amarantha wouldn’t investigate it? He is trapped with her for fifty years and thinks she would let it lie?

The guilt presses down on Feyre as well, since it was her that originally gave the name and didn’t come up with a fake one. But then again, Feyre recalls, she was under a bit of duress as her mind was held in Rhysand’s clutches while he taunted and threatened her sanity.

No one ever wins the blaming game but Feyre knows for a fact that Rhysand is at fault here. He is the reason Clare’s body is here, and he cries and feels guilty, all while Clare doesn’t even have a final resting place.

She wishes Rhysand were here. She wishes he were here so she could claw the skin off of his face with her nails. Feyre has half a mind to lower her mental shields just so she can have at him. 

Maybe Feyre isn’t being fair, but she’s not feeling particularly sympathetic towards her mate. She knows his reasonings for his actions, and while staring in the disfigured face of Clare Beddor, she finds them ultimately useless. He said she thought she made up a fake name while he held her literal mind in her hands. 

Unbeknownst to Feyre, her hands are smoking. She does not realize she never answered Nesta’s question and she does not realize her sisters have guided her from the sight of Clare’s body back to the hallway. The three of them sit on the floor, their backs against the wall. Feyre sits in the middle, and each sister holds a now non-smoking hand.

Elain gives Feyre’s hand a gentle squeeze. “This is where you died.” 

Feyre swallows but her throat is as dry as a desert. There’s no use in pretending. “Yes. Under the Mountain.” She doesn’t explain that they were just in the courtroom. She doesn’t explain they were just standing on the floor that she died on.

Nesta shudders. “You said it was supposed to be destroyed?”

Feyre nods. “Yes, that’s what Rhysand-” She clears her throat. “That’s what Rhysand said.”

Rhysand, Feyre keeps on learning, says a lot of things.

“We shouldn’t stay here,” Nesta decides, looking around the dim hallway. “You probably don’t…” Her voice trails off. Feyre fills in the blanks.

“No, it’s alright. We’ll stay.” Feyre stares at her hands in her lap, listlessly. She takes note of her slightly charred skin and her stubby nails. She thinks of the nails that had pierced through Clare’s hands. She admits in a defeated, dull tone, “There is nowhere else to go.” 

—————————————————————

Later, they find a room that Feyre can guarantee with no doubts that it was not one Amarantha frequented. It is plain, unassuming, and has a bed that is just big enough for all three Archerons to fit. It goes unspoken between them that they will not separate into different rooms while staying in the Mountain.

The swell of gratitude Feyre feels for that fact is insurmountable.

It’s quick work to clean the bed sufficiently enough that they’ll feel comfortable sleeping in it. Feyre would sleep on pine needles at this point.

Under the covers and in their underclothes, the Archeron sisters huddle together. Elain is in the middle. Feyre wants to be able to get out of the bed at any moment’s notice. 

In the darkness of the room, the only sound is their light breathing and Feyre knows no one has fallen asleep yet. Despite her bone deep exhaustion, Feyre’s not sure how she’ll ever fall asleep.

There’s no crickets, no glow of stars, no fresh air. Unbidden, Feyre has a thought of being buried alive and she quickly tries to banish the image. There has to be a room with windows in this place. She’ll find them tomorrow. 

It’s Elain who breaks the silence.

“When I was younger,” she begins in a voice so small that Feyre, who is right next to her, has to concentrate to hear it, “all I ever wanted was to fall in love. Like in the stories. I didn’t care about when the wedding would be, as long as there were flowers. I didn’t care who he would be, as long as I loved him and he loved me.” She takes a deep breath. “And I told myself I wouldn’t care what he looked like, if he was rich or poor, or had a funny laugh. I only wanted him to be able to pick me up in a hug when we would reunite. Like Papa used to do, when I was little. That’s all I really wanted.”

Feyre’s heart begins to swell and crack. She doesn’t know what has possessed Elain to share this thought, but she almost understands it. In this complete darkness, it feels as if one could confess anything and it would be swallowed whole.

She wants to tell her sister that she’ll find that love still, but stays silent. Elain didn’t say if that’s what she wanted now and Feyre doesn’t want to promise anything. 

“Anything I ever did, I wanted it to be because I wanted to.” Feyre nearly falls out of the bed out of shock from hearing Nesta confess this. “Mother had these…plans for me. I just wanted my own say in it.” 

It’s a short confession but still stings Feyre’s heart. Tears grow in her eyes. What does she say to her sisters who have had every choice taken away from them? Who have no idea how they’ll find their happiness in this world?

“When I was younger…” Feyre thinks hard about when she was younger. She doesn’t remember too much of her goals and dreams and desires. When her family was thrown into poverty, she mostly just wanted food on the table and for Nesta to shut up. 

“When I was younger,” Feyre repeats, her voice a little weaker, “I wanted someone to play with me in the mud. Mum would scream at me for getting so dirty. Papa didn’t notice. But I just wanted someone to make mud pies with me.”

She had meant to say something to make things lighthearted, to make things sound not so melancholic. But Feyre says the words and realizes that when she was younger, she dreamt of friends to slingshot mud at, of swashbuckling pirates, and traveling to the center of the earth. Her dreams were carefree and nothing of note, but they were hers. 

They were carefree and childish, because she had a whole lifetime ahead of her to grow and discover what she really wanted.

She doesn’t know what she wants now. If she did, Feyre doubts that she could have it. Does she even deserve it?

“Get some sleep,” Nesta says into the dark, “we can figure everything out tomorrow.”

That seems like an impossible task. Their family seems to never be able to move forward, for they are right back where they began- three scared girls sharing a bed, a dead mother, and a father they cannot rely on. 

Feyre takes a deep breath through the nose as Nesta’s soft snores begin. Elain accidentally kicks Feyre’s shin. This is a familiarity she doesn't mind. She closes her eyes and locks her mental shields in place. 

It’ll be different this time. Feyre counts that as another fact she knows for certain.

Feyre sleeps and does not dream.

Chapter Text

“How are you so bad at this?” Feyre complains, watching Nesta struggle with the woven trap. “I’ve seen newborns with better dexterity than you.”

She leaves out the part that she would be able to do this faster if she were on her own. Feyre figures it’s implied.

A flush deepens Nesta’s face, although it’s hard to tell if it’s from embarrassment or from her efforts with the trap. “You haven’t seen a newborn in years.”

Feyre frowns and combs through her memory. She thinks back to the Archeron manor when the sisters were forced to host a new family in the village and deal with their squalling baby for hours. “Well, if I had, they could probably do this blindfolded.”

Nesta huffs, a noise sounding closer to a growl. “Why don’t you just help me-”

“I’ve helped you the last 8 times!” Still, Feyre crouches down next to Nesta and takes the rope out of her hands. She slowly goes through the knot of the snare and Nesta watches with careful eyes. “You move the right hand with the rope over the left first, not the other way around. That’s where you usually mess up.”

This is not the first time Feyre has told her sister this. She would keep a mental track for her own amusement- or her own annoyance- if she wasn’t so focused on using all her brain power to keep Rhysand out and staying upright and coherent.

Feyre quickly checks the other parts of the snare, sees that everything is in place, and stands up, holding a hand out to Nesta. Her older sister takes it and Feyre pulls her upright. The light breeze whistles in between them and a twinge of guilt tugs at Feyre’s heart. She is slowing her down, but her sister is trying. “You’ll get it,” Feyre tries to say reassuringly. “There’s always tomorrow.”

She turns around before she can see Nesta’s reaction and begins to walk due north. They still have to check the other traps they had set in previous days for game.

The forest is alive around them. The fog has lessened in the past few days and Feyre can easily see birds cutting between the trees, their chirps bright and cheery. They haven’t seen any signs of the white creature that pursued them a week ago, but she still keeps a sharp eye out for even a scrap of fur stuck on a branch. 

The only constant is the humidity. Thankfully, the trees above protect them against the sun’s rays, but the humidity is unavoidable. Feyre feels as if she is lightly coated in a thin layer of sweat. The salt gathers on her lips and on the corners of her eyes. 

She cannot wait for it to finally rain. She just knows it in her bones that feeling the cool, slick rain on her skin would alleviate some of the pain.

“I don’t like it,” Nesta says from behind. Feyre can hear her struggling with her skirts and the bushes around them. Why her sister still refuses to wear pants is beyond her, but Feyre keeps her mouth shut about it. 

Feyre rolls her eyes. Beating a dead horse has always been a favorite pastime of Nesta’s. “Sorry that you can’t be good at everything-”

“Not because of the stupid traps. And I’m not- I’m not good at a lot of things.” Feyre is dying to turn and see Nesta’s face as she confesses that, but she keeps her eyes glued ahead of her. “Every day, you and I head out to the forest to gather more food and we leave Elain behind-”

“Oh, not this again.” It had been a week since the Archeron sisters decided to stay Under the Mountain, and every day as Nesta and Feyre hunted, Elain stayed behind and Nesta refused to let it lie. “She’ll be fine. Just like she was yesterday. And the day before that. And she’ll be fine tomorrow as well.”

Dead horse, meet Nesta. “She is on her own for hours, and we have no way of knowing if something happens until we return.”

“She’s on her own for hours obsessively cleaning,” Feyre counters, “if you want to switch with her and stay behind, be my guest. I don’t care. Or, I can go out by myself. Like I’ve been saying this entire time.”

The day after their first night Under the Mountain, the Archeron sisters sat in their bed and argued for over two hours figuring out what they would do from there. Finding food and a good source of water was a top priority, and Feyre had assumed that she would be in charge of that.  

She did not expect for her sisters to be so adamant that one of them go with her.

“You’re not familiar with this land,” argued Elain. Feyre had rolled her eyes and scoffed. As if her sisters had any better of an idea. 

Feyre was the one that had been in Prythian the longest, and even if she didn’t know much about the Middle, she at least was the one most equipped to deal with whatever would be thrown at them. 

It wasn’t just for their own safety, either. Feyre kept having these awful images in her mind of an animal confronting Nesta and half the forest burning down in silver flames as a result.

“What if one of those overgrown bats try to take you away when you’re alone?” Nesta asked with genuine concern. Feyre pointedly avoided her gaze and ignored the shiver that ran up her spine. She couldn’t say that they wouldn’t do that.

So despite all of her protests, it was then decided that Nesta would join Feyre in the mornings to hunt. 

Looking back, Feyre has a sneaking suspicion that her sisters made a pact to not leave Feyre on her own and she understands, and she thinks she loves them for it, but she is teetering on the edge of insanity without a second of solitude.

Feyre is beginning to fear she’ll never be able to be alone again, not with Rhysand constantly trying to ruminate through her mind. She starts each day by waking up from a fitful sleep and is greeted by a pounding in her skull. It’s certainly not helping her continuously souring opinions of her husband.

She steadily ignores the fact that the weight of it all is quickly catching up with her. Most conversations are an uphill battle, with Feyre having to force herself to focus and to fight against the ringing in her ear. She constantly feels as if she is somewhere else, separate from her body, and far away from the mess she is in. Somewhere far away from Under the Mountain, her sisters, the Night Court- a place where she can sink into sleep and be blissfully unaware for a week straight.

“What’s wrong?” Nesta asks, her words startling Feyre, and she accidentally stumbles over the uneven ground.

“Nothing,” Feyre says as she rights herself. It’s her go-to response for the last few days, only second to “I’m fine”.

“You’ve been pressing your forehead for the last three minutes.”

Feyre scowls, and removes her hand. Can she do anything without being analyzed? “I have a headache.” It’s the understatement of the century. A brief image flashes through her mind- herself, carrying her detached head in her hands as she walks around the trees. She wonders if the pain would stop at decapitation. 

“Do you need some water? Did you eat enough before leaving this morning?”

Gritting her teeth, Feyre bites back her knee jerk response. Her sister is mother henning because she cares, Feyre reminds herself. “I’m good.”

Nesta sighs, an aggravated huff that grates Feyre’s ears. “If you pass out, I’m not lugging your sorry-”

Oh, for the love of-

“What do you want me to say?” Feyre practically yells, whirling around to properly address Nesta, her patience truly tried. All thoughts of keeping a low volume in the forest with unknown creatures goes out of her mind and she has to reel herself in to make sure her pointer finger doesn’t light on fire as she points it at Nesta. “Every single godsdamn day you and Elain hover around me and make a comment about every - single - miniscule - thing I do or say, and you will not leave me alone. I have to be babysat even in the woods. The woods, Nesta!” She gestures around them as if Nesta had somehow missed where they were standing. “I did this for years. I don’t need you to be following me around, blabbering around and scaring away all the game, so for the love of everything, just shut up!”

Her chest heaves at the end of her rant, her lungs feeling as if they are desperate for air. Feyre feels twice more aware of everything happening, from the sound of the worms writhing in the soil to the ugly something inside of her that is preening with satisfaction at the sight of Nesta’s flabbergasted expression.

The surprised look does not last long. Nesta’s eyes narrow, her scowl takes place, and her hands clench her skirts. “Feyre,” she says slowly, as if she is talking to a child. The tone does nothing but infuriate her more. “You are holding yourself together with nothing but pins and sheer stubbornness. You don’t eat-”

“Oh, rationing our food is a crime-”

“-you don’t sleep-”

“How would you know?”

“- you don’t talk-”

“What do you call this right now?”

“-you just pick fights and sigh melodramatically,” Nesta finishes, pointedly looking at her sister.

Feyre’s jaw drops open. “I do not sigh- and I don’t pick fights!”

“Then what is this, exactly?” Nesta asks, crossing her arms. “I’m trying to help you with your headache and you bite my head off.”

Incredulity and indignation sweeps through Feyre like a wildfire. “It would help if you were quiet,” she snipes. “It would help if you would just let things be and let me be. It would help if I could have just fifteen minutes to myself.” 

Fifteen minutes where she doesn’t have to concentrate on blocking Rhysand out. Fifteen minutes where she can focus on breathing so she can stop feeling as if she is on the edge of hyperventilating. Fifteen minutes where she doesn’t have to give an opinion of where they should put the broken furniture they found- Feyre thinks they should skip the furniture and burn the entire mountain down.

“I wouldn’t have to nag you if you would just talk to me,” Nesta says, almost pleading, which is a strange contrast to the anger flashing across her face. “You’ve had this headache this whole week and when you do sleep- you grind your teeth.”

So that’s why her jaw had been aching so badly as of late. She had thought her headache had spread to her entire skull. Feyre flounders for a moment before accusing, “No one can hear it over your snoring.”

“I do not snore,” Nesta says, the tips of her ears turning red. Feyre snorts. “And you’re still avoiding me. We don’t even know what happened when you left- why you left, really.”

Feyre had promised herself that she would tell her sisters what had happened- and soon. That idea had crumbled upon arriving Under the Mountain. Reliving everything in her mind was one thing- voicing it and acknowledging it was completely different, and something that felt akin to scraping her skin off slowly.

Feyre casts her gaze down and stares at the boots her sister wears. The brown leather is worn and tearing at the sole. She doesn’t know where Nesta got them. The Illyrian camps? The twins? From their old village? No, that can’t be it. Hybern stole them in the dark of night, when they were barefoot and asleep and unaware.

Feyre wilts. 

She can’t fix the situation they’re in, she can’t fix what she did, and she can’t fix her sister’s fucking boots, and what can she do? Hunt? Fight?

She has been hunting and fighting to just survive for years on end. What helped her the most, at the end of her days Under the Mountain, was her refusal to die until she couldn’t even do that anymore. 

And she’s tired of simply “not dying.” She is so, so tired of it. She is tired of just barely scraping by, gritting her teeth, and pushing forward until she reaches a breakthrough. 

Feyre had found a temporary peace in Velaris, but it wasn’t the paradise she once thought it was. Her shame and guilt for being so foolish, so stupid cling to her skin and close up her throat. Feyre was never one to lay at night, berating her life choices, but the sun is high in the sky and all she can think about is comparing her life to the stories mortal parents told their children to make them wary of the fae.

She was supposed to have a different life- one where she could rely on people, one where she could relax and breathe, but when has she ever put her burdens on someone else? Even in Velaris, she did her duties without complaint. She died, she survived, she jumped into another war and was grateful- relishing the feeling of her blood rushing through her veins.

To what end, Feyre? The voice in her head is not one she recognizes, but the words make her pause.

Would it be so terrible, so catastrophic, so world ending to tell Nesta? What could go so horribly wrong in telling one problem to Nesta?

She could laugh it off, she could say it’s my fault, she could say it’s not so bad, she could feel unsafe about it and make me leave and I’d be on my own-

Feyre takes a deep breath.

“Rhysand’s trying to talk to me,” she says, her words slow, as if she’s trying to test out the feel of each word. Her gaze stays down on Nesta’s boots. “I’ve been keeping him out of my head and he’s trying to talk to me. That’s why I’ve been having headaches.”

She watches Neata shift in her stance. “What do you mean he’s trying to talk to you?”

Feyre can’t stop the scowl that etches into her skin. “I have a mental block to keep other daemati from entering my mind. He keeps knocking against it.” Calling it knocking at this point is an understatement.

“Tell him to fuck off.”

Under any other circumstances, Feyre would’ve been shocked into laughter upon hearing Nesta swear, but instead she winces, and shakes her head, and the action makes her feel lightheaded. She’s been itching to tell her mate that for days- if she could do it without any consequences, she thinks she would.

“It’s not that simple,” Feyre hedges, a little stunned that Nesta didn’t tell her to get lost and to take Rhysand’s impending presence with her.

“Then explain it to me,” Nesta asks, almost begging, “I’m not an idiot, I can understand. Doesn’t he know where you are?”

Feyre shifts in her stance uncomfortably, looking up at her sister. “I left him a note.”

Nesta raises a single eyebrow. “A note?”

“Shorter than the one you left me.” There’s a bite in her voice that indicates she hasn’t forgiven her sisters for that.

A pause. “So, he doesn’t know where you are.”

Useless. This whole- conversation- useless. Why did I think this was a good idea?

“No,” Feyre snaps, her temper quickly getting the better of her once again, “he doesn’t. And I’m trying to keep it that way, which isn’t easy when he is battering my brain at every waking moment. I can’t tell him to fuck off or to leave me alone or to go hang, because he would be here instantaneously. The second I drop my shield to talk to him, he is going to grab on and never let go. It’s already difficult enough keeping him out- and so you badgering me each day is not helping. Unless you want to go back to the Night Court and never have a moment of privacy ever again, I suggest you shut up. Just shut up and leave me alone so I can keep my husband out of my fucking head.”

Feyre’s vision swims for a moment, a slight panic settling in as she realizes just how much she revealed. She’s supposed to be in love with Rhysand, he is supposed to be the greatest love she can find in this life, and she’s not supposed to tell people that hate him that they may be right. Feyre doesn’t think she can stomach it to admit that they’re right, but she also doesn’t think she could stand to see his face ever again. 

Fuck.

Before Feyre can properly spiral, Nesta muses, “Ah, so that’s what he was trying to do.”

Feyre blinks, and then squints. “What?”

“He’s tried to go into my mind,” Nesta explains as if she was reporting about a fly she saw earlier. “It didn’t work, I don’t think. And at the time I didn’t realize what was happening.”

“When?” Rhysand never told her about this.

Nesta shrugs loftily. “Some time during the war. I could feel that there was a presence of…something…in my mind, and my head hurt a bit, and then it was gone. He’s tried my mind and Elain’s. He can’t get in.”

Feyre’s jaw drops open. The most powerful High Lord in all of history can’t get into two untrained fae’s mind? “How?” 

“Are you going to go through all the standard questions?” When Feyre doesn’t smile, Nesta continues with a huff. “Elain is a- well, you know.”

The answer dawns on Feyre before it’s fully explained. “You’re both Cauldron Made. It would make sense that Elain’s mind can’t be broken into as she’s a-” Feyre makes a casual gesture to fill in and Nesta waves at her to continue. “-and you’re, well, you.”

“How eloquent.”

“Shut up.”

“No.” Nesta steps closer to Feyre until they are a few inches apart. “Let me help you.”

The closeness immediately makes Feyre wary, her eyes narrowing, though she does take small satisfaction in the realization that she’s taller than Nesta. “Right, you’ll tell Rhysand to fuck off.”

Nesta gives a small grin. “Precisely.” She taps a finger against her temple. “Come into my mind.”

“I think we just established that daemati can’t do that.”

“Just try.”

“He’s the most powerful High Lord, if he couldn’t, then I-”

“I didn’t want him in my mind. This is different; I’m asking you.”

“But-”

“Remember that picking fights thing I mentioned-”

“By the Cauldron,” Feyre hisses out a curse, glowering at Nesta’s smirking face. “Fine, alright, I’ll try.”

Nesta immediately closes her eyes, completely trusting. The small action brings an amount of calmness to her that Feyre hasn’t felt in a week. She said something about what was bothering her and the world didn’t end- she didn’t get pushed away.

Feyre shuts her eyes and breathes in deeply through her nose. She needs to be careful- precise. Trying to enter someone’s mind while Rhysand is trying to enter hers is like slipping out the back door of a house while someone is knocking on the front door. 

She has never tried to step inside her sisters’ mind. Feyre has never felt the need- or the desire- to attempt to see what they’re thinking, and the situation was never dire enough to demand it. She’s not entirely sure what to expect. Usually, stepping into someone’s mind is almost effortless, like a knife cutting through warm butter.

Stepping into Nesta’s mind is not like that.

Feyre nearly physically staggers back because Nesta’s mind is a turbulent storm, with gusts of wind that feed into giant, silver flames that dance around everywhere. There’s no wall, there’s no distinct shield, just freezing, ice cold, flames that consume everything completely. Feyre can only stand to be there for a few seconds before jumping out.

Well, now she knows why Rhysand couldn’t get in. Feyre can’t stay for more than a few seconds before practically leaping out, feeling as if she is seconds away from being scalded.

“Okay,” Feyre says, mind reeling from the experience, “that was- um- why did you want me to do that, again?”

Nesta opens her eyes, specifically to glare at Feyre. “You need to try again,” she orders.

Feyre purses her lips and looks at her in exasperation. “For what, Nesta? Tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for before I get absolutely scalded by your-” Feyre cuts herself off. Nesta may be comfortable enough to let her sister see the swirling flames in her mind, but she has not talked about it at all. Now’s not the time to be the first person to bring it up.

“Rhysand can’t get into my mind,” Nesta says, words softer, “and I know it’s improbable that you can’t recreate perfectly what shields my mind, but you’re an artist Feyre. I’ve heard about your water wolves. You can create something close to this and keep him out of your mind.”

You’re an artist, Feyre.

The words reverberate in her ears as if it is new and groundbreaking information. She had never thought about what she did with the water wolves as an act of art. It was an act of war; the people of the Rainbow needed defending and Feyre reacted- simple as that. But the water wolves were as true to real wolves as they could be- down to how their joints moved and the way their claws slashed at their prey. 

It was the same with how Feyre created her wings. A crafty and sharp eye for detail, noticing even the smallest of ridges of skin and bones.

She doesn’t know if trying to recreate Nesta’s silver flames will work, but if it provides even the smallest bit of relief, then Feyre’s willing to try.

“I’m trying again,” Feyre warns and steps inside her sister’s mind the moment Nesta nods in agreement.

This time, Feyre knows what to expect and doesn’t falter at the intensity of the flames. Music, triumphant and raucous and not real at all, plays in Feyre’s head as she watches the flames dance. She watches them go higher and higher in a crescendo until they swoop back into the ground, spreading everywhere and crashing over Feyre.

But, she doesn’t get burned. Instead, it feels as if ice cold water was just dumped over her. It doesn’t hurt to be on the outskirts of Nesta’s mind, but Feyre knows that if she tried to dig deeper, the flames would react instantaneously, snatching at her ankles and completely consuming her.

So she doesn’t try to go any further. Feyre stands and observes the dance, feeling as if she is watching Starfall for the first time again. Nesta’s presence is there, quiet and muted, but the flames are their own creation, not her’s. It’s wild, untameable, and free.

In the distance, there’s howling.

Feyre steps outside and immediately delves into her own mind, sending a prayer to the Mother that this works. It’s her own mind. She wants it to be just hers again. Her mind, without any claws or talons of unwanted intrusions. 

Ignoring Rhysand’s current barrage against her mind, Feyre appraises her current shield. It’s indescribably tall, made out of solid stone. There are patches that she should fix, bruised areas that are the result of Rhysand’s unrelenting force 

Feyre burns it to the ground.

The rocks come crumbling down, flames of silver and gold because she can’t get the color just right, but that doesn’t alarm Feyre because the color of it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the fire rages through her mind and banishes every single trace of Rhysand out of there. 

The flames spiral into columns, sweeping through her mind like mini tornados. She feed her pain, her anger, her fear into the fire and then- she lets go.

Feyre doesn’t need to monitor her defenses like she did before. She doesn’t need to will her shields to stay up and to keep Rhysand out- the fire immediately seeks out intrusions and eradicates it.

Feyre opens her eyes.

And it’s- it’s- quiet. 

Her head isn’t pounding with the intensity of one thousand suns, the pressure behind her eyes is gone, and she isn’t clenching her jaw unconsciously. Feyre nearly weeps in relief, but her elation trumps her tears.

She feels…light.

Flexing her neck, she cracks not just her shoulders but her jaw too. Her bones feel loose and the heat isn’t so oppressive all of the sudden.

“Did it work?”

Feyre rushes to pull her sister into a hug, but then hesitates- stop, why are you hesitating?- and grabs Nesta’s hand instead. “It works,” Feyre breathes out in wonder. She tightens her grip and smiles broadly. “It works!”

Nesta squeezes back, her silver eyes alight with a shine that has nothing to do with their unnatural glow. “I’m glad.” She smiles a little. “Fuck him.”

A strange feeling nestles into her chest and Feyre’s happiness flickers for a moment. She hopes her smile doesn’t falter as she says, “Thank you.”

It sounds genuine. It is sincere.

Nesta lets go of Feyre’s hand and gestures forward with a nod of her head. “Come on. We still have a few traps to check. Elain’s going to throw a fit if we don’t get back on time.”

A laugh dislodges from Feyre’s throat. “Sure, Elain’s the one that’ll have an issue.”

Nesta claps Feyre’s shoulder once and then continues down the path. “Yep.”

The idea of returning to the mountain no longer brings an overwhelming feeling of dread to the pit of her stomach. She’s even a little bit curious about the progress Elain has made while they were gone, and wonders if they can find any books to see if they can figure out how to make windows.

Pressing a hand against her forehead, Feyre relishes in how steady she feels. She told Nesta something- just one thing- and it went well. Telling Nesta even helped her.

Feyre takes a step forward and doesn’t sway from any pressure in her head. The mating bond aches a bit, but it’s nothing in comparison to what her head went through last week. Feyre doesn’t feel a shred of guilt.

Fuck off, Rhysand.

It doesn’t matter if he won’t hear the message. Right now, the message is just for her mind and her mind alone.

Feyre follows Nesta deeper into the woods.

Chapter Text

Feyre sits at the head of an empty table in the House of Wind.

In front of each of the six chairs is a bare plate with a fork and a knife on either side of it. The centerpiece is loud and rather gauche, assembled with flowers from all kinds of courts and fake stars sticking out of it. 

Elain certainly didn’t make that, Feyre thinks with a frown, nose wrinkled.

There is an eerie absence of sound in the House of Wind. Usually, there is a faint blowing of wind surrounding the house, but Feyre can’t hear it. Everything is completely still, and when Feyre blinks, it’s with a great effort, as if her eyelids weigh hundreds of pounds. 

There is also quite a large bird sitting on her plate.

Its feathers are a mix of brown and white and stick up everywhere, as if someone was running their hands through the feathers. Its beady little eyes stare at Feyre before squawking loudly. She jumps at the sound. “Quiet,” she hisses, tapping it lightly with a fork. She doesn’t know why it’s important to remain quiet, she just knows making noise will not end well.

Holding back a sigh, Feyre leans back in her chair, surveying the bird. It stands up and repositions itself on her plate, settling back on it. Then, without warning, it lets out a screech before jumping off the table and running down the hall.

“Shit!” Feyre swears, scrambling out of her chair to chase after the bird. Of course this stupid bird is going to ruin everything-

There are two figures blocking the entrance to the hallway.

Feyre freezes in her path, startled at the sudden presence of Nuala and Cerridwen, who hold some scraps of cloth in their hands. Feyre has always been slightly unsettled by the twins, but it was never anything of note. Now, there is a stab of deep discomfort twisting in her abdomen at the sight of them. No indication of emotion shows on their faces, as if they don’t see Feyre in front of them. 

Feyre swallows but her throat is dry. She still has to catch the bird. It’s important. “Hello. If you excuse me, I have to-”

“You have to get ready,” one of them says, tilting her head.

Feyre blinks. “No, I lost the-” She coughs. “I have something to do first.” She tries for a placating smile. “Then we can talk.”

They coolly observe Feyre before the same one- Nuala, Feyre thinks- says, “You have to get ready.”

Ire quickly builds in Feyre as she snaps, “Ready for what?” The twins refuse to move and Feyre needs to get the bird before it’s too late.

Cerridwen gestures with the cloth she holds in her hands. “You’re needed in the Court of Nightmares.”

She might as well have dumped ice water over Feyre the way her blood runs cold and her anger washes into fear. She takes a small step back away from the twins. “What- what are you talking about?”

Nuala and Cerridwen give her a better look at the scraps of cloth they hold, and Feyre flinches away, almost shutting her eyes close to avoid seeing the sheer pieces of fabric that she once habitually wore underneath the Mountain. “Rhysand is waiting for you,” Nuala explains. 

Cerridwen nods in agreement. “The High Lord and his Inner Circle won’t be kept waiting.”

Feyre shakes her head, trying to get rid of the sick feeling crawling around her body. The lost bird has completely flown out of her mind and from her thoughts. “But I’m High Lady. I can’t wear that.”

She remembers what the Inner Circle wore last time- the Illyrian males all in their leathers, Mor in a devastating red gown and Amren in a wicked black dress. Why does she have to wear the clothes of a plaything? What good will that accomplish?

Nuala frowns. “There is no such thing as a High Lady.”

Heat flushes through her face. “Yes, there is. I can’t wear that- I’m High Lady.”

The twins step closer to her as Feyre keeps walking backwards until she hits the table. She grabs onto it to keep herself up right. “You wore this before,” Cerridwen says in an easy, soothing tone, “it’ll be alright, it will be just like last time.”

Last time. Her mind flashes back to the Court of Nightmares, when she was put on display in front of the whole court in Rhysand’s lap. It was nerve wracking, but it was for the sake of the mission. Besides, her nerves were hardly her own focus since she was so concerned for Rhysand about how he felt doing that to her again- again?

Last time.

The last time, Under the Mountain, as she was dressed in less than scarves and painted all over as she danced and danced and danced and Rhysand touched and touched and touched-

Feyre sees it in flashes- because that’s all she really knows, isn’t it?- and she feels her nausea rise with each memory. Rhysand’s feline smile as he tells her to bend over- just one more time, darling - to pick up his napkin that he accidentally dropped for the fourth time, Lucien’s distraught face as she twists and twirls her body in circles around Rhysand, her bone deep exhaustion when she was deposited in her cell after hours and hours of exertion. 

There’s a ringing in her ears and an erratic pounding in her chest. Feyre faintly realizes that it is her heart, desperately trying to get out so it no longer has to bear witness to this. 

“Come, High Lady,” Nuala says, pulling on Feyre’s hand. The wraith’s hands are frozen. “You don’t want to keep your High Lord waiting.”

One more time for me, darling. 

She knows what putting on those scraps mean. What she’ll have to do.

Panic surges through Feyre as she tries to wrench herself free, but Cerridwen grabs her other arm and the two drag her forward. She is moving too slow, every action is sluggish and weak. Shadows swirl around them and her vision blurs, “No,” Feyre gasps, kicking and twisting away to no avail, “I can’t- no, I don’t want to. I can’t- no, no, no-”

Feyre wakes up with a startled cry. 

Sitting up in her bed, skin crawling, she is greeted with utter darkness and remembers her failure in making windows and that she sleeps in a tomb. They do not light a fire ever since the first night when Nesta quickly pointed out that with the poor ventilation of the room, the fire would eat at the oxygen and they would pay for warmth with their suffocation. 

Feyre doesn’t bother to try and stop the tears, but makes them as quiet as she can so as to not wake her sisters.

Feyre weeps into the bedsheets and pushes down the nausea rolling in her stomach. Deep breaths, she tells herself and doesn’t heed her advice. Her breath is caught in her throat, struggling to get out. 

She wasn’t supposed to remember those countless nights Under the Mountain as she played Rhysand’s whore. That was the point of the merciful drug- that she wouldn’t remember what she had done and what had been done to her. Regardless, Feyre had always remembered the exhaustion that weighed on her when she came to, back in her cell. She always remembered the feeling- like she was a doll. 

Not a pristine, carefully kept, doll placed on the highest shelf so that no one could ruin her.

No, she was a doll to be dressed up and used. To be played with and dangled in front of others in a taunting manner to make them jealous. A doll to run ragged for one’s pleasure. A plaything. 

She wasn’t supposed to remember, and at the time she didn’t, but she didn’t need to remember to wish for something or someone to come and end it all. 

There’s no way to know if the memories in her dream are real. Maybe the lingering images of Rhysand, wine, and dance are all a product of her overactive and imaginative mind. Maybe living Under the Mountain is influencing her subconscious and unearthing false truths. 

But while her mind may have been forced to forget what happened, Feyre’s body remembers- and in her bones she knows that it is the truth.

A phantom hand trails up her leg and Feyre swallows another wave of nausea.

It was a mask, she feebly reminds herself. 

It was still his hand that did it, a stronger part of her argues back. 

It was for Prythian, she tries again and when no other answer comes, she is left deeply unsatisfied with her final thought.

Feyre never protested against the wraiths dressing her, she drank the goblet of wine without a word, she danced and put herself on display and it was better than rotting away with her own thoughts and paranoia, or so she told herself at the time. She didn’t remember it, so it was fine, and it turned out that she had to do it in hopes that Tamlin would take the bait and kill Amarantha, and Prythian would be saved, it was for Prythian’s sake-

Maybe that’s not good enough. 

Feyre chokes down a sob, a wrangled gasp escaping from her mouth. Her breathing is more like raspy shudders as she tries to get a sufficient amount of air so that she can think. She should be over this. Why isn’t she over this? She shouldn’t be waking up in the middle of the night feeling as if insects were crawling across her skin. She shouldn’t be thrown back in time to experience healed wounds, because they had to be healed. 

She wipes at her face with a tattooed hand and stills. If she squints, Feyre can make out the inked whorls.

There is no such thing as High Lady.

The priestess that had witnessed their vows to each other and to the Night Court was young, Feyre could tell. She was the only one present in the temple when Rhysand and Feyre arrived and she stuttered through the whole ceremony. Feyre hadn’t cared- she was too preoccupied with becoming the wife of her mate and the High Lady of her court. 

Other than the elation from the ceremony and the wonder of a new tattoo, Feyre can’t recall any surge of magic or power. But High Lords were magically tied to their lands, shouldn’t there have been something that indicated that she was also tied to the court?

Her tattoo hasn’t burned at all since she abandoned the Night Court.

Did the priestess know that she was performing a sham of a ceremony? Did she know that Feyre was swearing hollow vows to a court who would not see her as their own? 

Rhysand had to know. He had to know because he is the one who knows everything and Feyre is the one that knows-

There’s a featherlight touch on her left shoulder and Feyre wrenches herself away from it, nearly falling out of bed from the force of it. 

“Sorry,” Elain says, her voice smaller than a pebble. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Feyre quickly wipes her eyes, although it’s unlikely Elain can see her tears. It’s a silly act- Elain has seen her cry before. “It’s fine.” Nothing is. “I’m…I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

There’s a pause. And then, in an almost careful tone, “I’m a light sleeper.” Another pause. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Feyre catches the strangeness of her sister’s response even as she focuses on slowing her racing heartbeat. Elain’s careful pauses say more than her words. Feyre’s face burns with the realization that Elain wasn’t asleep when Feyre woke up.

It would be so easy to turn this around on Elain. To answer her question with a question and ask her what is keeping her up at night. To take the dagger sticking out of her chest and plunge it into Elain’s so that Feyre doesn’t have to bleed out in front of her sister.

But she doesn’t do that. 

“Yes,” Feyre says slowly, as if she is testing the word for the first time. She can feel Elain sitting just beside her, their arms slightly brushing. She can almost pretend like she is seven years old again, waking up from a nightmare and seeking her sisters for comfort. “It was just a bad dream.”

Her face is sticky from her tears, but it was just a bad dream. She is here, far away from Rhysand and his sweet words and fickle promises. 

Elain hums. “Do you want me to wake Nesta?”

Feyre almost laughs. “I don’t think we have the time for that.”

For the Archerons, it is well known that Nesta is notoriously difficult to wake up. It wasn’t worth disrupting her sleep and risking her ire for something as small as a nightmare. 

“Once, I woke up Nesta so she could kill a spider in my room and she wouldn’t speak to me for three days.”

Feyre can hear the smile in Elain’s voice and finds herself smiling too. “You sang on top of your lungs for an hour trying to get her to tell you to shut up.”

“Yes,” Elain says, surprise coloring her voice, “you remember that?”

“Of course I do. I’m the one that told you to shut up.”

The two sisters both make sounds that can almost be classified as laughing, if they weren’t trying so hard to be quiet about it. After a beat or two, Elain cautiously asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Feyre fiddles with the edge of the bedsheets. She imagines telling Elain- Elain, who still wears dresses even in their circumstances and was kidnapped by a horde of monsters in nothing but a nightgown- about the contents of her dream and flinches. “No- I mean, yes, but-” Feyre cuts herself off and takes a frustrated breath. “Do you ever look back and wonder how you ever could have done something so stupid?”

Elain’s answer comes faster than expected. “Yes.” She swallows. “All the time.”

“I don’t know how I did it,” Feyre whispers. It’s like their first night Under the Mountain, where it was somehow easier to confess some of their secret wishes to the darkness and let it be swallowed whole. “I don’t know how I was able to look him in the eyes and do it.”

“Do what?”

“Forgive him.” Suddenly, the words are rushing out of her like water spilling out of a dam. “I wanted to die, I wanted a guard to come in and just finish the job and kill me because I wanted my misery to end. And it wasn’t even her doing. She ignored me between the tasks, it was him that dragged me out of my cell every night. And I used to be so grateful for the music he sent me when I was at my lowest and he was the one who put me there.”

For once, Feyre doesn’t worry that she has said too much. She feels as if she needs to erupt like a volcano, voicing every little thing that has crossed in her mind. Why did she have to play Rhysand’s whore in the Court of Nightmares? To distract Keir from their thievery? And that was the only option? Feyre spreads her legs on the lap of the High Lord and that is their brilliant and foolproof plan to distract the interim ruler of the court that Amarantha based her court of horrors off of?

None of it makes sense, but rather, makes her want to scream. 

How could she have agreed to do it willingly? After months of being forced into it, Feyre agrees to play the insipid human that bends to the will of a powerful fae? And then she just forgives him for everything that happened Under the Mountain in the first place?

“Sometimes,” Elain begins, and her voice wavers for a moment before she continues, “sometimes, when I can’t fathom how I ever felt a certain way or did a certain thing I try to…I try to remind myself of the circumstances I was in. If there was ever a way, given what was going on, if it were even possible for me to do anything differently. It helps…sometimes.”

Feyre nods, thinking back to Tutor Winchell and her own choices, and frowns. What did forgiving Rhysand make her? Naive? Foolish?

Desperate? Her mind offers.

Not for the first time, Feyre wonders what swirls around Elain’s mind that keeps her up at night. She wonders if Elain’s hauntings are her own or from her Sight. 

“Most of the time, it doesn’t really help in the way you’d think,” Elain carries on, sounding as if she’s talking to herself more than she is to Feyre. “But it does help remind me that there was so much happening at the time, things that were set in motion long before I was born and- and given what I knew, I did what I could. Maybe there was a better choice to be made, but I didn’t make it, so I’m here and sometimes- sometimes-”

Feyre turns and looks over at her sister in alarm. She places a hand on her shoulder and finds that her older sister is trembling. “Elain? Are you alright?”

Elain takes a gasping breath and then her voice gets higher and higher. “Sometimes, it’s all you can do to just- I mean- something is - Feyre, I can’t breathe- ”

Feyre reaches across Elain and whacks Nesta’s leg so hard she doesn’t need to see to know that it’s going to leave a bruise. Nesta lets out an annoyed grunt and Feyre hits her again, just to be safe. Then, she lights a singular finger on fire, suffocation be damned. 

In the faint light, Elain’s face is pale and sweaty. One hand is pressed against her throat and the other is pressed against her ribs. Her eyes stare at the flame, but they are unfocused and Feyre doesn’t know how much of Elain is actually here. 

With her free hand, Feyre squeezes Elain’s shoulders. “Elain? You need to take deep breaths.”

Elain’s response is a strangled wheeze, so loud that Nesta shoots upright, frenzied and frantic. She grabs Elain’s shoulder on her side and glares at Feyre. “What’s going on?”

A month ago, Feyre would’ve taken offense at the glare, but she now knows that the glare is a default for when Nesta is scared. She can’t blame her fear and scrambles to explain, “I don’t know. We were just talking and then she said she couldn’t breathe.”

Elain shakes her head and Feyre tries to take comfort in the fact that Elain is at least present enough to hear what’s going on around her. “It’s- it’s Lucien.”

“What?” Feyre and Nesta ask in unison. 

“It’s Lucien,” she repeats, eyes still transfixed by the flame. “He’s- in danger. 

“Tell me exactly what you’re seeing,” Feyre demands.

Elain gulps down a breath of air and grabs at Feyre’s wrist. The flame jostles at the sudden movement. “There’s- he’s- he’s close. And in danger.” Her voice becomes panicky. “I think he’s hurt, or he’s about to be hurt. We have to go.”

“We?” Nesta asks in an incredulous tone. “You’re not going like this.”

Elain acts if she doesn’t hear her. “Feyre.” Elain’s fingernails dig into her skin. “We have to go after him.”

Feyre looks between Elain, whose arm is pressed up against her ribs as if she is trying to prevent her organs from falling out, and Nesta, whose mind Feyre can clearly tell is working overtime to try and understand what she’s missed. 

Suddenly, Elain lurches into Nesta, who catches her and wraps an arm around her. No, Feyre realizes, she did not lurch, she was pulled-

As if there was a rope attached to Elain’s rib cage and someone on the other end yanked it-

“Elain,” Feyre starts, trying to convey how important Elain’s response is to this question, “are you certain that this is not a trap?”

From the confines of Nesta’s arms, Elain cuts her gaze to her younger sister, honey brown eyes burning with lucidity and determination. “Feyre.” She wishes that she would stop saying her name. “Feyre, if you do not go because he is your friend, then go for me. Please.”

Oh, Mother above. 

Feyre grits her teeth and does nothing to push away the memories of the first friend she had made since her tag playing days with Cara.

Lucien, roaring with laughter while being tossed into a fountain as punishment for teasing and tricking her. Lucien, beaten and bloody, with his life in her hands because he dared to do the unthinkable and publicly defied Amarantha for her. Lucien, potentially inches away from death, unless Feyre does something about it.

She doesn’t think about choices and what they make her. She doesn’t think about choices and their potential consequences. 

This is a choice she’d choose over and over again. 

“Elain.” Out of the corner of her eye, Feyre can see Nesta about to protest, but that doesn’t matter. Elain and Feyre both know what is going to happen. “You need to tell me where he is.”

Elain answers before Nesta has the chance to speak, sounding the most cohesive she’s been since waking up. “He’s north of here. Near the stream before it hits the pond with the orange flowers. You have to be fast, you have to be careful, and- listen to me-” She shakes Feyre by the shoulder, “-you both have to come back.”

Feyre, despite the situation they’re in, sends a smile to Elain before snuffing out the fire. “Don’t I always?”

—————————————————————

Feyre wouldn’t confess while under torture that after everything, she had forgotten about Lucien.

Lucien would never let her live it down and they are immortal - she simply can’t risk it.

She is scrambling to come up with defenses while she pulls on her leathers, grabs her quiver of arrows, her bow, and not one, but three knives, and comes up with nothing. Which is fine, she tells herself, jogging down the hallways and instantly winnowing the moment she steps outside of the Mountain. It’s fine and it will be fine because Lucien will never know.

Feyre lands in a collection of orange flowers, bracing herself for the fight that is to come. Elain hadn’t mentioned what Lucien was facing and a part of Feyre fears that she won’t be enough to save him. 

Dawn, she notices, is just beginning to break on the horizon.

She slowly turns around, surveying and analyzing the forest, taking note of every little detail- the small animals collecting twigs for nests, the trickling sound of the stream flowing into the pond, the broken branches that aggressively point north.

“Right,” Feyre mutters to herself, “that’s a good place to start.”

She jogs in the path directed by the branches, a knife in one hand, and quickly sends prayer to the Mother that she’ll find Lucien in one piece. Feyre’s stomach turns at the image of finding Lucien motionless and lifeless, covered in moss. Gritting her teeth, Feyre’s jog turns into a run. She cannot be late, she refuses to be too late.

She isn’t.

Feyre abruptly stops at the edge of a clearing, rocks and dirt flying off the edge as she wavers to find her balance to prevent herself from falling several stories. Below, there’s an abundance of shrubbery and rocks, as well as a pond that looks more like a glorified puddle.

Most importantly, there’s a flash of red and- there he is, Feyre notes with no small amount of relief. There he is, shining bright red hair, an intact torso, two arms, two legs, and one mechanical golden eye that Feyre can see glimmering even from a distance and in the darkness. There’s a cut on his forehead, and he’s pressing a hand to his side, but most alarmingly, he is slowly being backed up against the rock wall by a giant creature advancing on him.

The creature, Feyre realizes with a start, is the one that she and her sisters had run away from when they were united in the Middle for the first time.  

Having a full understanding of what the creature looks like now, Feyre is suddenly very grateful that her sisters were clueless about what they were running from.

The great beast dwarfs Lucien, making him look like a speck in comparison. Its white fur glistens- not just from the moonlight- and moves with the soft breeze. She can’t see what the head of it looks like, but the body is similar to any large beast. It walks on all four legs with claws the length of Feyre’s arm and it's getting closer and closer to Lucien until there’s only one thing left for Feyre to do.

Feyre jumps. 

The moment her feet leave the ground, she starts changing and shifting, shifting and changing. It’s been weeks since she’s tapped into her powers like this, but it’s as easy as fixing on her leathers or nocking an arrow. The changes are quick and painless, each one giving her a boost of energy and power.

Every part of her quadruples in size and then some. Fur bursts across her skin, claws spring out from her hands and feet, and her teeth grow into fangs. It won’t be until much later that Feyre realizes she subconsciously drew inspiration from Tamlin’s beast form. 

Feyre hits the ground running, sprinting on all four limbs towards the white creature, leaping over bushes and rocks, her pace creating a rhythm that her heart dutifully follows. Right before it has the chance to swipe at Lucien, she headbutts it with all of her might. 

“Mother’s tits,” Luciens exclaims as the white beast is knocked onto its side. Feyre ignores him, eyes steady on the beast that is getting up just as fast as it went down. It turns to face Feyre, and she scrambles to try to think of what this creature is. A head like a cross between a wolf and a bear, a body the size of the boulder, what on earth is-

The beast snarls, inches away from Feyre’s face. She prepares to swipe a fistful of claws at it, but the beast inhales deeply and Feyre is suddenly desperately trying to hold onto her transformation, to no avail. A strangled sound escapes her mouth as she shrinks in size, claws retracting, fur shredding.

In a blink of an eye, she is a shell shocked Feyre Archeron standing in front of the beast.

“Mother’s tits,” Lucien breathes, and it goes against everything she knows, but Feyre whirls away from her opponent to glare at the annoying thorn in her side. 

“Can’t you think of anything useful to say?” she yells, her fury and fear mixing together in an unpleasant cocktail of emotions. 

Lucien stares at her as if she just crawled out of the ground to tell him that Hybern had returned. Then, in a flash, he lunges forward, tackling her to the ground so that they both narrowly miss a giant paw. 

Feyre scrambles to her feet, dragging Lucien with her, and shoves him towards the direction of a sturdy looking tree. “Climb,” she orders, turning around to face the beast again, hoping that Lucien will be able to follow her demands with his wounds.

“How do I know that this isn’t a-”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Feyre doesn’t make the same mistake of turning away from the beast this time around. It’s somewhat cathartic shouting at Lucien. It helps burn off her nerves as she tries to think of how she’ll get them both out of this. “You’re such a godsdamn prick. I’m here to save you and you’re worried that this is a trap.”

She conveniently leaves out that she thought the same thing not even half an hour ago.

“That’s Feyre, alright,” she hears him mutter and thankfully, thankfully, she hears him beginning to climb the tree. “This is a sorry rescue.”

Indignation flares inside of her, warring against the spike in fear as the beast starts charging at her. Feyre stands her ground until the very last second and then leaps, jumping onto the back of the creature, clutching at the white fur- which is surprisingly soft. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she grumbles, desperately holding on for dear life as the beast begins to shake and buck in attempts to knock her off. “Next time Elain demands that I save your life, I will be politely declining.”

It’s a low blow, but Feyre gets a twinge of twisted satisfaction at the sound of Lucien’s appalled yelp. “She what- Feyre, what are you doing? That’s a fully grown anghenfil! ”

Feyre currently has her face stuffed in the fur of the anghenfil, but manages to yell, “I don’t know what that means!”

She can practically hear Lucien’s scowl. “It’s the magic eater- we can’t winnow, we can’t use our magic, and its fur is basically impenetrable.”

Mother’s tits. 

The anghenfil stills, making an off putting clicking sound that Feyre swears is coming from its stomach. She decidedly does not want to learn what that means and ignores it, focusing on creating a plan so she doesn’t have to break her promise to Elain. 

She mentally goes over the tools she has- arrows and knives, which will do little to the impervious fur of the anghenfil. Other than her weapons, Feyre has only herself to rely on with Lucien injured and in a tree.

Feyre bites back a curse. This is what she was afraid of- not being enough to save Lucien. Without her magic, she can’t even talk to him directly in his mind to see if he has any bright ideas.

Think, she commands herself. Her arms are shaking from the force of staying on the back of the anghenfil as it runs around the clearing, trying to dispel her from its back. You’re a hunter. Hunt.

The idea hits Feyre like a bag of rocks and she has to bite back another curse when she realizes she doesn’t have a better option. 

Alarms are ringing in her head, heart thudding in her chest, urging her to listen to her instincts to flee, to get out. Steadily ignoring sensible reason, Feyre slides off of the anghenfil the moment it stops its running and faces it.

The beast stares down at her, huffing out angry breaths. Feyre finds she can relate to that. She wants to snarl right back at it, but instead she slips off the quiver of arrows and lies them at its feet. 

In an instant, the anghenfil crouches down and eats the quiver in two bites. 

Feyre gulps, and desperately does not think about if that was her head. 

Hands shaking, she pulls her knives out from their holsters and drops them a foot away from her. The anghenfil tilts its head and Feyre is reminded of a cat. But Feyre has never come across a cat that licks up and swallows knives whole.

“ Feyre, ” Lucien hisses. She refuses to look at him, wishing she had her magic just so she could whisper in his mind to shut up. “What are you doing?”

There is no answer to a question like that. Especially not when the beast is approaching Feyre, stopping just a hair’s breadth away from her face, so close that when the beast exhales, its breath tickles her nose. 

It takes all of her willpower to stay still, to keep her head down, to not make eye contact, to make herself as small and non threatening as possible. She shuts away the part of her that defeated the Middengard Wyrm, the part of her that defended the Rainbow without a second thought. Brute strength won’t help her here.

Eyes shut, she waits. She prays.

The anghenfil begins to sniff her, nostrils so close that her hair moves from the action. The clicking noise resumes and Feyre braces herself for a hopefully quick and merciful death.

Mother save me, Mother hold me…

A moment passes. Then another.

“Feyre,” Lucien calls down again, “Feyre, look. ”

Against her better judgment, Feyre opens her eyes right as the anghenfil nudges against her head and then licks up the entire side of her body. 

Feyre gags at the smell and it takes every bit of her to not screech at the sensation of tongue sliding up her whole body, getting spit in her hair. She settles for a disheveled, “Uh?”

Above her, Lucien laughs. She’s going to kill him. 

Tentatively, Feyre reaches for the anghenfil ’s fur and begins to scratch. The clicking noise gets louder and Feyre realizes it’s purring. Her demeanor softens and she scratches more aggressively.

“Lucien,” Feyre says, and when her voice comes out hoarse, she coughs and tries again. “Lucien, come down, and for the sake of the Mother, throw any weapons you have away.”

There’s a bit of shuffling, groaning, and a large thunk and then Lucien is at her side, offering a knife to the anghenfil as if he’s offering an apple to a horse. Eyes still glued on the anghenfil, through gritted teeth that Feyre hopes is a smile, she snarls, “Are you daft?”

Before she has a chance to knock the knife to the ground, the great beast swiftly steals the knife out of Lucien’s hand and munches happily. After peering at the two of them curiously for a few painstakingly slow moments, the anghenfil lumbers away, gracefully leaping on ledges before it escapes the clearing.

A weight the size of the beast clears from Feyre’s chest.

“Well,” Lucien starts, “I have to admit, the rescue did get-”

He cuts himself off with a pained grunt when Feyre throws her arms around his shoulders. Lucien’s alive, she’s alive, Feyre will be able to keep her promise to Elain, and Lucien’s here. Feyre will not have to have all of the answers on her own because someone who knows is here, and he’s-

“Oh, sorry.” Feyre sheepishly pulls back the moment she realizes that Lucien hasn’t returned her hug, keeping his hands pressed to his bloodied side. 

Lucien gives her a pained smile. “Hold on, just let me…” He rips off a part of his shirt and wraps it around his torso, somewhat clumsily. Feyre’s relief lessens at the sight of the gash in his side, but Lucien doesn’t show too much concern.

When he’s satisfied with his work, he wraps Feyre in a one arm hug and this time, Feyre is mindful of what side she presses against. She’s also mindful that she’s getting aghenfil spit all over him, but he’s getting blood on her so she thinks it’s even. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” Lucien says, flicking a finger against Feyre’s shoulder before he breaks the hug. “Even if you messed up my dashing plans. I was supposed to save you.”

“Asshole.” But she’s smiling and her tone is affectionate and- what did he say? “What is that supposed to mean?”

Lucien shakes his head as if he were a wet dog trying to dry off and peers down at her, golden eye whirring sporadically. “You’re supposed to be kidnapped and locked away right now. I thought you were someone else glamoured to look like you for a moment, but clearly you’ve found a way to escape- well done, by the way- and so now we will-” He stops, and Feyre can practically hear things clicking in his mind. He glares at her accusingly. “You weren’t kidnapped.”

She shakes her head. “I was not.”

“Neither were your sisters.”

Feyre shakes her head once more. “They were not.”

Lucien’s eyes grow with a mix of shock, wonder, and horror. “You said that Elain demanded that you save my life-”

“Can we focus on the matter at hand?” Feyre blurts, not wanting to go down that particular rabbit hole. Her matchmaking days died the moment she came to terms that, given her own match, she is in no position to decide who should be with who. 

Besides, Elain not wanting Lucien to die is a low bar to go off. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lucien lets out an aggrieved sigh. “Fine. That’s- no, that’s not fine!” He looks at her, appalled and aghast. “You and your sisters are supposed to be kidnapped!”

Feyre arches an eyebrow. “Would you prefer it if we were?”

He scowls. “That’s not the point, Feyre. The point is that your husband is one inconvenience away from going on a rampage that can- and most likely will- level several mountains, because he thinks you are being held hostage-”

“He doesn’t think that,” Feyre interrupts, rage simmering underneath her skin. She knew that Rhysand was looking for her- it was increasingly difficult to ignore it- but she didn’t think he would go this far. 

“Yes, he-”

“I left him a note, Lucien.” His face scrunches in confusion, and Feyre’s anger grows. Of course Rhysand wouldn’t entrust Lucien with the whole story. “I left him a note and he knows that I’m not kidnapped. He knows that I left on my own free will.”

She tries not to feel too offended at Lucien’s look of disbelief. “Rhysand said someone had completely cut off your mind connection-”

“Yes,” Feyre says impatiently, “ me. I’ve been keeping him out of my head because I don’t want to talk to him, and he knows that it’s me keeping him out. A daemati can tell the difference between someone keeping them out and a mental block.”

Lucien’s disbelief visibly grows deeper and deeper, and his voice is scandalized when he asks, “What happened, Feyre?”

Mother above, the number of times someone has asked her that recently. While she can’t say it was asked without good reason, it’s been almost three weeks, and she still hasn’t been able to answer it properly.

Feyre looks at Lucien, bruised and bloody, and wonders how many times he’s looked like that because of her. She thinks of Nesta, human and clueless and afraid, going to the wall for Feyre.

She thinks of Rhysand, who whisked her away from the Spring Court when she asked. Who provided her with shelter, space, and people who supported and listened to her.

Guilt sweeps through Feyre. Rhysand had helped her, didn’t he? When she was crying out to anyone to help her, he answered. He took her away from Spring and gave her what she wanted- a purpose so she could distract himself from grief. 

But then the nightmare that woke her up flashes in her mind and the steely look that Feyre gives Lucien rivals one of Nesta’s best. “You know who Rhysand is.”

“Yes,” Lucien says slowly, as if he is avoiding saying his next words, “as do you.”

The words shouldn’t hurt, but they do.

“Yes,” Feyre bites out. “I do. And I was-” She takes a quick moment to pray that he doesn’t gloat. “-wrong. I was wrong.”

Lucien doesn’t gloat. He does something worse, looking at her with indescribable amounts of pity. There is no “I told you so” and there is no request for further information, but the silence stretches for too long and even if he isn’t outright judging her, she knows a part of him has to be. 

It pressures her into spitting out, “We should start heading back. We need to properly address your wounds.” Anything to stop him from looking at her like that. 

Lucien’s expression turns unreadable. He doesn’t ask about where they are going and even though he must have a mile long list of questions, he doesn’t voice them. “If that’s what you want,” he finally says, his tone delicate.

Feyre grits her teeth. For a fleeting second, she wishes he would just punch her. It would be easier than this.

What do I want?

The last time she took that into consideration, she abandoned her whole world. 

“Yes,” she grounds out, “I don’t want you to bleed out. Imagine that.” Feyre shakes her head in the general direction of the Mountain. “Let’s go.”

They begin their walk in stony silence, the sunrise lighting their path. Feyre knows they could winnow, but she is dreading their return to the Mountain and dealing with the aftermath. Her mind swirls with the explanations she’ll have to give and the possible news she’ll have to receive from Lucien.

Feyre has been blind to the ripple effect she must’ve had in the Inner Circle when leaving the Night Court with nothing more than a sentence of explanation. She’s been comfortable not lifting the veil.

Rhysand, she knows from the previous mind assault, is unhappy. Feyre swallows a snort. Understatement of the century.

Feyre has been tactfully avoiding thinking about the Inner Circle when Under the Mountain. There is an endless amount of chores to be done and she throws herself into each one with abandon, letting her mind focus on the task at hand. An idle brain drifts, and Feyre refuses to let it sit still.

But now she wonders. Was Lucien the only one lied to? Did everyone else know that she willfully left or are they sick with worry at the idea of Feyre locked away somewhere? She doesn’t know which she would prefer. Rhysand and his never ending game of chess is not above lying to those closest to him.

Feyre trips at the thought. 

Rhysand has lied to her before. He has deliberately hidden things from her, and she knows that, but phantom hands are trailing up her legs and closing around her throat and-

Feyre does not know for certain about all the lies he has told her.

“Lucien?” she begins tentatively, wrapping a strand of hair around her finger in an attempt to dispel her nerves.

He doesn’t pause in his strides, nor does he look at her when he grunts in acknowledgment.

He has a right to be mad, she tries to remind herself and keeps the urge to snap at him at bay, he did nearly just die for a lie.

“Do you remember…Under the Mountain-” Feyre watches Lucien’s shoulders tense and she hurries forward, “-when I had to, um, dance?”

It’s the most delicate way she can word it but Lucien still stops in his tracks, forcing Feyre to stop with him. She can tell he’s trying to be careful with his expression, but she knows he’s concerned. He nods.

“Can you tell me-” Her voice is too small; Feyre coughs and tries again. “Can you tell me, did Rhysand- he said that he never touched me below my waist,” she rushes out, “is that true?”

Lucien purses his lips.

The whole world pauses between them. Feyre fears the worst. For the nth time that day- and it’s barely morning- she forces her nausea down.

What did he do, what did he do, whatdidhedo-

After a heavy beat he says, “He would touch your thighs. Sometimes you would- you were exhausted, Feyre. You would trip or stumble, and he would catch you by your waist or thighs. He would…linger. Not always, but if Tamlin was watching, he would make a show of splaying his hands on the back of your thighs.” 

He stops and Feyre doesn’t need to read his mind to know that he’s debating whether or not he should say more.

“Say it,” she spits out.

Lucien’s expression turns grim. “He never touched your intimate parts. But you would dance near him and- and on him. He often would trace a finger up and down your stomach, and he would rub your sides.” Lucien looks as sick as she feels. “I’m- I’m sorry Feyre.”

At the apology, she nearly laughs. Isn’t it so funny, isn’t it just so funny, that she receives an apology from Lucien, but she has never received one from the person who actually did it?

She finds it’s not funny at all.

Feyre’s face burns- from shame or fury, she’s not sure- and she bites her tongue so hard she tastes blood. She wants to shriek until her vocal chords tear themselves to pieces, she wants to rip her hair out until blood pours down her face, she wants to burn the House of Wind down with Rhysand trapped inside it until he's begging her to-

He lied.

“Right,” Feyre says stiltedly, voice thick from emotion. “Well, thank-”

“Don’t thank me for that,” Lucien cuts her off, his voice strained.

Feyre inhales deeply through her nose and nods, the action making her feel strangely lightheaded. Then, no longer trying to stop it, she bends over and throws up on a tree trunk.

Lucien wraps her hair aside in one hand and pats her back with the other, dropping it away when she flinches. “I’m sorry,” he says again, sincerely, and Feyre squeezes her eyes shut and does not scream.

She tries to take comfort in the fact that Rhysand hadn’t dipped underneath what the silks had covered and finds there is little comfort to be found. 

It doesn’t matter to her that she knows what it’s like to be touched by Rhysand when she wants it. Knowing how he touched and used her when only her body remembers the feeling overshadows it all. Her body remembers, revolts, and her mind follows suit.

Feyre empties her stomach on the poor tree. Other than her retching and Lucien's mechanical eye, it's quiet around them.

How many times will she proven that she played the perfect fool? How many times will she be surprised by the wool pulled over her eyes by Rhysand?

This is the last time, Feyre decides. No more benefit of the doubt. No more second chances.

“That’s what happened,” Feyre coughs out, wiping sick from her mouth with the back of her tattoed hand, “that’s what fucking happened. That’s the male I’m married to. And that’s the male that didn’t care if my sisters were safe or not. So I left. I’m not going back.”

She’s said that before to her sister and she’ll say it as many times as she can. It’s important for Feyre to keep repeating; she refuses for it to become a lie.

Lucien doesn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he agrees, “we’re not going back, then.”

Closing her eyes and taking a bracing breath, Feyre takes a moment to thank the Mother, the Cauldron, and every other kitchen appliance the Mother owns that Lucien is here, that he is listening to her, and he’s not making her go back to the Night Court to explain things. He's not making her explain herself at all. 

Feyre stands up straight and Lucien lets go of her hair, giving her space. For a time, Feyre had thought of him as a sly, conniving fox and would’ve assumed that he had a hidden agenda in sticking around with her.

She takes in the scar marring his sincere expression, the hand pressed against the wound that he is neglecting in order to give her the answers she asks for, and knows that he is staying because he is her friend. He is a sly, conniving fox- but he is also her friend. 

Feyre gives Lucien the smallest of smiles. “It’s not exactly the high end luxury you're used to.”

Lucien returns a roguish grin. “Is that supposed to deter me? You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me, Archeron. It’s been at least two centuries since I’ve wiped my ass with gold.”

Feyre scoffs, walking back on the path towards the Mountain. “Pig,” she calls out over her shoulder.

“Brat,” he returns, catching up with her easily.

The mist isn’t heavy for once, and the warm hues of the sunrise settle around them. Feyre may feel like an open wound, but it's easy to bear with Lucien at her side and knowing her sisters are waiting for her. 

Feyre rolls her eyes, her smile a little less small. She refuses to let him have the last word. “Asshole.”

He lets her have it.

Chapter Text

When the Archeron family had money, or at least they acted like they had money, they spent one day of the year at the fair. Their family’s wealth may have been carefully hidden piles of debt, but they still reaped the benefits of high society.

Money meant that they could own horses. Money meant that they could own a carriage. Money meant that they could pay footmen and coachmen to bring the quaint family to the neighboring village. The journey was only forty five minutes, although to the Archeron girls, it felt like eons. 

The Archeron girls loved fair day. 

Their own village was too small, too poor, too common to host a fair of substantial size. If they were lucky, a theater troupe would pass through for a weekend and put on a show without a stage in the meadow. They weren’t lucky very often. 

But the neighboring village, Althear Haven, had festivals and fairs every month. They had no god to worship or give thanks to, so the people took it upon themselves to celebrate each other. There were competitions of every kind, grand and silly, to entertain the masses and give a reason for friendly camaraderie. Not only the merchants and tradesmen set up booths to sell their trinkets, but the average villager walked amongst the crowds, offering their own creations in exchange for a coin or two. 

It was loud and boisterous and at least one trade deal always ended in a short lived brawl. The food was greasy and stained the girls skirts, much to their mother’s dismay. It was perfect.

The head of the Archeron family visited for business. The matriarch went for leverage. The sisters had something else in mind.

The eldest sister went for the competition. Nesta loved to cheer on the races and fights, although was often reprimanded by her mother for acting unladylike. Fair day was a rare day in which Nesta could ignore the reprimands, happily whooping and applauding when a competitor successfully carried a whole tree trunk several yards. Once, Feyre swore she saw Nesta shed a tear when the losing opponent graciously hugged the winner and wished them the best. 

The middle sister went for the candy floss. When four year old Elain tried the candy for the very first time, she declared there was nothing sweeter and finer in all the land. The decadent candy melted on her tongue and nothing that the manor cook made could compare. Elain resigned herself to eating a year’s worth in one day to get her fill when she visited. That is, if her mother would let her get away with eating so much of the fattening sweet. 

The younger sister went for her family. It was one of the few days of the year where the Archerons were all together. Her father would carry Feyre on his shoulders so that she could see the performances better, her grasping onto his face and shrieking with laughter when he pretended to drop her. Feyre cheered when Nesta did and cried when someone got injured. She held her mother’s hand so she wouldn’t get lost when the crowds were so big and she dutifully hid candy floss in her pocket so that Elain could eat some at home. 

She watched with an amazed look in her eyes as her mother fixed her father’s hat after a nasty gust of wind. “This is what you get for never wearing hats with the tiestring,” Adrienne Archeron scolded, a fond look in her eyes. They all wore flower crowns that Elain made for them until they fell off, and her father swore he’d keep the flowers until they dissolved. Nesta made a sly comment that had the whole family in stitches. Feyre didn’t quite understand what the joke meant, but she laughed with them anyway. 

It never rained. It was never canceled. It was exuberant, exhilarating, and enchanting to the Archeron girls. A day at the fair always felt like a moment out of a storybook, one that was never ending and untouchable. 

Like all good things, fair day had to reach its inevitable end. Feyre always hated the award ceremony. It meant that they would be leaving soon. She didn’t want to ruin it for anyone else, so she always tried to hide the pout on her face as her family applauded the winners receiving their ribbons. 

Elain sometimes thought it was unfair.

“Papa,” she asked once, standing on her tiptoes to get a better view, “how come the man who was the best at arrows-”

“Archery,” Nesta corrected.

“Archery,” Elain continued with a faint flush, “how come the man who won at archery gets the same award as the man who jumped really high? Anyone can jump. They shouldn’t get the same award.”

“ You try jumping as high as him and see if it’s easy,” Nesta argued, her eyes never leaving the award ceremony.

Elain stuck out her tongue at her older sister but went unnoticed. When she thought no one was looking, Elain did a little hop. 

Colm Archeron didn’t look down to answer his daughter, but affectionately scratched her head as he answered, “Lainy, it’s all just a game. It doesn’t matter.”

Feyre, too young to help her sister in the discussion, didn’t like his reasoning. Wouldn’t it matter to the man who was best at archery? She could tell Elain didn’t like the explanation either, but the two of them continued on watching the ceremony without another word.

On the carriage ride home, the sisters dozed off on top of one another, the gentle bump of the wheels rocking them to sleep.

When remembering fair days, Feyre never thought about the point Elain brought up in the award ceremony. There were more important things to remember- like the way her mother smiled as she hummed along with the opening song the musicians played every year. Or the time her father swooped Feyre up in a hug after she won a race a village boy challenged her to. 

Now, with Lucien draped across her shoulders, his blood slowly seeping onto her leathers and his red, sweaty hair plastered to her face, Feyre thinks about the archer, the jumper, and their awards. Mostly, she thinks about the awards.

She thinks about what people are owed.

Feyre has never been the type of person to dwell on what she receives versus what she gives. She spent years in the woods to keep her family alive with only little visible gratitude in return. She did it because she loved them. The fact that it kept herself alive was of little consequence.

She went Under the Mountain to save her lover and ended up saving all of Prythian, and what did she get in return? A fae body, a broken relationship, and issues that she is slowly unable to ignore.

No one asked her to go Under the Mountain. She was specifically sent away from it and all of Prythian. No one asked the archer to compete- did he care about getting the same award as everyone else? He was probably proud with what he won, Feyre muses. Maybe he pinned the ribbon somewhere where everyone could see it, so everyone would know what a winner he was-

It’s all just a game, her father had said. What did that make Feyre for playing in it?

It’s selfish, Feyre knows it. It’s pathetic, her mind whispers to her. But she gave everything she had for Tamlin, and then for Prythian. She bled, cried, and died for Prythian. She was whored out, broken, and tortured for the sake of everyone’s freedom. 

And here she is, breathing heavily before each shaky step, so that her and Lucien don’t sprawl across the forest floor and never get up. Here she is, flinching every time the skin of his jaw brushes against the skin of her neck, fighting against the revulsion of her empty stomach. 

Feyre grits her teeth and hates herself for her involuntary flinch. Stupid, she tells herself as she refrains from shaking him off of her, it’s just Lucien. Stop it.

But even when his skin doesn’t make contact with hers, when it’s just the weight of him pressed up against her body, Feyre has to repeatedly count down from fifty to ignore her gut reaction of throwing him to the ground.

Being afraid of the touch of a friend- it makes Feyre feel lower than the dirt they’re stepping and bleeding on. 

He’s trying, Mother bless him. When they found out they had too little magic in their systems to winnow, Lucien kept a straight face. When his steps began to falter and his breathing became louder, Feyre stepped in without him asking to because she knew he would never ask. He tries to keep his weight off of her and limps beside her. He is nearing unconsciousness with every step, but he is still trying to huff his breaths away from her, he’s trying to keep his grunts of pain to a minimum, and he’s refraining from asking any questions of where they’re going. Feyre can’t help but be grateful; she’ll avoid answering that for as long as she can. 

How can she explain? That they’re going to the place where she died because even though she saved Prythian, there isn’t a place for her and her sisters where they would be safe?

And whose fault is that?

She doesn’t have to close her eyes to see Tarquin’s betrayed face. To see Tamlin’s dejected resignation. 

Feyre can share the blame with Rhysand. With everything that he’s done, she wants to completely throw the blame onto him and stop looking back. But she never argued, she never fought against it. She was the one who wanted to break Tamlin’s court. 

Save a country, doom a court. Maybe Feyre is getting what she is owed after all. A life of living to make it to the next day so that she can hide away from the touch of skin and fight with herself about what she does and doesn’t know. 

She mutters to Lucien that they have to move a little bit to the left to avoid a gnarly root. He follows suit without complaint, and while Feyre knows he’s trying to not be difficult, she also knows that he simply doesn’t have the energy to be. 

Adrenaline can only do so much for him, and most of it was used for him to climb the tree while trying to keep as much blood inside him as possible. The post adrenaline crash is inevitable. She only prays they’ll make it to the Mountain in time when it happens. 

Feyre imagines what would happen if her foot did catch on the root and she went tumbling down. If she fell down, down, down and stayed there for all of eternity. Until the roots grew over her and cocooned her to the earth. There would be no memories, there would be no future. There would be nothing but the worms eating her away.

It sounds nice, Feyre thinks. She won’t have to think about how she’ll survive the next day. She won’t have to think about what she’s never fully forgotten. She can simmer in her misery and hope for her darkest wants and desires- for the drug to have done its fucking job. 

A world where all recollection of Under the Mountain was wiped. Feyre nearly weeps at the thought- although that could be the sweat collecting in her eyes. The idea swirls around in her mind- a world where she is blind to all of Rhysand’s wrongdoings, where she can blissfully be at his side and surrounded by his family.

And listen to all he says and do all that he asks without question or protest.

Shame curdles in her stomach. A world where she's nothing more than a prop, with not a single thought in her head? No, she does not want that. 

Lucien’s chin knocks into her neck once again, jarring her from her thoughts. She suppresses her knee jerk reaction to move away from him, but her empty stomach revolts when his breath comes out, hot and erratic, against her skin. 

Nothing comes up ,but Lucien, pressed up against her side, still feels her shudder. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out, jerking his chin away. 

Rhysand never apologized.

Feyre shuts her eyes for three seconds before taking her next steps. She starts her countdown from fifty again. “Stop,” she pants, her attempts to sound sure and confident fall flat, “apologizing.”

Her body is screaming at her to stop and rest, but Feyre pushes forward. To distract her mind, she gathers a bit of her recovering magic to mentally send a message to Nesta and Elain. Feyre doesn’t expect they’ll treat Lucien Under the Mountain. Not only will he potentially protest, but if her sisters can bring the bandages and supplies outside to meet them there, there won’t any further delay in Lucien's medical treatment.

They stumble through several yards of woods and when Lucien’s chin hits her again for what feels like the umpteenth time, he says it again.

“I’m sorry.” It sounds as if the words were ripped out of him.

“Stop it,” Feyre snaps, because if she can’t be overwhelmed with grief then she can be angry. Anger, her old friend and companion, always helps to keep everything else at bay. “Just- we’re almost there.”

“Right.” He grunts. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

She can’t waste her breath on trying to explain things to him. The Mountain was never destroyed. There’s no one there but us. I checked. That’s where we’re going.

Lucien stops in his tracks, and her shaky legs nearly give out from the sudden action. She knows- Feyre knows- he has a right to be shocked, upset, whatever, but she can’t help but snarl at him, “No, you keep moving forward.” She pulls him forward, ignoring his wounded sound of pain as he starts to limp and walk with her again. “I know- it’s- it’s fucked and it’s wrong, but it’s still there and everyone is gone and we had no where else to go. Have a crisis about it when you’re not bleeding all over me.” 

He doesn’t give a response. Feyre mentally fills in the silence with her best guess. I don’t know why I keep coming back for you.

Maybe he wouldn’t say it, but Feyre has to wonder all the same. Time and time again, Lucien dances with death because of her. And everyone in the Inner Circle looks down on him because- what? Because he wasn’t flawlessly prepared to help her recover? While he dealt with everything else piled upon him by Tamlin? As if he didn’t also have to recover from his own experience Under the Mountain?

If Lucien hadn’t risked his life to help her in the first task, it would’ve been over. There would be no need for him to help her recover from Under the Mountain, as she would’ve been very, very dead.

Lucien is bleeding on her because of her, Rhysand, and his lies, and Rhysand is the one that can never forgive Lucien for what he’s done? Feyre can’t believe she didn’t spit in Rhysand’s face when he first admitted that to her.

“Lucien?” She should conserve her energy, but she has to say it. “Thanks.”

For once, the sound Lucien makes isn’t a grunt, but a scoff. “For what? I think…” His breath shakes and it’s impossible for Feyre to not notice that it’s because his body is shaking. “I think I’m ruining your leathers.”

“It would be pointless if they could be ruined with blood,” Feyre can’t help but point out. Lucien snorts, but it's weak. She can’t bring herself to continue with him like this. “I’ll tell you when you’re feeling better, alright?”

Her point is proven when he mumbles an incoherent comeback. Because she is kind (exhausted) she doesn’t even think about rubbing it in. Instead, briefly, Feyre thinks about Lucien and what he is owed. 

If she was an unwilling participant in these stupid games, what did that make Lucien? He loses his lover because of his father’s hatred and he runs and runs and runs until he becomes trapped on a chess board. He plays the game because there is no other way out, and he still manages to play by his own set of rules. 

Her wants are nothing compared to what Lucien deserves, and he doesn’t deserve to die for being foolish enough to care for her. Feyre cannot let him down again. It gives her the push needed to move forward and soon, as Feyre looks around the land, she recognizes that they’re close. 

“We’re almost there,” Feyre rasps, hope and relief running through her veins, “just- just beyond these- look, the roots kind of make a staircase. One at a time.”

They reach the top and then-

“Feyre!”

She knows that Elain is running towards them. Not because Feyre can hear her, see her, or even smell her, but with Lucien’s body pressed up against her, she can hear Lucien’s breath hitch, his heart stuttering and rattling in his chest.

Feyre looks up, and through flyaway strands of red hair she takes in Elain’s appearance as she slows her run to a stop, several feet away from them. She looks not much better than when Feyre last saw her- holding herself up and crazy eyed- but she’s upright and running, which has to mean something. Her hair is akin to a rat’s nest, one particular lock sticking out as if she had been pulling at it. Brown eyes quickly scan in the sight before her and Feyre almost misses the way that they linger on Lucien for a moment, an indecipherable emotion flickering in them. 

Elain frowns. “You’re both-”

“It’s Lucien’s blood,” Feyre interrupts before Elain starts to worry. 

“-okay,” Elain finishes with a small glare towards her sister. Her eyes dart to Lucien again before snapping back to Feyre. Mindlessly, she starts wringing her wrists. “Well, not okay. That’s- that’s a lot of blood, so it’s not okay-”

“Elain,” she interrupts once more, wondering if it would be blatantly rude and obvious to ask where the hell Nesta was. They don’t have the time for this- this awkward reunion. Feyre can’t recall the last time the two mates interacted and if it was friendly or not. The way that Lucien refuses to look away from his boots leads Feyre to believe that their latest interaction was polite at best. At worst, she guesses, they had ignored each other the entire time.

 “A little help?” Feyre prompts and ignores the sharp inhale Lucien takes.

Elain startles into action. “Right!” She takes a lurching step forward, catches the way Lucien stills, and hesitates. With wide eyes, she looks between the two of them, as if she’s waiting for someone to intervene. Before Feyre can snap at her to get on with it, Elain visibly braces herself and continues, but then-

Lucien raises a hand, effectively halting Elain.

“I can make it.” His voice is hoarse. He starts to move, forcing Feyre to stumble forth with him before she can protest. The entrance to Under the Mountain is just a few steps away, but even closer are rocks and boulders of all shapes and sizes. It’s easy to see where Elain has set up her station; there’s a spot with a cushion on a small boulder that’s next to one laden with salves and bandages.

Elain follows them closely, ready to jump in if help is required, but Lucien was true to his word in his capability of walking a few more steps. Her anxiety is both palpable and irksome. If anyone other than her older sister was fussing, Feyre wouldn’t mind it, but her patience has more than worn thin.

Feyre’s muscles cry out while she holds most of Lucien’s weight as he settles down on the cushion. The moment he is secure and sitting, Feyre collapses to the ground, sprawling across the grassy forest floor. She keeps a watchful eye on Lucien so that she can catch him if he keels over, but other than that, she’s not moving for shit. 

She rubs a hand over her eyes, her chest heaving in attempts to catch her breath. Her hands are disgusting, but so is her face, so Feyre doesn’t think twice. Without the weight of Lucien pressing down on her, she feels oddly light and strangely close to tears. “Where’s Nesta?” she finally asks. 

“Getting water,” Elain rushes to explain, tripping over her words as she goes through her supplies. “In our plans- the ones we made for leaving the Night Court- we decided, well, I decided, that it would be best if I learned more about medicinal herbs and salves- as I’m quite good at recognizing herbs and plants in general. Nesta was going to learn eventually, especially since there would be no one else to help if something were to happen to me -”

“Elain,” Feyre tries to cut in. 

“Right!” With shaky hands, Elain attempts to tame her hair and pulls it up in a loose bun. “Anyways, that’s why Nesta is the one getting water and I’m the one helping- you.” She ends her ramble with a turn to Lucien, her eyes scanning him and narrowing as she catches sight of the cuts. Lucien’s eyes are closed, face contorting with pain, and Feyre can’t tell if it’s from the claw slashes or from listening to his mate justify why she’s helping him.

“Elain,” Feyre warns again, counting to ten in her mind, “he’s lost a lot of blood. He can drink some of mine if it comes to it, but our magic isn’t fully present and isn’t working like it should be and I-”

“Feyre,” Elain interrupts, sounding decidedly displeased at being instructed by her younger sister. “I might need your help in a few moments, but I don’t need it now.”

Feyre can’t stop herself. She rolls her eyes and scoffs. 

Elain digs into her skirt pocket and pulls out some slices of a brown root. She holds them out to Lucien. “Here. It’s ginger root. Eat it slowly and one at a time. Try to hold it in your mouth for as long as possible.”

Lucien slowly grabs for the root- as if trying not to startle her- but his finger has just barely touched the ginger when Feyre blurts out, “ Wait! ”

Feyre sits upright, properly fuming. She cannot believe that Lucien would take advantage of the situation like this, she just carried his ass for over two miles and he pulls this? He’s going to wish the anghenfil finished him off properly when-

“What is your problem?” Elain’s glare is as harsh as her tone.

Feyre’s mouth falls open, aghast. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m just trying to help you , unless you would like to-”

Lucien cuts her off with a weary sigh and sends Feyre an equally weary look. He doesn’t even look panicked at what Feyre was about to say. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Feyre and Elain wear matching frowns. 

“It doesn’t work like that,” Lucien reiterates, and Feyre knows from his expression that he knows what she was worried about, “it’s not about the food. It’s about the intent.”

He snatches the pieces of the root and pops one into his mouth. He turns up at Elain, who looks like she wants to talk about what just happened, but Lucien doesn’t give her a chance. “It is healing on its own. Just very, very slowly.”

Elain nods, slowly. Feyre can see her mentally make a decision to ask about the root later. “I still have to look at it and clean it.”

Feyre scowls, more for her sake than anyone else’s since no one sees it, and lies back down on the ground. Excuse me for being cautious.

Lucien’s explanation does make sense, she admits to herself grudgingly. The idea of unknowingly accepting a mating bond is frankly horrifying. 

Feyre tries to think of the time before she had accepted her own mating bond. Had she given Rhysand any food? Did he act strangely about it? Would he have hesitated, knowing what it could one day possibly mean? Would he have explained?

Of course, for him to explain, he would’ve had to tell her that they were mates. And he didn’t bother to do that before she nearly killed herself getting her own engagement ring, so she doubts he would’ve explained then. Her stomach sours. Why would Rhysand explain anything, she wonders darkly, if the situation didn’t ultimately demand it?

Her mouth wobbles.

It’s too much. Her sweat locks her leathers against her skin and she feels as if she is encased in them. Blood and spit are plastered to her hair and there's a mix of grime underneath her fingernails. Her worries bounce and grate against her skull like a set of loose marbles. Lucien being here will change everything. She is grateful and relieved that he's here- she is- but his presence here means th at the dynamic Under the Mountain will undeniably be changing. 

Nesta hates him, Elain can’t be coherent around him, and the little progress they have made since working together seems like it’s moments away from crumbling into pieces.

She can’t be expected to keep rebuilding every time things fall apart. Feyre doesn’t have any more ideas, there are no more solutions. Her sisters and Lucien will defer to her and she will have nothing for them. Hasn’t she given enough? She doesn’t have anything else to-

“Feyre.”

Feyre raises a hand to block out the sun as she squints up to look at her sister. Nesta frowns down at her. The sun makes her crown braid look like a halo. Of course she found time to style her hair into a crown braid. “You have blood on you.”

Feyre drops her arm to cover her eyes. She doesn’t want Nesta to see the tears creeping up in her eyes. “It’s Lucien’s.”

She hears Nesta take a few steps and then there’s the sound of something heavy hitting stone. Nesta was successful, then. “You look like shit, Vanserra.”

Lucien huffs out a sound that’s not quite a laugh, but close to it. “It’s this kind of charming hospitality that makes me grateful that I won’t have to live in the Night Court anymore.”

Feyre, despite it all, nearly smiles. He may be injured, but Lucien is still the clever fox he always is- reading the situation and artfully picking his words to show his cards.

There’s a pause, and Feyre can only picture the way the two are analyzing each other. Feyre wonders what that must be like for Nesta, to see Elain tending to Lucien’s wounds. But neither sister speaks a word and Nesta must deem Lucien to not be a threat, because she returns to Feyre, crouching down next to her. Feyre refuses to move her arm off of her face. “You have blood on you,” Nesta repeats, quieter. Softer.

Feyre’s eyes burn from the effort of keeping tears at bay. “Yeah, well.” Mother damn it all, her voice is scratchy. “I have spit on me too.”

“That’s disgusting.” 

Feyre doesn’t have a response to that. She’s right. Her hair is beginning to crunch from the dried up blood.

Nesta rests a hand on Feyre’s arm, on top of her leathers. She gives it a small shake. “Come on.”

Feyre remains silent.

She shakes her arm again, a little harder. “Let’s go. Get up.”

Slowly and sluggishly, as if she were moving through molasses, Feyre stands. Something in her mind has shut off. She doesn’t question what Nesta’s intentions are, just allows her sister to drag her down the path that Nesta just came from. She barely registers Lucien and Elain out of the corner of her eye as they leave, only catching a brief look of Elain’s hands. They’re covered in Lucien’s blood. 

Nesta keeps a hand on Feyre as she leads her through brambles and ivy. A numbness settles in her legs and cotton grows in her head. If Nesta is talking, Feyre can’t hear it. 

They stop in front of a pool of water. Feyre recognizes it as the pseudo bathtub they use, the pond further down the creek where they collect their drinking water. She stares at the surface and watches where the creek falls into the pond.

Nesta loosely tugs at the neck of Feyre’s leathers. “I’m going to take this off- okay?”

Feyre blinks and faces her sister. There’s no outward sign of any emotion, other than her eyebrows drawn together in concern. Her mouth isn’t pressed into a thin line, lips aren’t curled into a scowl or sneer. She can’t remember the last time Nesta’s face was open like this, wasn’t contorted in some way. 

Feyre nods.

Nesta starts to unstrap and untie the suit, Feyre mindlessly adjusts her arms and legs so that Nesta can have access to the bindings. The sweat created seal crackles like hot oil as Nesta peels it off of her, leaving her skin feeling raw .

Soon, Feyre is standing in her underthings. A warm, gentle breeze brushes over her shoulders and soft grass tickles her feet. The last time, she realizes with a jolt, she was in nature like this, was when she was in the starlight pool with Tamlin. Where she let herself let go of some of the bitterness in ice. Melted away, in starlight. 

Uncaring of her surroundings, Feyre shucks away the rest of her clothes and dives into the pool. 

Down, down, down she swims through murky, cool water. Her feet sink into the mud, her toes tangling with roots and algae. It’s peaceful down here. There’s nothing but her and the small fish nibbling at her knee. This is better than being cocooned in roots, Feyre decides. Here, she is free to float and drift around to her heart’s content. Here, she is far, far away from thoughts and memories and decisions and-

Her lungs burn.

For half of a second, Feyre thinks of ignoring the burn and letting nature take its course, but then Feyre thinks of Nesta, waiting for her on land. Elain’s voice echoes in her ears.

You both have to come back.

Feyre pushes herself off the ground and kicks as hard as she can towards the surface. 

She breaks through the water, gasping loudly and pushing hair out of her face. Nesta sits at the edge of the pond, lightly trailing her feet in the water. Feyre, wiping water out of her eyes, misses the envious look in Nesta’s. She wades over to where Nesta sits and sets her arms on the grass. 

She feels more…present. Grounded. Like she won’t be sent spiraling by one wrong word.

Nesta gives her a curious look. “So…spit? That wasn’t an exaggeration?”

Her lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. “It really was spit.”

Nesta arches an eyebrow. “Lucien’s?”

Feyre loses her grip on the grass and half ducks back underwater, accidentally inhaling pond water. She grabs at the ground again, hacking and coughing. “ No! ” She coughs again, wishing she had something to get the taste of pond out of her mouth. “Mother above, Nesta. We’re not- I don’t- I would rather get random creatures spit on me daily than even think about that, don’t be crude.”

Handing Feyre a bar of soap, Nesta shrugs, nonplussed. “I already have to worry about Elain and Lucien. I had to check that you weren’t going to add any issues.”

Feyre rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to worry about anything, he isn’t going to steal her away in the night.” She conveniently leaves out that she had also worried about how things were going to change with Lucien here.

“Like he didn’t help the other one steal you away?”

She pauses, thinking back to what Nesta could be referring to- Tamlin breaking into their old cabin hovel to steal her away or Tamlin at Hybern, thinking he was rescuing Feyre. Regardless, it doesn’t matter which occasion Nesta is referring to, she’s wrong about Lucien. “He didn’t help steal me away.” She starts waving her hand around for emphasis. “That was- it’s complicated- but he was genuinely-”

Feyre cuts herself off when she realizes what she is waving around in her hand. She uses it to point accusingly at Nesta. “Where did you get this?”

“Elain and I made a batch of soap a few days ago-”

“Yes, I know, that’s not what I meant. How did-” Feyre finally notices the pile of clean clothes folded next to Nesta. “Where did all of this come from?”

“I brought it,” Nesta says slowly, as if she’s explaining to a toddler. “You told us Lucien and you were coming and that there were injuries. I figured a change of clothes would be necessary. And I was right.”

Feyre stills. She looks at the soap in her hands, the clothes at Nesta’s side, and then back to her sister’s face, a smug smile on her lips. 

It shouldn’t be of anything of note. It’s a simple gesture, and one that speaks to Nesta’s habit of thinking and planning ahead, but it’s also a small act of kindness that pushes Feyre over the edge, completely overwhelming her. The tears Feyre has been holding back fall freely onto the wet grass of the bank.

The smile quickly falls off Nesta’s face as alarm spreads across her features, but Feyre can’t stop. Everything is flowing out of her- her fears, her worries, her shame- and all she can do is hold tightly to the grass and let the tears go.

“Feyre,” Nesta begins, hesitant. She places a hand centimeters away from Feyre’s arm, not touching her. “What happened?”

It doesn’t cross her tired mind to push off the question. There isn’t even the smallest kernel of desire to avoid the question at all.

Feyre tells her. She tells her everything.

She doesn’t start with finding Lucien with the anghenfil. She starts years beforehand, when she left Nesta and their house that wasn’t a home to go save her lover Under the Mountain. In a low tone, Feyre tells her story and does not skip over a single gruesome detail. Nothing is left out- seeing Clare on the wall for the first time, Lucien saving her life, how it felt to have Tamlin be able to do nothing except stare, Rhysand grabbing her broken arm- it’s all laid bare.

As Feyre talks, Nesta is quiet. There are no signs of reaction other than the features on her face, twisting in horror or opening in sympathy. She doesn’t touch Feyre, but keeps her hand close, like an offering. 

Feyre doesn’t take it, choosing to focus on the individual blades of grass inches from her face. It’s easier to say everything this way. She chokes on tears and shame, stumbles over the more difficult details, and sometimes stalls before going onto the next event, but Feyre gets through it by keeping her eyes locked on the grass, her feet kicking in the water.

With every word she speaks it’s like she is taking down a brick from the wall she subconsciously built years ago, before Feyre came to Prythian. The wall that cemented the mentality that it was Feyre versus her sisters, Feyre against the world.

“He did all of that to me,” Feyre confesses in a hoarse whisper. The tears have dried on her face and there’s a mess of snot under her nose that she absentmindedly tries to wipe away with her hand. Her throat is hoarse from talking for so long, but stopping is not an option. “He did all of that to me and I’m his mate. He’s given me explanation after explanation, but he never apologized. And I forgave him anyway.” 

A part of her dreads to see Nesta’s reaction, but forces herself to look up and is confronted with the blatant pain on her older sister’s face. At the sight of Nesta’s distress, Feyre’s skin crawls with apprehension. This was a horrible idea- even Lucien was uncomfortable talking about it and he knew all about it, how could Feyre expect Nesta to listen to-

“You told me not to marry him,” Nesta says. Her voice is strained as her expression. “You told me not to marry Tomas Mandray because of how he let his father beat his mother. And I didn’t listen and so he- I-” She cuts herself off, suddenly finding immense interest in the reeds in the water.

Feyre swallows, her throat unbearably dry.

“I should’ve listened to you,” Nesta finally says. “You were right about him. I was wrong.” Nesta turns back to Feyre, her silver eyes pleading. “So this is me now telling you- you cannot go back to Rhysand.”

“I’ve said I don’t want to go-”

“I know. And I believe you.” Nesta’s sincerity bleeds through her words. “But in case you need to hear it from someone else, you can’t return to that male.”

“I’ve already done that once, I’m not going to try again.” Feyre tries for a smile but it comes out as a twisted grimace. “I know I’m not exactly known for being the smart sister. I couldn’t even solve the riddle until it was too late.” The thought, impossibly, dims her mood further. “Would’ve saved me a world of trouble if I hadn’t been so stupid.”

She doesn’t know where to start in imagining a life where she solved the riddle when Amarantha first gave it to her. No doubt the bitch wouldn’t honor her promise then.

“Don’t.” Nesta says the single word with such force that Feyre snaps her head up to look at her, appalled. Nesta’s silver eyes are lined with tears, and the sympathy in her eyes has turned to rage. Nesta and anger is nothing new, but the intensity of it now is something incomparable. “Do not say that.”

Feyre frowns. “Which-”

Nesta plows through. “Feyre, you were-” She makes a disgruntled sound in her throat and waves a hand erratically. “You were nineteen years old and human . You were playing these sick and twisted games with centuries old faeries. They were experts at being cruel, sly, and vicious. Anyone else would have given up on the first night.” Nesta purses her lips, the emotion on her face is like an open wound, and Feyre is desperate to escape it. “You survived for over a month. Even when you wanted- when you wanted to die, you held on and survived. That’s more than intelligence. That’s everything.”

Her face burns at Nesta’s words, and she knows she can’t accept them. “I had help. It wasn’t just me.”

“Fuck all of them.”

Feyre chokes out a weak laugh and wipes away the last of her tears with the heel of her palm. “You know, it’s still really weird hearing you swear like that.”

Nesta grins, mischievous and mocking. “Oh really? If you haven’t heard, I can eat, drink, fuck, fight, and swear better as a fae.” 

Feyre’s affronted gasp quickly turns into peals of laughter, even as she cringes at the reminder of her past words. “Oh Mother above, stop. ”

“You said it first.” Her smile dims. Nesta’s gaze, soft and sincere, never leaves Feyre’s face. “Even if being fae has enhanced your abilities, you survived Under the Mountain as a human. You saved all of Prythian from that red headed bitch of a psychopath as a human. You have done so much for this land and more because you are Feyre, with your human heart, and you are better than the rest of them because of it.”

She pauses briefly, but continues on before Feyre can scramble to say something in response. “You have forgiven me, time and time again. You have forgiven our father, our mother, and Elain. Even when-” A single tear tracks down Nesta’s face. “-even when none of us deserved it. Because you are kind and loyal, and you have this ability to love so fiercely and people take advantage of it. You experienced more than some of these immortal assholes will ever experience in their lifetime. You needed a lifeline and Rhysand…” A dark look crosses over Nesta’s face. Feyre can read her mind without using a lick of her magic. Nesta takes a deep breath before she carries on with her thoughts. “He was kind to you. He took care of you. He…”

“Took advantage of me,” Feyre softly finishes for her. 

He used me, is what she leaves unspoken. And Feyre didn’t fight it, too busy running from her grief to realize what was happening to her. 

She takes Nesta’s hand and her sister immediately reciprocates with a reassuring pressure. The acknowledgement doesn’t bring a fresh bout of tears, but lifts a heavy weight off of her shoulders. 

Feyre’s heart thumps rapidly in her chest. She’s heard words like these before- from Tamlin, from Rhysand, from Mor. But Nesta, who Feyre has known her entire life. Nesta, who cares about Feyre because of who she is- in spite of who she is- rather than because of who Feyre is associated with. Nesta, who is the first person to know everything that happened to Feyre Under the Mountain.

Nesta, who used to cry over competitors showing good sportsmanship. Who let Feyre join them in running away from the Night Court without a word of anger or protest. Nesta, her big sister.

The reassurances from her settle differently in Feyre’s mind, calming her thoughts and spirit. 

“I’m sorry,” Nesta whispers, squeezing Feyre’s hand like it’s a lifeline. “I should’ve tried to make you stay in the human lands. I shouldn’t have let you go back.”

Feyre shakes her head. “There was nothing you could’ve done to stop me.”

Nesta gives her a flat look, both exasperated and amused. “I know.”

“I don’t know what to do from here,” Feyre, against her better judgment confesses, her voice smaller than an insect. She’s supposed to be the one who guides her sisters through this. This is Feyre’s burden, and she shouldn’t worry them by confessing she is as lost as a ship at sea with no stars. 

“Stay with us,” Nesta says simply, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “We’ll turn the Mountain into something different. It should be yours. You were the one who freed everyone from it. It can be whatever you want.”

The idea of turning Under the Mountain into a home seems next to impossible, but Feyre isn’t afraid to try. She’ll take what was ruined by Amarantha and make it into something new. Something like-

Something that would make Amarantha scream in fury from beyond the grave. The idea gives her no small amount of twisted satisfaction. 

“People will come looking eventually,” Feyre warns.

“Let them try,” Nesta counters, looking for a brief moment like the regal queen Feyre once saw her as. “Even their stupidest can’t twist kidnapping into the morally right thing to do.”

Feyre hides her frown of disbelief behind her hand. At this point, if the desperation Feyre feels from the strained bond is just an inkling of what Rhysand feels, she can’t put anything past him.

Nesta purses her lips and seamlessly reads Feyre’s mind as she says, “Mates are supposed to be equals, right?”

Feyre squints at her sister, trying to understand where she is coming from. “What? I mean, yes, but-”

“I’ve heard conversations. And I’ve read it in books. Not all mates end in love matches.”

Feyre nods slowly, recalling Rhysand’s own parents. Distantly, she wonders how much Nesta has thought about this in regards to her own potential mate. If she had spent hours rationalizing it to herself. “It’s about…breeding potential.” She cringes as she says it, hating how crude it sounds.

Nesta appears unbothered by this description. “Exactly. You don’t have to worry about Rhysand overpowering you- you’re his one match in power. He may be the most powerful High Lord, but you’re the most powerful High Lord’s mate. That has to mean something.”

She sounds so sure of herself that Feyre hates to contradict her, but she can’t let Nesta have such a false sense of security. “He has centuries of training,” Feyre reminds not just her sister, but herself. “I’ve had these powers for barely two years.”

And I haven’t been taught how to use all of them, is what she doesn’t say but knows is implied. Just when she thinks she has uncovered all of Rhysand’s lies, another one piles on. Wasn’t he the one who admonished Tamlin for not training her in all of her powers? It doesn’t escape her notice that the only ability they focused on was her daemati skills. 

All other powers, Feyre either mimics others or brazenly throws energy in a general direction, hoping for the best. There was no honing her skills, no intricacies uncovered.  

“Yes,” Nesta concedes, “but you’re already his weakness.”

Feyre doesn’t think she likes the sound of that. She doesn’t want to be his anything. 

Nesta squeezes her hand, reassuring. There's a dried tear track on her cheek.  “We will figure it all out. All of us.”

Feyre raises an eyebrow, a small smile on her face. “Including Lucien?”

The scowl that naturally comes up on Nesta’s face at the sound of the redhead’s name is not severe, but it is real. “He can be helpful in some ways." She sniffs. "For one thing, he actually knows how to make wards.”

“I tried my best!” Feyre scoffs, but it’s a poor attempt to disguise her bout of laughter. It's been enough time since her failure in making wards three days ago that it's no longer frustrating and embarrassing. Besides, Lucien will be here to teach her.

The idea brings up her spirits. He can teach her about the Autumn flame, as well.

“Your best was shit.” Nesta nods her head towards the soap in Feyre’s hand. “Hurry up. You still have blood on you.” She leans back on her hands as Feyre begins to drag the soap through her hair. “What did happen when you found Lucien?”

Feyre dives into the story, leaving out a few of the more embarrassing details. When she introduces the great beast attacking Lucien, Feyre is too busy trying to get the knots out of her hair to notice the curious glint in Nesta’s eye. 

Their walk back to the Mountain is a slow amble, cocooned in a comforting silence that's only disturbed by the cicadas buzzing in the trees. 

------------------------------------------------------------

Nesta runs, her feet slapping against the forest floor like the beat of a drum. Sweat slides down her face, her breaths are ragged and inconsistent, but she pushes herself forward with each step. 

Faster, faster, faster.

She trips and sends herself flying to the ground, just narrowly avoiding eating rocks. Pain splits across her forehead and drops of blood splatter onto her hands. The bright red color shines in what she hopes is moonlight.

Nesta swallows. Her nails clench around the dirt. She knows that the trees are too thick, too high for the moon to give off any real light. It’s not a trick of her mind, and Nesta knows what it is.

It’s light that her silver eyes shine. 

Which, Nesta also knows, should be impossible.

She’s read more romance books than she can count; she knows how the descriptions go. Her blue eyes shone underneath the moonlight. His brown eyes were alight with glee. Their eyes were ablaze with yearning. It added to the moment and Nesta could appreciate some good figurative language, but that’s all that it was- figurative. No matter how happy or bright a person was, their eyes did not give off any light.

But Nesta’s eyes, full with a foreign flame, do. It’s faint and she rarely notices it, but it’s hard to miss the light when there’s nothing else but the deep darkness of the woods

Her pulse picks up, her nose flares, and she can practically feel the anger seeping into her bones at the sight of the light. It’s unnatural. That one Illyrian brute- she can’t be bothered to remember his name- once called her a witch. 

She can’t say it isn’t true.

Nesta closes her eyes. She can’t lose control. Not yet.

After counting down from ten, she picks herself up and starts her run again. This isn’t her first fall; she cannot allow it to slow her down.

Her race against time is at the forefront of her mind. She has to return to the Mountain before sunrise, before anyone notices. Slipping away from her bed and sneaking out of the Mountain without drawing notice was almost alarmingly easy. After today’s events, everyone was dead to the world the moment their heads hit the pillows.

But not Nesta.

Nesta, who spent the day with half of her mind in a different world, planning possibilities and imagining the best outcomes. Daydreaming of a world where her eyes were a normal slate gray and her anger was her steadfast companion, not her enemy. A world like before, where hiding her emotions wasn’t a matter of life or death. 

She’ll sleep when she’s in that world. 

But for now, Nesta will use anything she can get to put her at an advantage. Her keen eyes sweep over dens and bushes, analyze shapely boulders and signs of running water. Searching. Hunting. 

Nesta is as graceful as a startled horse and she makes no attempts to quiet herself. There’s nearly nothing in this forest that could be a match for her and the only one who would is the one she wants to find. The one she needs to find.

Feyre didn’t give too many details about where she found Lucien, and Nesta hadn’t pressed for details in fear of raising suspicion. But the location isn’t what matters here. Any attention she draws to herself is vital.

“Where are you?” 

Nesta voices the question with a brazen tone, daring for the creature to jump out at her. A wild desire within her wishes it would. The creature will startle her out of nowhere, and Nesta will finally be able to release what she has kept pent up inside of her for so long. 

A branch cracks behind her, Nesta whirls around and- there it is.

Hope swells in her chest. This is it. All of Nesta’s pent up fear and anger bubbles underneath her skin, waiting to be released. In a few moments, she’ll have one less thing to despise about herself. In a few short moments, she won’t have to fear the destruction she could cause. The answer to her biggest problems stand right before her, unaware of the salvation it will bring. 

The anghenfil, just as Feyre described it.

When the anghenfil was chasing after them, Nesta didn’t see much other than the white fur. Now, with it standing in front of her in all of its might, Nesta distantly gives thanks that she never saw what it looked like when running from it. She wouldn’t have made it ten feet. 

The creature towers over her, just a few merciful inches away from her. For a terrifying second, all plans and thoughts of what Nesta was going to do when she reached this moment disappear from her mind. There is nothing but her shaking body and the sound of the anghenfil ’s breathing.

The anghenfil’ s head leans closer and its nostrils flare as it gives a curious sniff. Nesta jolts, her hair mussed from the creature’s inhale. The action pushes her to slowly hold up a hand, presenting it to the anghenfil.

The anghenfil tilts its head.

Nesta breathes in for four counts. She exhales in four as well. She releases a small amount of her magic and flames dance on her palm, cool to the touch, and flickering silver in the darkness.

She presents the flame like the offering it is and refuses to close her eyes. Mentally, she prepares herself for any sudden movements. The anghenfil will eat the flame soon and Nesta cannot be startled by it. She has to be ready to provide more. To give it all of her flames. To suck the well of magic dry. 

A small part of her dances with joy. This crazy plan made on a whim and foolish hope is working. She is just moments away from freedom.

Nesta waits, fire in hand, and her small joy is overrun by agony. With everything she has suffered, Nesta almost thinks this is the worst, depending and waiting on a beast to save her from herself.

Letting out a low clicking noise, the anghenfil sniffs the flames once more and, to Nesta’s complete horror, the creature backs away. 

“What? No, here!” Ignoring all common sense, Nesta approaches the beast, keeping her arm extended. “Take it!”

But the anghenfil does no such thing. It doesn’t inhale deeply and sweep away her magic, like Feyre described. It doesn’t even try to chomp down on the flame. Instead, it cowers away from the flame. Panic sparks through her like wildfire, setting every nerve in her body ablaze. This beast is supposed to be the indestructible magic eater, it’s supposed to free her from her chains, it can’t turn away-

“Come back!” Nesta hisses, her thoughts running rapidly as she tries to think of a way to goad the creature. What had Feyre said? The fur and skin were impenetrable, it ate their weapons but afterwards was completely friendly-

It attacks and eats anything that shows a threat of violence, Nesta realizes. She thought that the wicked flame itself would be a sufficient threat to provoke the anghenfil into eating it, but perhaps she herself is not threatening enough.

Nesta waves her hands from one side to another, flames following the trail she makes. A nearby brush catches fire and Nesta curses. Her control over the flames is next to non-existent. She can repress the flames for the most part, but when she tries to let go just a little, it’s like holding a piece of plywood against a raging river. 

Standing back on its rear legs, the anghenfil stumbles away- away from Nesta and her fire.

“No!” she cries out, rushing forward as rationality leaves her mind. The front paws of the anghenfil slam down onto the ground as it catches its balance, nearly knocking Nesta to the ground with it. 

Nesta rights herself and, before she can think twice, Nesta throws a ball of silver at the face of the anghenfil.

The anghenfil howls, a wounded sound that pierces her heart like a sword, shattering it to pieces. A patch of fur on the beast’s muzzle, right above the mouth, catches fire. It immediately ducks its head to the ground, trying to put the flame out with the dirt of the ground. But the flame stays.

It lets out another cry and Nesta wants to cry with it. I was just trying to scare it, I didn’t think-

Flames extinguished from her own hands, Nesta raises her arm to put out the flame on the head of the anghenfil. It lets out a panicked yelp, hitting its head on the trunk of a tree as it tries to get away. There’s too many flailing limbs to anticipate what the creature will do next, but there’s no mistaking the fear in the anghenfil ’s eyes and Nesta would cut off her hand to get rid of that look.

Horror and shame grab onto Nesta’s heart, despair fills her lungs. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, lunging forward to brush out the flame with her hand. It takes her a few tries to completely get it out and when she’s done, a scorch mark that is twice the size of her palm remains on the anghenfil ’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, tears rising in her eyes as she takes in its sorrowful expression. Nesta approaches once more- to do what, she isn’t sure- and at her movement, the great beast flinches and scurries away, its erratic run knocking down everything in its path.

One of the most powerful beast’s in Prythian. Flinching away from her. Running away from her.

Nesta slowly spins around, finally taking in the damage she has done. Midnight is alight with silver; the flames have nearly encircled Nesta. At least six half decaying tree trunks cave in on themselves as they rot away, blades of grass turn into wisps of ashes, the short, white, burnt off shavings of the anghenfil ’s fur succumb to nothingness. 

There is no smoke. There is no heat. There is only the complete deconstruction to the ecosystem around her.

A shaky hand covers Nesta’s open mouth. Her stomach rolls, but nothing comes up as she stares at the ruin she has caused.

There’s a loud crack as a tree snaps in half and falls over. Monster, the noise seems to say and Nesta jumps at the sound.

The realization that the anghenfil could’ve been caught in this hits her with a violent force. The realization that there had to be animals in the burning trees forces her to fall to her knees. How can she be what her sisters’ need her to be when her very existence puts them at risk? How can she be what her sisters’ need her to be when all she can do is hurt them?

Another false promise, brought to life. She should’ve known better.

Surrounded by growing silver flames that won’t die out until she snuffs them out, and under the weight of her actions, Nesta covers her face with her hands. She does nothing to stifle her sobs and so her cries, silencing the nightbirds, echo across the night.

Nesta does not ask the Mother what she has done to deserve this. She knows.

Chapter Text

Flip. 

Elain runs as fast as her little legs can carry her, a flower tightly clutched in her hand like it’s a lifeline. She tears through the tall strands of weeds and grass, sweat glistening on her forehead. As she reaches the top of the hill, Elain slows her pace only a little, too giddy to reach her father to worry about running into things.

“Papa, look!” six year old Elain cries out, shoving the slightly crumpled flower in her father’s face. “I found one! A dandy one!”

Colm Archeron looks up from his paperwork to smile down at his daughter. He never works outside, but the weather is too tempting to stay inside and the game he came up with kept Elain distracted long enough for him to accomplish some work. “A dandelion,” he corrects gently. He ruffles her hair, making the flyaway strands from her two braids even wilder. “Great job!”

Elain’s beam is brighter than the sun shining above them. “It’s pretty!”

“Just like you.” Colm pokes her cheek playfully, causing Elain to giggle. “Now, can you find me…” He places a hand on his chin, exaggerating a thoughtful expression. “Can you find me a poppy, please?”

Elain nods enthusiastically. 

“Do you remember what they look like?”

Elain continues with her nodding. “I remember!” She carefully places the dandelion on the table, next to the daisy and buttercup she found previously. 

She turns and runs back down the hill, towards the small garden that the manor staff maintains. She finds it too hard to slow down when running downhill, so when Elain reaches the pond neighboring the garden, she suddenly stops in her tracks. The force of the stop causes her to trip and fall, skinning her hands and knees on the rocks that border the pond.

Tears cloud her eyes instantaneously as pain jolts through her. At the sight of blood, Elain lets out a strangled sob. Completely forgetting about the flower she was supposed to find, Elain unsteadily runs back to her father.

Once again, she shouts, “Papa, look!” but instead of joy in her voice, it’s sorrow, and instead of her father greeting her with a smile, he turns to her with a cringe. 

Colm takes in her bloody palms and knees and sighs. “Oh Lainy, don’t cry.” He swipes a thumb across her cheek, collecting her tears. 

And Elain- she doesn’t think she needs bandages to heal. She just needs her dad to hold her and tell her that she’s okay, and she’ll believe it and so she will be. “Papa, it hurts,” Elain coughs out.

Colm’s face is a picture of sympathy as he brushes the flyaway strands of her hair from her face with a smooth sweep of his hand. “It’s okay, Lainy. Now listen, I need you to take some deep breaths, be a big girl, and stop crying.”

But blood is falling from her hands and the sun is suddenly too bright and Elain can’t even try to keep the tears from falling. It hurts, and she cries.

Colm sighs. His hands fall from her face.

In a whirl of movements, Elain is whisked away by a maid. She cries into the fabric of the maid’s dress and through her tears, and over the maid’s shoulder, she watches her father settle back into his chair and pick up his paperwork.

No one holds her hand as the maid cleans her knee with a substance that makes her skin burn. No one gives her reassurances as the blood is wiped away from her hands. The maid is methodical and clinical in wrapping Elain’s cuts and the woman pats her head and tells her to run along when she is done.

“Thank you,” the little girl whispers, but the maid is already gone. 

Elain is left alone in the hallway, hands and knees bandaged, with her hair freshly braided. The tears have dried on her face, leaving her skin a little raw and salty. Gingerly, she brushes the top of the bandages with her fingers, wrinkling her nose at the strange feeling.

She shuffles in place, unsure of where to go from here.

Her father could still be outside. If she runs fast enough, they could continue playing their game before he has to go back inside, away in his study, closed off from the world.

Without a second thought, Elain rushes down the hallway towards the patio and garden. She has to use her whole body to shove the door open, wincing but uncaring about the pains in her hands as she pushes. The door flies open and Elain darts through. 

“Daddy!” she calls out, waving with both hands as she runs and runs and runs.

Colm looks up from his paperwork, takes in the smile on his daughter’s face, and stands up. His own grin spreads across his face as he crouches down to catch Elain as she flings herself at him. Elain’s shrieks of laughter is all that can be heard as Colm swings her around and around.

One arm is wrapped strongly around her waist. His other hand cradles her head. Elain knows with a certainty and faith that only six year olds can have that no amount of salves and bandages could ever make her feel as safe as being held by her father like this. 

“Oh, Lainy,” Colm says in a content sigh, his voice muffled by her hair. Her heart is so full she thinks it might burst, which isn’t a concern to her with her dad here with her. He presses a kiss on her head. “There’s my happy girl.”

Flip. 

Elain won’t be surprised if Graysen’s pacing leaves marks on the floor. She traces his footsteps with her eyes, finding it easier to focus on the scuffing on his shoes than the anger in his face.

“He treats me as if I’m a child,” he snarls, gesturing with the fire poker. He stabs the logs a few times with sharp jabs, causing the flames to grow higher. “As if I am not the sole heir to his estate and haven’t been training for it my whole life. He speaks as if I don’t know the danger that lies on the other side of the wall.”

She knows that when Graysen gets like this, he becomes incredibly oblivious to the world around him, but she still hopes and prays that he doesn’t notice her flinching.

Her sister is a part of the danger that lays on the side of the wall. The danger that had been inside the Archeron estate just a few weeks ago. The danger that is closer to them than Graysen knows, because Elain cannot- will not- tell him. 

The iron ring on her left hand suddenly feels as if it’s burning her skin.

“He keeps speaking to me in this- this-” The snarl on his face becomes more pronounced as Graysen continues his tirade. “-condescending tone. As if I treat this like a game.”

Elain bites her tongue. Don’t you?

She knows better than to bring up the countless times Graysen has boasted his remarkably few interactions with faeries at dinner parties, regaling the tales as if he had just survived by the skin of his teeth. As if his opponents weren’t stuck in his trap and were at his complete mercy. 

She hates when he tells these stories. Not only is her fiance being untruthful, but the thought of her fiance killing someone who couldn’t defend themselves makes her unnervingly ill. Even if it is a faerie. 

“You’re doing everything you can,” Elain offers, discreetly hiding the twisting of her fingers in the folds of her skirts, “he just worries.”

Graysen huffs, clearly unconsoled by her words. “No, he just likes to be in control. That’s always what it’s about- control. ” 

Elain, taut as an arrow’s bowstring, her placid expression carefully maintained, burrows her thoughts deep within her before speaking her next words. “You are not someone who can be controlled.”

Her fiance whirls around, his eyes alight with gratification. The poker is still in his hand. “I am not,” he readily agrees, “and you- you see that. You see me .”

Elain nods, and tugs a smile onto her face and it doesn’t feel forced. She found a way in- she can carry them out of this from here. “I do. You’re under so much stress, and you handle it so well. When you become the Lord of this manor, it will be easier. You just-” She holds a hand out to him. “I see you. And you see me. And as long as we have each other, we will be able to get through anything.”

He falls to his knees in front of Elain, the discarded fire poker clattering noisily against the ground. He locks eyes with her- briefly, intensely- before dropping his head into her lap. The sudden weight makes her jolt, and then Graysen is wrapping his hands under her thighs and knees, pressing his face into the fabric of her skirt. She tentatively places the hand she had offered him on his head, carefully combing through his short hair. The action seems to soothe him, and she watches the tension leave his shoulders.

Elain wishes she felt the same relief. 

She knows what he is going to say. Prepares herself to hear it. Elain hasn’t allowed herself to examine why it doesn’t delight her to hear him profess this to her- why she doesn’t cherish the words and take pride in the fact that she gets to be this for him. That she is the one who sees him like this. 

Graysen takes in a shuddering breath, and while his voice is muffled by the clothes, Elain still hears his declaration as clear as day. “You,” he tightens his hold around her legs. “You are my peace.” 

He holds her to him, both arms wrapping around her legs in a way that makes Elain determined to not think of the traps her younger sister used to snare. Of the traps Graysen sets for faeries to fall into. 

Graysen presses his face further into her lap and breathes in deeply. She continues to slowly card her hand through his hair, her rapidly beating heart struggling to find a slower pace as she tries to take comfort in her fiance’s embrace.

Flip.

A quick scan of the row of cards, a disappointed huff, a slight thud as a hand hits the table.

Elain gathers up her cards again. There’s no move to be made.

Collecting three cards in her hands, Elain flips once more and compares the one at the top with the row of cards, squinting against the dim firelight. A scowl creeps up on her face.

Nothing.

Elain sees herself gripping her hair by the roots and screaming through clenched teeth. She sees herself throwing the deck of cards into the flames, toppling the chair she sits on over and ripping through the cushion with her fingernails.

Elain does not do that.

Instead, she inhales deeply through her nose and then slowly, methodically, collects all her cards. Neatly shuffles them into a full deck.

Places her hands- folded- in her lap. Purses her lips. Exhales through her nose.

There’s blood on her hands. It’s sticky, warm, and it’s going to ruin the upholstery of the chair Elain sits in. 

Crimson red stains her palms and dries her cuticles. The familiar metallic smell fills her nostrils and she should cringe at the taste of it in her mouth- but there’s no use. There’s no use in trying to keep the blood from seeping into her skirt, there’s no use in trying to find the cut where she’s bleeding from, and there is no use in Elain doing anything at all. 

There was a time when the blood on her hands would send Elain racing to the washroom, where she scrubbed her skin with a rag and lye until her hands were actually bleeding. There was a time when Elain would sit like a statue when the blood appeared, in hopes that no one else would notice that she was staining the whole room with it. There was a time where Elain wondered if she herself was a figment of her own imagination, if no one in the Night Court could notice her strange reactions to the hallucinations. 

She hasn’t gotten used to it- the urge to rub her eyes in attempts to wipe the sight away is as strong as ever- but Elain knows that it will result in smudging blood across her face and into her hair. Instead, she sits on her hands to keep herself from giving into temptation. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming. 

The King of Hybern’s blood is on her hands, it’s all in Elain’s head, and she can’t win a single card game without cheating. 

There’s no move to be made. 

She bites the inside of her cheek again, hard enough to make tears spring to her eyes this time. Holding the tears at bay will give her something to do.

Stay busy, Elain reminds herself as she counts backwards from seventy-seven (her favorite number). Next, she thinks she’ll start ranking spaces Under the Mountain from worst to best in reference to how it is to hallucinate in them. Anything to keep her mind busy, to keep the visions from taking hold of her mind. Anything to keep her from thinking about why there’s blood on her hands. Anything to keep her from thinking about the violent history of the place the Archeron’s are attempting to call home, a history that seems desperate to be made known to Elain by any means possible.

Ever since Elain step foot into Prythian, even before she was Changed, she could feel magic around her, like a buzzing in her teeth. There was magic, alive and breathing, in everything- the grass she walked on, the birds that sang from the trees, the weapons that slashed through skin and bone. There was magic, horrifying and beautiful, and it could not be ignored. 

But in the Middle? There is certainly magic to be felt, perhaps even more so than the other Prythian Courts, but there’s something…wrong with the Middle. 

She hasn’t voiced her concerns with her sisters because she doesn’t know how to articulate it, but Elain can’t be outside the Mountain without her skin crawling and an overwhelming sense of dread spreading through her. She could attribute that to the fact that the Inner Circle is trying to track and find them, but Elain knows there’s more to it. Something isn’t right with the magic of the land. 

The feeling is muffled Under the Mountain, but the Mountain has its own ghosts that leave Elain feeling on edge. She hasn’t stepped foot inside the throne room since that first day, where she saw Clare Beddor’s desecrated body strung up on the wall and then suddenly saw how, exactly, her body came to be that way. Elain didn't need to use her imagination to understand and emphasize with the fear Clare must have felt. She did, however, need to slip out of the bed she shared with her sisters that night to discard the contents of her stomach as she remembered that when Clare- sweet Clare, who used to cartwheel until she was sick- was going through hell, Elain was glamoured out of her mind. She thought about the Rhysand who did that to Clare and the Rhysand who would offer Elain a polite, if not condescending smile, and ask her about her garden, and did not try to stop the bile from coming up.

Elain’s shoulders convulse at the memory. She doesn't ask Feyre about it and stays away from the throne room.

She stays indoors and keeps to the rooms that appear to hold less memories than others. Indoors, without sunlight, but always with enough light to be able to see the blood that tries to drown her.

She used to wonder if Nesta, the only other person who has had her hands stained with the King of Hybern’s blood, dealt with similar hallucinations. But Elain knows that her older sister’s ghosts haunt her in a different way, even if she refuses to talk to her about it.

Even if her older sister moved out of the Archeron’s bedroom four days ago without explanation. Even if sightings of Nesta are becoming more and more rare by the day. Elain knows she and Feyre could have continued to share a bedroom, but Nesta’s departure felt like an order that the other two Archeron sisters scurried to follow without discussion.

Now, Elain sleeps alone in a bed where she used to be surrounded by her sisters, and listens to Nesta walk through the hallways of the Mountain when she thinks everyone is asleep. She listens, and thinks about opening the door to go and talk to her, but stays in bed, paralyzed with the fear of how the conversation will go. She doesn’t know how to help and doesn’t need any prophetic vision to tell her that she’ll end up burdening her sisters if she tries and inevitably fails. 

It’s a startling realization that, to put it frankly, there is a total of three people Under the Mountain that Elain doesn’t know how to talk to, which is alarming on numerous levels since, including herself, there are only four people living in this stupid mountain-

There’s a knock at the door. 

Elain doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. She’s known since they stepped foot in the hallway, their heartbeat echoing louder and louder in her ear with every step they take. The rhythm steadily picking up pace as they approach closer and closer until-

Lucien clears his throat. “May I come in?”

The sudden pull in her chest startles Elain into looking up. The bond’s interference shouldn’t surprise her anymore, and she’s had months to adapt to the magic of the land but it’s- unnatural. Elain can handle a racing heart and sweaty palms, but the magic of the bond obfuscates her emotions. There is only so little left in her life that Elain has control over, and the bond takes what’s left and tosses the scattered remains into the wind.

Elain is acutely aware of the polite facade- she’s seen him interact with Feyre, she knows politeness is not his default- Lucien puts on when he is near her. It almost makes her laugh to see that he is not even standing in the doorway, but is waiting in the hallway for her permission. 

Briefly, she wonders what must be running through his head right now, what this must look like to him. He can’t see the blood that covers her, but he can see how she sits as far away from the fire as possible, alone and with no task at hand, and she’s still sitting on her hands. She doesn’t wonder what he would do if she said no. She knows that he would leave if she asked.

She knows that if she told him to leave the Mountain, he would do so without question, even if they have all collectively agreed it would be best for Lucien to stay with them, especially so that Rhysand won’t be able to read his mind and find out where they are. It’s a power that she holds that she’s not quite sure what to do with, and while she’s not sure if she wants him to stay, she doesn’t want him to go either. 

The idea of talking about the bond tying them together nearly makes her ill, but Elain doesn’t know how to fully ignore it. How to ignore him. 

She hesitates for too long. With apprehension in his voice, Lucien prompts, “If this time is inconvenient for you-”

“You can come in.” 

Lucien enters the room slowly, crimson staining his shoes as he approaches the empty chair on the other side of the table. She shivers from the draft he creates with his movement and, not for the first time, wishes that she could be closer to the fire without consequence. His heart beats so wildly, Elain can feel a headache approaching from it. The coppery smell of blood mixing with Lucien’s scent isn’t helping her either.

He settles into the chair, keeping his hands off of the table. His back is towards the fireplace, and the light illuminates his red hair. His russet eye appears to be closer to an earthy soil, his gold eye softly whirring. 

He looks heaven sent, Elain thinks absentmindedly, and then pushes the thought out of her mind.  

“I wanted us to talk, if that’s okay with you,” Lucien begins, sounding as if he is carefully selecting each word, “And to start, I wanted to say thank you.”

Elain blinks.

“You saved my life the other day,” he continues, his voice low and sincere. He holds her gaze easily, the feeling of being caught in molten amber washes over her. Is she blinking too much? “Thank you. I know the words don’t mean much but- thank you.”

Elain swallows, her throat thick with saliva. She shifts in her chair, feeling oddly childlike with her hands underneath her. She has never known what to say in response to gratitude, and her becoming fae hasn’t changed that. Her mind is racing to come up with something that’s respectable, that’s neutral, that will keep the conversation contained. 

She falls onto her trusted companion- deflection.

“Feyre is the one who saved you,” Elain points out, and with herculean effort, takes her hands out from under her, so she can try to wipe away the goosebumps trailing on her arms. 

The corner of his mouth twitches. “She wouldn’t have known I was in danger if it wasn’t for you.”

To her horror, Elain’s face flushes. “She told you that?”

A full smile almost blooms on his face before it’s wiped away with a neutral expression. “She did.”

It’s nothing to smile about, she wants to snap at him, to scold him, to make him understand what it was like to have complete lack of control and understanding of her own body. What it’s like to have images flooding through your mind and having to sift through what’s truth, what’s a lie, and what’s wishful thinking. If Nesta hadn’t been holding her, Elain was certain she was going to be pulled out of the room and tugged by the bond until she reached Lucien. 

Elain doesn’t want him to die. She was the one who made Feyre go after him, disregarding any evidence that proved it could be a trap. But the two of them aren’t- they aren’t- anything. They’re not friends, nor acquaintances. They’re two people tied together by a magical force, and Elain can’t help but feel like she got the short end of the stick. He can’t hear her heartbeat in his ear. He doesn’t get yanked around like a puppet when she’s in danger. He debate with himself if what he feels is real or if is the product of magical meddling.

She wants to ask what, exactly, Feyre told him, but finds that she doesn’t want to think about the two of them discussing her. 

Elain takes a deep breath as the realization hits her. The action turns into another shiver. She needs to be very, very careful in this conversation if she doesn’t want Lucien to go reporting her to Feyre.

She tries for a small smile. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Lucien’s eyebrows nearly fly off his face in shock. Elain finds it hard to believe that her saying that is so unbelievable and she waits for Lucien to pull himself together as he says, “As- well- like I said. I owe that to you.”

His sincerity hurts. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Lucien slowly nods. “I also wanted to talk to you about…” Please don’t say ‘us’, Elain silently begs, her smile becoming more and more strained. Pl ease do not say ‘us’. “You.”

Somehow, that’s worse.

Elain starts to wring out her nerves through her fingers. The blood makes it a bit difficult to tug at her fingers, and idly she thinks the blood is beginning to smell like Lucien’s.

Because that’s something she’s now familiar with- in sight, in scent, in touch.

“Me?” She tilts her head in confusion and reminds herself that she’s trying to not raise any alarms, and she should refrain from using any accusatory tones. “What about me?”

Elain watches with no small fascination as Lucien’s face flushes. He has always been put together around her, painstakingly so. To see him fluster for a response is…surprising. 

“I- I can’t leave,” he finally gets out, and Elain says nothing. “If anyone in the Night Court were to find me, Rhysand would be able to look into my mind and find you all, so I can’t-”

Elain can’t help herself. “What did you come here for?”

Lucien pauses. “I never want to cause you discomfort. For better or worse, this place is your home now, and you shouldn’t feel uncomfortable in your own home. I was hoping we could talk. Reach an understanding. I don’t...I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

Elain stares at Lucien as if he just told her he ripped out all of her flower beds. There's nothing but the sound of the fire crackling and Lucien's gold eye whirring between them.

It’s not fear coursing through her veins, but an alarmingly familiar anger. One that is shared through her family tree. 

Afraid? Of him? She would laugh in his face about it if he didn’t look so melancholic, if he wouldn’t leave and immediately tell Feyre about this.

Is that what he thinks? Elain can count the amount of interactions she has had with this male on one hand, and he decides that since Elain doesn't want to fall into his arms and have him whisk her away so they can play house for eternity, it must mean because she is afraid of him? That's all Elain can ever be- a scared little girl. She's either naively happy or afraid of her own shadow. Cauldron forbid she ever indulges in the anger that her sisters' have in spades. Mother save her if she's wary of being in the same room with the male that has the potential to know what she's feeling and cracking her open, the same way she can sometimes feel his emotions. 

She is afraid. All the time. But not because of him.

It takes all of her self control to bite off her words, one by one, and to keep herself at bay. “I am not afraid of you.”

Lucien huffs, but he sounds shaken. “You can barely stand to be in the same room as-”

Elain widely gestures with one hand the room around him. “I’m sorry, and what do you call this, exactly?”

Lucien snorts. “It does not take a mind reader to know that you’re uncomfortable.”

The room is covered in your blood, Elain wants to scream, your heart is ringing in my ears. I haven’t seen the sun in days and I can’t remember the last time I was warm. 

With all the propriety lessons she learned from her mother at the forefront of her mind, Elain gives a perfunctory smile. “It was not my intent to upset you, my lord, but I can assure you that I am quite well.”

Lucien stares, unamused. “Funny.”

“The truth often is.”

“And the truth-, ” Lucien leans forward, eyes scanning her from top to bottom, his analytical look leaving Elain feeling entirely exposed. She watches as his face flickers with something Elain can’t decipher, but she can tell that whatever it is he’s about to say, it isn’t his original intent. His voice drops to a soft whisper, “Is that you’re freezing.”

Elain shivers, and she can’t pretend that it’s solely due to the temperature of the room and the cold stone walls. “It’s chilly,” she explains.

Lucien arches an eyebrow. “Why don’t we move this conversation closer to the fire then?”

If Lucien thought she was afraid before, it’s nothing like the true fear that pulses through her now. She forces herself not to stammer. “I would hate to be an inconvenience. I’m fine where we are now.”

He waves off her words with a hand and falls into the game with Elain. “It would be no inconvenience, my lady. I cannot idly stand by while you suffer.”

Elain’s smile has become nothing more than her gritting her teeth. “Do not think much of my suffering, for there is none to be found.”

But Lucien stands and easily picks up his chair and brings it two feet from the hearth. He moves the table as well, and then he is standing in front of Elain, a hand offered to her.

You have blood on your tunic, she wants to say, because it’s the truth, even if he doesn’t know it. It’s splattered across the front of him, like someone took a paint brush and threw it at him.

Her heart is galloping in her chest and there’s a pounding in her head that’s separate from Lucien’s heartbeat. She lit the fire so she could see the cards, and for nothing else. She chose her corner because of its distance from the warmth, even if she craved being near it.

She can’t go near the fire. It’ll be a balm to her cold body, and she’ll relax in the firelight. She’ll instinctively curl closer to the flames and let the heat envelop her like a blanket. She’ll be comfortable.

And that is not something Elain can allow herself to be.

“Truly,” Elain begins, her voice trembling, “this is unnecessary.”

Lucien keeps his hand offered to her. “Your lips are turning blue,” he answers quietly.

Elain looks up and finds herself trapped in Lucien’s gaze. 

Tell me, his eyes seem to say. Talk to me, they beg.

You smell better than your jacket. 

Elain nearly has to bite her tongue to keep her first thought from jumping out of her head. 

Wouldn’t that be something to have to explain to Lucien? That his jacket- the one he placed around her when he picked her up off the freezing stone floor- currently sits in the bottom of her dresser in the single satchel Elain brought. That when preparing to flee the Night Court, when she could only pack the essentials, she couldn’t bear to leave his jacket- smelling of pine and smoke- behind. That when she allows herself a rare moment of peace and needs something to center her, she does so by bringing out the jacket, cradling it to her face, and taking deep breaths.

That she’s terrified for the day the jacket will lose his scent and she’ll lose one of the few things that ground her back to reality.

Lucien swallows; Elain carefully traces the journey of his Adam’s apple with her eyes. “What do you want, Elain?”

Her mind blanks at the question. Her mouth turns dry as she considers it, pushing down her reflexive answers.

She doesn’t want to be a bother. She doesn’t want to cause any trouble. She doesn’t want people to worry.

But that’s not what you want , a corner of her mind reminds her.

Elain tries again.

She thinks back to her childhood, of what the younger version of herself would say if she were to be asked that question.

I want my dad.

But she can’t even think the words now without a vice gripping her heart and her stomach dropping.

She thinks of her life before faeries had- once again- ruined everything.

I want to get married.

But the idea of someone looking at Elain and seeing her- the visions in her head, the blood on her hands, the brokenness within her- and wanting her, choosing her, is laughable at best.

Elain thinks harder, letting the past fly behind her and settles back into present time.

I want to go to bed. 

But Elain hasn’t had a restful night since stepping foot into Prythian. If she allows herself, it takes mere seconds for Elain to fall asleep and even less time for the dreams to arrive. Dreams of truth and lies, misgivings and warnings. Dreams of utter darkness with flashes of bright, white light. Dreams of hands pulling at Elain, begging her to help them.

Dreams of Feyre, fighting for her life. Dreams of Nesta’s silver sharp eyes, filled with tears.

Dreams of her mother, smoothing the hair out of her face with the palm of her hand.

Elain wants to sleep, she wants to be warm, she wants to talk to her sisters without it ending in an argument and hold onto them and never let go.

She wants. 

And what’s worse is that she wants to tell him. Telling him even the smallest of thoughts would be an insurmountable relief off of her shoulders. She knows that Lucien would stop at nothing to find answers for her, would bring every solution to her feet, would turn the Mountain inside out to make her comfortable, but Elain knows what the price of comfort would cost her. What would happen to her mind if she were to be at ease.

It's not a price Elain is willing to pay.

And Elain knows that when she talks to Lucien, she is not talking solely to him. She finds herself hating Lucien a little bit- just for the fact that it's so easy for him to talk to Feyre when Elain, her own sister, can't seem to manage small talk with her.

She debates with herself what would be worse- Lucien telling Feyre that Elain refused to move closer to the fireplace, or Lucien telling Feyre of how Elain collapsed with visions. 

There’s no choice at all. 

“I want-” She cuts herself off and swallows. Her throat is dry and her eyes are heavy. She looks down at her lap, her hands tightly holding her skirts. In a hoarse voice, so low that she knows Lucien can only hear it because of his proximity and his fae hearing, “Please leave this room, Lucien.”

His hand stays offered to her for a beat, and then it falls to his side. She doesn’t see him press his lips together, doesn’t see the concern on his face, doesn’t see the stiff nod he gives. She only sees his shoes shuffle and turn as he says in a voice as soft as hers, “As you wish,” before exiting the room, taking his heartbeat with him.

His absence stings, but Elain is used to denying herself. The pain fades fast, the coldness of the room numbing it effectively. 

Elain does not cry. She wants to, desperately so, but she takes advantage of her tears to distract her mind once again by closing her eyes and fighting against the waterworks. She never thought that she would wish for a day where she could indulge in the release of crying. 

The tears subside and Elain opens her eyes. Blinking against the firelight, Elain jolts as she sees that when Lucien left, he took the blood with him.

-------------------------------------------

It’s snowing outside.

Feyre stands outside of the Mountain, outside of the protective wards, staring above her in wonder. She relishes the feel of the cold settling around her shoulders, finding herself grateful to not be wearing her leathers for once .

She reaches up to catch a snowflake. It stands on her fingertip for half of a second before melting. 

The world around her is completely still. The forest, usually alive with noise no matter the time of day, is quiet in the darkness. Dark gray clouds completely cover the sky, blotting out the stars. 

It’s serene, it’s peaceful, it’s…confusing. Unsettling.

Feyre frowns.

It had only been just this morning when she was struggling to find a peace in meditation because the sweat clung too tightly to her skin for her to quiet her mind, and now snow is lightly falling around her.

The Archerons have been begging for a reprieve from the heat for the entire time they’ve been in the Middle, and while Feyre enjoys the cold on her skin, something twists in her stomach.

Something is wrong. 

Snowflakes shouldn’t be falling from above when yesterday the humidity was so intense that her leathers were sealed to her skin. Goosebumps shouldn’t be trailing up her arms when she spent the week taking double the amount of trips to the stream to keep everyone hydrated. 

Feyre’s mouth twists as she tries to think this through.

The Middle is different from the other courts of Prythian. It’s not a solar court, nor is it a seasonal court, and therefore, there is no set environment that it should look like. The sunrises are not overwhelmingly spectacular, the flowers are not in eternal bloom, and the scenery doesn’t look like it came out of a crystalline snow globe depicting a winter wonderland.

The last time Feyre had stayed in the Middle for an extended period of time, she didn’t see daylight for a month. She has no real idea how the environment is supposed to behave here, but there’s a wrongness that she can’t quite shake. 

For the time being, Feyre shoves her worries aside, adding it to the list of things she needs to ask Lucien about. She came out here to study the wards, not to comb through her memories on Tutor Winchell’s teachings on ecosystems.

Feyre’s initial creation of wards had been a disaster; it couldn’t even keep out a falling leaf. Lucien fixed them absentmindedly as he walked through them, as if he were brushing lint off of his shoulder or readjusting his boots. Feyre determinedly did not glare at him and expertly kept her mouth shut about it.

She should just wait until they have the time for him to teach her. It would be easier than Feyre trying to reverse engineer what she knows about breaking wards into how to make them- but there’s a not too small stubborn part of her that refuses to wait around for Lucien. She already has to depend on him to learn about controlling her fire. She should be able to do this on her own. She can do this on her own.

Feyre wakes up every day- now alone in a room a few steps away from Elain and Nesta- and repeats to herself the same sentences over and over as she gets dressed. 

She smooths out the lines of her tunic with her hands. I do not want to go back to the Night Court. I can do this on my own.

She pulls her hair back into a ponytail. I do not want to go back to the Night Court. I can do this on my own.

She ties the laces of her shoes. I do not want to go back to the Night Court. I can do this on my own. 

The mantra isn’t to convince herself. Feyre has said it in every way she can to Lucien and Nesta about her refusal to revert back to where she was not even a month ago, but every day Feyre wakes up alone and is staunchly reminded of how little she knows on her own.

She had no idea what the aghenfil was and how dangerous it could be until Lucien told her. She couldn’t keep Rhysand out of her head until Nesta showed her how. She needs Lucien to teach her to control her autumn flame, needs him to explain the catastrophe Feyre created in her departure, needs him to fix the wards that protect her family, and needs him now to explain the proper weather of the Middle.

Just like how she needed Rhysand to explain everything to her, and before him, Tamlin.

Feyre knows that Lucien is her friend and, despite the fact that they are all still on the chessboard, he will not play games with her. He’ll explain when she asks and will offer information anyways if she doesn’t, all without holding it over her head.

But in the Night Court, with the Inner Circle, Feyre didn't have to cling to each piece of information as if her family's life depended on it. If she didn't know something, it was fine, because someone- Rhysand- always did. Even after everything, a part of her wishes for that security. 

Yet-

I do not want to go back to the Night Court. I can do this on my own. 

Feyre can wish for the security all she wants, but she’ll make the security with her own hands. Her ignorance was what allowed her to be used and so Feyre will not let herself be ignorant again.

She’ll ask Lucien questions. But she won’t swap one constraining reliance for another. 

Feyre surveys the patterned strands of the wards with sharp eyes, determined to not think about how Rhysand only taught her to break wards, not to make them.

She can figure this out.

If she were to try breaking these wards, she’d start at the foundation of them and go from there. Protective wards are there to protect the land. Ergo, the stronger points of the wards are the ones closest to the ground. If she can crack through those, the rest of the wards will fall as well. She gently places her right hand on the ward, feeling the energy run through her fingertips and up her arm to her shoulder.

Where does the energy come from? Does the caster draw it from themself or from the land? Feyre, feeling only a little foolish, crouches down to press her fingertips against the earth. When she first attempted to create wards, Feyre only pulled from the magic and energy within her. Perhaps attempting to sense and pull magic from the land will-

She’s paying too close attention to the intricacy of the wards to notice she’s not alone.

Looking back, Feyre will call herself sloppy. She’ll overthink and turn over in her head about how she could’ve gotten so comfortable in the Middle, Under the Mountain, to let her guard down while outside the wards. 

Her only warning sign is the crack of a snapping branch.

Feyre whirls around to catch the sight of someone barreling towards her. She just barely has enough time to put her hands up defensively as the runner tackles her to the ground. 

Thank the Mother, Feyre dazedly thinks as her head smacks against the ground, her hands grappling at the shoulder of the unknown attacker, this isn’t Rhysand.

She grabs the shoulders of the attacker, swings a leg around their’s, and rolls. 

Feyre slams her knees onto the ground, trapping the attacker underneath her and she presses her forearm against their throat. She presses and presses until they have no choice but to look up at her.

It’s not Rhysand. It’s not Cassian, or Azriel, or even Mor. And that realization sweeps through Feyre so strongly it nearly knocks her clean off the attacker, but her confusion makes her double down on the struggling body beneath her.

She doesn’t recognize the male underneath her at all. The forest green eyes that glare up at her are completely unfamiliar and nearly glow with hatred in the moonlight. 

Feyre frowns. “Who-”

Her question is cut off by the world turning upside down around her as the male swings his hips upwards, flinging Feyre towards the ground. Feyre narrowly avoids smacking her head against a rock with a wheezing oof.

This was a great day to decide not to wear your leathers . When- if- when she survives this attack, Feyre knows she’s going to be finding bruises for days.

Before he can fully trap her down, Feyre shoves sideways, causing the two of them to roll for several turns, fighting for the upper hand. Her mind is too busy juggling the task at hand and thinking who her attacker could be- a Hybern soldier? A spy from Koschei?- to think about calling out to Lucien or her sisters for help. Lucien said that Rhysand only told a select few people- the Inner Circle and Helion, Feyre guesses- about her absence. Rhysand wouldn't try to send someone after her- would he?

With a passionate yell, the male uses his forearms to slam Feyre’s shoulders to the ground, his knees digging into her hips as he holds her down. Quick as a whip, he draws a knife, expertly wielding it against her throat.

Feyre stills, even as anger flares within her so strongly that for a moment, she can’t see straight.

This can’t be the way I die, she seethes. She cannot have survived all that she has faced to die alone at the hands of an unknown assailant.

She refuses for that to be her fate.

“Who,” Feyre pants, desperate to distract the male before he decides to end the fight with one smooth slash, “who are you?”

For a breadth of a second, the pressure of the knife slackens before pressing further against her throat. Feyre racks her mind and comes up with nothing about who this male could be- this male who is so eager to kill her and is shocked that she doesn’t recognize him.

“ You, ” the male snarls, his green eyes warped with so much hate and rage that Feyre is more unsettled by his intense gaze than she is by the knife kissing her throat. Her pulse is thundering underneath his skin. “You killed my sister.”