Archive of Our Own

And across the room,  Azriel knelt chained to the floor. Broken. The sight of him hurt worse than her own injuries. Blood soaked through the dark fabric over his ribs. One wing bent wrong behind him, shadows flickering weakly around his body like dying embers. Yet every few minutes, despite the pain clearly tearing through him, Azriel still lifted his head to check if she was breathing. Always watching her. Always in protector mode, even when he could barely move. 

Another door slammed upstairs. Footsteps echoed downward. Feyre stiffened instinctively and Azriel reacted immediately.

“No.” The word scraped from his throat rough and weak. The male entering the cellar smiled, cuel and pleased.

“Well,” he drawled, “looks like our High Lady is awake again.” His voice was mocking on her title. Feyre’s stomach turned.

Azriel strained violently against his chains. “Don’t touch her.” The male ignored him. He crossed the room slowly, boots echoing through the cellar while Feyre fought to keep her breathing steady.

Do not let them see fear. But fear already filled the room. Not hers. Azriel’s. His shadows swarmed frantically around the chains biting into his wrists, every instinct inside him screaming to protect her while his broken body failed him. The male grabbed Feyre’s chin hard enough to bruise.

“She’s prettier when she bleeds.” Azriel made a sound Feyre had never heard before. Pure hatred, an animalistic cry.

"Please.” The word shocked the room silent. Feyre had never heard her shadowsinger beg.  Azriel’s head bowed briefly, breathing rough and wet with pain. Then he looked up again. “Not my High Lady.” Every syllable trembled. “Please,” he rasped again, struggling for breath. “Me instead.”

 Feyre’s chest cracked open. Because he meant it. Cauldron, he meant it. She knew, on some instinctive level, that Azriel was devoted to her. Because of her position at court, because of his relationship with Rhysand. Because of their own friendship, she hoped. But she never realized the depth of his devotion. his willingness to sacrifice everything he had for Feyre.

The male laughed. “You’d take her punishment?”

“Yes.” Azriel's answer was immediate. Desperate. Azriel tried pulling himself forward despite the chains. His injured wing dragged uselessly behind him, blood smearing across the stone floor as he moved inch by agonizing inch toward her. Toward Feyre. Determined to protect, even now.

“A-Azriel,” Feyre whispered. "Stop. You can stop."  He ignored the pain shredding through him. Ignored the blood. Ignored the fact that he could barely breathe.

“Take it out on me,” he begged hoarsely. “Leave her alone.” The male backhanded Feyre across the face hard enough her vision flashed white. Azriel screamed. Not shouted. Screamed. Shadows exploded violently through the cellar, smashing furniture against walls hard enough to splinter wood. The captor stumbled backward. Feyre’s heart shattered at the look on Azriel’s face. He looked like the world was ending.

“Stop looking,” Feyre whispered shakily, blood dripping from her mouth. “Azriel, please.” Her voice cracked. "You have gone beyond the call of duty. I release you from your oath to protect. Please, Az, don't watch this."  His chest heaved unevenly. She knew why he was watching, why he would not look away.  Because he needed to know she was alive. Needed to count every breath; needed to know he did absolutely everything in his power to return her to her rightful place. 

But Feyre couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the agony tearing him apart every time she was hurt. “I don’t want you to see this.”

Azriel’s eyes filled instantly. “I can’t stop.” The honesty in it wrecked her. Because he truly couldn’t. Every instinct inside him demanded he watch her, protect her, even if it killed him. The captor turned back toward Azriel slowly.

“You know,” he mused, “watching you break has become far more entertaining than hurting her.”

Azriel stared at him with enough hatred to rot kingdoms. “Rhysand will kill you for even thinking about her. I hate to think about what he will do for you touching his mate.”

The male smiled wider. “Only if he finds you.”

Rhys did find them. Three days later. Three days of screaming. Three days of beatings. Three days of Azriel trying to drag himself between Feyre and every blow despite barely remaining conscious himself. Feyre had stopped being able to tell where all the blood came from. Some was hers. Some Azriel’s. Most both, mixing as it pooled in the crevices of the stone floor. 

Then suddenly-  The manor shook. Power cracked through the walls hard enough to split stone. Everyone in the cellar froze. Feyre’s breath caught. Rhys. She felt him before she heard him. Pure fury thundered down the mating bond so violently it nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. "It's Rhys, Azriel," Feyre's voice conveyed hope for the first time in days. "Just hold on, he came for us." 

The front doors upstairs exploded inward. Screams followed. Then silence. Heavy footsteps descended slowly into the cellar. And Rhys appeared.

For one horrible heartbeat, nobody moved. Rhys stared at Feyre. Then Azriel. And the entire world seemed to stop breathing. Feyre had never seen such devastation on his face, not even Under the Mountain. Not even after Hybern. Because she was chained. Bruised. Bleeding. And Azriel... Cauldron,  Azriel looked barely alive.

Rhys inhaled once. Sharp. Like the sight physically injured him. “Feyre.” Her name broke apart in his mouth. The captor stepped quickly between them.

“Well,” he said nervously, “the High Lord arrives.” Rhys never looked away from Feyre.

“Who did this to her?” Quiet. Deadly quiet. The male swallowed.

“You misunderstand your position here.” Rhys took one step forward. The room darkened. Literally darkened. night swallowing the cellar walls.

“Who,” Rhys repeated softly, “laid hands on my mate?” Feyre had seen Rhys furious before. But this... this was something ancient. Something catastrophic. The male grabbed Feyre violently by the hair. Rhys stopped instantly. Every muscle locked. Fear flashed through the bond so sharply Feyre nearly gasped. Not fear for himself. For her. 

“Careful,” the captor warned. “Or she dies.” Rhys looked moments from ripping apart reality itself. Instead, he slowly raised both hands.

“What do you want?” Feyre stared at him. No. No, he couldn’t-  “I will give you anything,” Rhys said hoarsely. The room went silent. “Name it.”

“Rhys,” Feyre whispered. He looked at her finally. And Feyre nearly broke apart. Because his eyes— His eyes looked ruined. He took another slow breath.

“I will give you every treasure in Velaris.” The captor laughed nervously. Rhys continued anyway. “My armies. My throne. Every court alliance.” His voice cracked slightly. “Anything.” Feyre’s vision blurred because he meant it. Every word. “I just want her alive.”

The captor looked tempted. Then greedy. “Not enough.” Rhys’s composure shattered. Dark power slammed through the cellar hard enough to crack chains from walls. “You are in no position to negotiate.” The captor yanked Feyre harder.

Azriel snarled weakly from the floor. “Rhys.” One word, a warning. The blade at Feyre’s throat pressed closer. Rhys went deathly still. Feyre felt the terror beneath his calm. Felt him trying to think through panic.

 "I’ll do anything,” he whispered. The High Lord of the Night Court. Begging.

The captor smiled cruelly. Then nodded toward his soldiers. “Throw him out.” Rhys fought like a male possessed. Shadows and night tore through the cellar. Soldiers screamed. Stone exploded apart. But there were too many. Too many wards. Too many chains binding his magic. And Feyre watched in horror as they dragged Rhys bodily from the cellar while he clawed toward her.

“FEYRE!” The scream echoed through the manor. Raw enough to split souls. Feyre broke then. Actually broke. Because Rhys sounded terrified. And as the cellar doors slammed shut again, silence crashed over the room. Azriel dragged himself inch by inch across the floor toward her afterward. Breathing wetly. Bleeding badly. But still coming, always coming to protect her. Until finally he reached her chains and slumped against her legs exhausted. Feyre lowered trembling fingers into his hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly. Azriel looked up at her through swollen eyes.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Then he rested his forehead weakly against her knee. And together they waited in darkness.

The rescue came at dawn four days later. Not quietly. No, rhys would never be quiet about his mate. The manor exploded. Literally exploded. Stone rained from the ceiling as screaming erupted upstairs. Azriel shuffled and attempted to throw his body over Feyre's, using himself as a shield from the falling debris.  Cassian’s roar shook the entire building. Nesta’s silver fire ripped through the halls like death itself.

And Rhys...  Rhys was a storm. Pure annihilation.\The cellar doors blasted inward. Cassian appeared first, covered in blood. Then froze. Because Feyre and Azriel... Cauldron. The room fell horrifyingly silent. Feyre saw the exact moment Cassian understood how bad it was.

“Nesta,” he whispered hoarsely behind him. Nesta stepped into the doorway. One look at Feyre’s bruises, at Azriel collapsed against her legs, and silver flame exploded violently around her.

“No.” The word shook. Rhys appeared behind them. Then stopped breathing entirely. Feyre felt it through the bond, that awful stillness, the impossible grief. Rhys crossed the room so fast she barely saw him move.

 Then suddenly he was there. Hands trembling violently against her face. “Feyre.” She’d never heard him sound so broken.

“I’m here,” she whispered weakly. Rhys actually choked on a breath. His forehead dropped hard against hers while his hands shook harder.

“I couldn’t get to you.” The guilt nearly crushed the room. Feyre touched his face carefully despite the chains.

“You came back.” Rhys closed his eyes. Like the words physically hurt. Cassian was already breaking Azriel’s chains apart. Azriel sagged immediately, barely conscious. But the second Cassian touched him, Azriel tried speaking.

“Gwyn.”

Cassian’s face crumpled instantly. “She’s safe.” Azriel exhaled shakily. Thank the gods. Then finally passed out.

Madja worked for hours after they returned to Velaris. Feyre drifted in and out of consciousness while Rhys sat beside the bed refusing to let go of her hand. Every time she woke, he was still there. Watching counting breaths like he no longer trusted the world to keep her safe. Across the hall, Gwyn refused to leave Azriel’s side. Feyre saw her only once through the cracked doorway. Azriel lay pale beneath blankets while Gwyn curled carefully against his chest, crying silently into his neck as his shadows wrapped around her weakly. Alive. They were alive.

Later, deep into the night, Feyre woke to find Rhys sitting beside her bed in darkness. His head bowed over their joined hands. Praying. Feyre’s chest ached.

“Rhys.” He looked up instantly. And Feyre realized with sudden heartbreak that he looked afraid to touch her too hard. As though she might break. “I’m okay,” she whispered.

Rhys laughed once. Shaky. Wrecked. “You were chained in a cellar for a week.” Feyre’s eyes burned. Rhys leaned forward carefully, pressing his forehead against hers.

“I heard you scream when they took me away.” The confession cracked apart softly between them. Feyre closed her eyes. Because she remembered. Remembered him fighting. Remembered the terror in his voice. Rhys’s fingers trembled against her cheek.

“I thought I lost you.” Feyre pulled him closer immediately. And Rhys finally broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silently trembling against her while she held him in the darkness, both of them alive enough to mourn what almost happened.