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In the streets of Velaris, it poured. Fall had come in full force and brought a downpour with it to take the last golden leaves from the trees. Rain cascaded down, landing on the cobblestones with a bright plunk and turning gray to slippery silver. An occasional flash of lightning shot across the sky, illuminating the mountains in the far distance and lighting up the churning Sidra.
But the storm held no sway in Rhys' and Feyre’s bedroom. It was only background noise in the song of their love, a song that played out as they burned for each other despite the late hour.
Feyre had been teasing Rhys all day with promises of lacy underthings and the filthy, filthy things she wanted him to do to her. The way she had perched on his lap when she had come by his study, the movement of her lips over a spoon at dinner, and the images sent down the bond had been the sweetest torture.
Now, they were alone together in the haven of their bed, the room dark. Some of the tension and anticipation had worn down, giving way to something sweeter, and the black lace set she had tormented him with was long discarded on the floor.
Rhys reclined back on the bed, half sitting up as Feyre wrapped her legs around his lower back, driving herself deeper in him. The angle pushed so that she was above him, giving him an exquisite view of her body, her breasts, her face. He reached for her and pressed sloppy kisses up and down down down her neck. In the junction between her collarbone and neck, he sucked on one spot hard enough to leave a mark. The satisfaction was strong. His mate, marked by him.
He could feel the rapid beat of her pulse in her neck as she tilted her head toward the ceiling, eyes shut in ecstasy. Every fiber of Rhys yearned to savor the feeling of being here with his mate, inside of her.
Feyre rode him with abandon, head lolling to one side as she leaned over him, moving along to a faster and faster rhythm.
Still worshipping her neck, Rhys let one hand trail down to Feyre’s breasts, idly squeezing and toying with a nipple. The pressure he applied was just the right amount, and it earned a high squeak from Feyre.
“Fuck, you’re so good,” he murmured into the smooth skin of her neck, breathing the lotion she had applied earlier. It smelled of cedar and sage and home.
A low moan that set fire to his blood served as the only reply. She took her hand from where it had been clenched tight in his hair, gently tugging, and drifted down to his back. It came to rest in the space just between his wings, her warm palm sliding up and down as she moved.
Under her, Rhys shifted ever so slightly, seating himself deeper inside.
Feyre gasped at the sensation, digging her nails into the soft skin of his back, dragging down as she moved in him. The motion was light, just enough to make her presence known and leave a mark. She was claiming him in the same way he had claimed her moments earlier – albeit his back would be less visible than her neck.
But she did it again, lightly dragging her nails across his skin, and something in Rhys broke loose.
Not in the way he had expected, ready for the world to fall away as he loosened the grip on his power and the world narrowed down to only them.
But in a way that sent his gut lurching, the breath stolen from his lungs as he had the vague sense of falling.
Falling – or being pushed?
It was too much.
Rhys struggled to breathe as he was pulled far, far away from the safety of his bedroom, to another place.
The dark room Under the Mountain had been carved from stone by ancient hands. Amarantha’s voice echoed off those same walls as she rode him, carrying down to his soul.
He was pinned beneath her, hands bound far above his head. They were locked in the chains tight enough that they would be much too raw and red by the time she saw fit to remove them.
She had not a care in the world for his discomfort as she groaned. Her unbound scarlet hair flowed down her chest, half-covering her breasts as the ends grazed the planes of Rhys’s bare stomach.
Her nails were bright red, filed into sharp points. There were knives that were duller. Using all of her immortal strength, she braced herself on his chest, digging the nails in deep, deep, until he couldn’t differentiate between the dark red of his blood and her nails.
He focused on the wall over her shoulder, blank and unfeeling. But as he stared at the unadorned stone, he could have sworn it pulsed with light, thumping like someone was pounding down the other side, trying to break wards and get in.
Were there words being called? A name, he couldn’t make it out.
Either way, it hardly mattered. If Amarantha caught wind of it, whoever it was would be dead.
Still astride him, the queen giggled, the childish sound that was twisted from her lips. But it drew his attention back to her. In her control, he was only a slave to her whims.
“Does the pain feel good?” she asked, dragging one hand down his chest and breaking more skin.
Rhys managed a vague moan. If he tried to speak right now, he thought he would throw up. Or maybe tell her just how much he loathed her and ruin everything he had worked for.
“Scream my name,” she said, and her bloodred smile was all fangs. “I want the whole mountain to hear my whore.”
He was choking, choking on his words as he tried to find a way out of his head and this bedroom hewn from stone –
"Rhys.” The voice was like a shooting star, much clearer this time. It was a red-hot blade that cleaved through the dense fog he had trapped himself in.
“Rhysand,” called the familiar voice once more. It boomed over everything else, blocking out the Deceiver's mocking tones. “Come back to me, Rhys. Whatever you’re seeing isn’t real.”
It wasn’t real. Wasn’t real, wasn’t real, wasn’t real. Because he had gotten out, and the voice calling to him was one he loved. He had gotten out, and he had a life –
He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for an end as he clung onto the rope of that voice. The cadence of it was steady, louder than Amarantha’s taunts, even if he couldn’t make out the words.
At last, he opened his eyes, and was surrounded by luminous starlight.
Blue-gray eyes stared back at him, leaning gently over his reclining body. Assessing, concern bright in their depths.
“Rhys, love,” she said again, her tone gentle but firm.
Feyre.
FeyreFeyreFeyre.
It wasn’t real, just a flashback, and it was Feyre. He wasn’t Under the Mountain, he was free.
He pushed himself up, off the pillows and sheets he had collapsed into. Gleaming talons had taken the place of hands, and he unwittingly tore through the bedding as he sat up, movements sloppy.
Feyre leaned away as he sat up to give him the space he needed. All trace of arousal from either of them was gone, though her hair was still tousled and they were both naked.
The starry darkness that had wrapped around him like a blanket lightened slightly, enough for Rhys to make out his surroundings as his mind struggled to properly process it all.
He was in a canopy bed, in the townhouse. The sounds of the rain filtered in from outside, pouring down from the gutters that collected it on the roof. Like the rain, details slowly trickled down into his mind, though the roaring in his ears remained constant.
Before he could predict it, the wretched twisting of his stomach began. Rhys launched himself out of the bed, towards the bathroom.
He emptied his guts into the toilet, clutching the cool ivory sides with taloned fingers. He retched until he had nothing left to give, then dry heaved as his empty lungs gasped for air, skin crawling with the ghost of her touch.
At some point Feyre came into the bathroom to bear witness to his misery, her feet purposely loud as they slapped against the tile. She crouched down next to him, rubbing soothing circles on his back, as he had once done for her. But he couldn’t bear to turn and meet her eyes.
He still ached. Cauldron, he ached. Throwing up had left him empty, and the pain, the shame, the memories filled him up instead. Most of the time, he was able to pretend that he was alright, that his world orbited the same way it always had. But the memories threw his life off its axis, leaving him smashed to bits and free-falling through space. It felt so pitiful, so fucking weak, that it drove him to lean back over the toilet, dry heaving into the bowl.
“ Focus,” Feyre breathed down their bond, knowing that he was too lost for speaking out loud to have any effect. “ I am here, and this is real.” Her voice was a beacon he followed with all of the strength he had left. “ Take some deep breaths for me, okay?”
He realized he was crying, the night air cool on the sticky tracks tracing down his cheeks. He let Feyre coach him until his breaths evened out just enough.
“ Look around you. This is real, Rhysand. You are strong, and you got out. What are some things you can hear?”
The roaring in his ears subsided as he followed his mate’s voice. He could hear the rain tapping insistently on the glass of their bedroom windows. He could hear his heart, louder than a drum as it pounded inside his chest. When he concentrated, he could hear Feyre’s too; a slower, steadier rhythm.
“ And feel?”
He felt the smooth porcelain under his taloned fingers. Those talons, which were a physical representation of the ruined creature he knew himself to be.
“Rhys,” Feyre said again, sensing that his mind was wandering just by watching the way his gaze snagged on his hands. She hadn’t tried to enter through his shields, only speaking down the bridge between them.
He felt the gentle weight of her hands tracing up and down his back. Her touch was tender in a way that remained unmatched by any other.
“ What do you see?” she asked.
The toilet bowl yawned before him, as did his hands, but if he looked up, there was the high ceiling of their bathroom. Little designs had been painted on the walls, old and familiar. Done long before an artist had moved in.
Finally ready, Rhys picked himself up off the ground, painfully aware of the talons at his feet that clicked on the floor as he dragged himself back into the bedroom.
Mother, he was a wreck.
His heart was still beating much too fast, and his eyes felt like they were too wide as his chest heaved for more, more, more air.
Rhys prepared to sit back down on the lavish bed. It had been crafted for luxury, meant to be a haven for him and his mate. But at the sight of it, past and present snarled together in a tight knot, and his stomach began churning again. He settled for sinking down by foot of the bed, knees cutting into the cool maple floorboards.
His mind was still half gone in the memories, reminders of the long nights after his return from the Mountain. Sleeping in a cold bed and drowning in the sheets had proven to be too much for him. He had settled for the floor instead.
No hint of judgment in her gaze, Feyre surveyed him and walked past. At some point, she had pulled on a pale blue robe to cover herself. For a heartbreaking moment, he thought she meant to go back to bed, but no. She pulled two fluffy white pillows from the bed and came to crouch beside him, silently placing a pillow down where he could rest.
Rhys let himself fall back, free of the bite of the floor as he leaned back to rest his head against the bed’s footboard. His wings sprawled out limply on either side of him. He examined his wrists. They were still coated in scales leant to him by his beast side, but completely unmarked. No sign of chafing or raw skin from chains.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Feyre asked, her voice a bit raspy, as though she had been yelling. How long had he been trapped in his memories before her voice had led him out? She watched him carefully, sitting close but not touching. Letting him make the choice.
He took a deep breath, loosening the tether that he kept on his power just enough so that waves of pure night radiated off of him. They mingled with the starry skies Feyre had cast before, connecting them in that way, even as he still struggled for words.
His power – it was so peculiar. It was the thing that had defined him through much of his immortal life. Marked him for assassinations and seductions. Something to fear, to be weaponized. It set him apart from the other High Lords, both in type and measure.
And yet, under her thumb, he had still been powerless. Even the extra magic he had been afforded was nothing when Amarantha’s voice was at his ear.
Rhys swallowed. Did he want to talk about it?
When he had first met Feyre, he hadn’t realized how unfamiliar he was with actually talking about his problems. He was always wearing a mask. In court, yes, but also in Velaris. Around his friends. The one that said, “I promise I’m not broken.” His visits to the library had helped, they were the reason he had gone back to sleeping in a bed. But the mask had always gone back up when he left, snapping to his face as if Amarantha had cursed it there.
Maybe she had. Except his mask hadn’t fallen away when she lay slain.
Regardless, the trauma had rarely been talked about before he had mated.
He was a warrior, and he was strong. Bad things weren’t meant to happen when you had a blade and a suit of armor to protect you. Nobody ever talked about how a sword could be knocked from your hand, and armor stripped away.
The mental shields protecting his mind still towered high, and though little pricks of guilt wore at him, he didn’t think he could let his mate in. Communicating down the bond was all he was capable of.
“ I’m sorry,” he began, but Feyre was already shaking her head. She gave him too much grace.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, mate.”
“How much did you see?”
“Not much. Your shields were so thick that it took me a while to reach you. But I saw what she did with her nails. Rhys, I’m the one who is sorry.”
“I hate this,” Rhys breathed out loud. “I hate that she still has control over me. I hate that she’s poisoning the time I spend with you.”
It made him sick to his stomach all over again to think that some unconscious part of his psyche drew comparisons between Amarantha and his mate. Feyre was nothing like her, bright and good and kind –
“Hey –“ Feyre said softly, cutting off the tirade in his head. Had he accidentally pushed his thoughts onto her through the bond?
“Don’t. It’s okay, Rhys. It’s okay to let yourself feel these things. Triggers are hard to predict. And what Amarantha did to you is not your fault.” The intensity of her words was hot enough to burn.
He shook his head. “Still. It shouldn’t have interrupted our time together. Not when you’ve touched me like that dozens of times before without a problem.”
She furrowed her brow. “I think pain doesn’t need a reason. What you went through…trauma like that can’t be expected to disappear overnight. You shouldn’t think any less of yourself because it hasn’t.”
Indeed, this wasn’t the first time that his scars had been made visible to her, though the way it had come about tonight was new. But he had told her snippets, particular deeds Amarantha had ordered him to carry out, or some of the milder details of his time trapped in her bedroom.
“I’m scared,” he admitted. “I’m so scared of telling you it all.”
Though she tried to stifle it, he could sense the confusion and slight hurt radiating off of her – she didn’t realize what he was afraid of. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she would listen. He knew from the day that they had mated in the mountain cabin that she would not balk from his unsavory history or love him any less. Even if he found it difficult to believe.
“I’m afraid of tangling the past and present together. It’s happened already –“ he gestured a taloned hand to the bed. “I don’t want to ruin our time together by dredging up her.”
Feyre didn’t say anything for a moment, sorrow gleaming in her eyes. “Every detail I told you about my memories and dreams of Amarantha, you listened to. You know it’s your choice to talk about it, but I will be here to listen. If we need to take a step back from the physical side of things for a while, that’s okay. We have eternity, Rhys. Or we could try and work to reclaim some of the bad memories if you’re comfortable. But whatever you want to share, I can handle it. There is nothing you have to hide, nothing that could make me ashamed.”
There was such conviction in her words that Rhys knew she believed them to be true.
A few heartbeats passed – slightly slower now, but still too fast – before Feyre reached out, her hands a breath away from his shoulders.
“ Is this alright?”
“ Yes,” he breathed, relieved to be able to feel her comforting warmth. His mate’s touch was welcome. Even if it had been the trigger for this whole mess.
She scooted closer so that she fitted alongside Rhys on the floor, hands rubbing into his shoulders to ground him and dissolve the tension that was bunched there. Her touch remained light, and even as she dipped to his upper back, she was careful to stay away from the place she had touched earlier, between his wings.
He felt so stupid. Amarantha hadn’t even scratched him there. The feelings he received from Feyre’s loving touch and Amarantha’s cruel one were so different that he didn’t understand how his body had made the connection.
Rhysand drew up his courage.
“After the mountain,” he whispered into the darkness, “I think I faced some of it. What I could. In those first months, I focused on the court, and I pushed through. I spent so much time in the library. But I think if I had thought of it all and tried to deal with it then, I would have fallen too far into my pain.”
Beside him, Feyre shuddered, sorrow coming off of her in waves. There had been so much hurt, so many wrongs committed upon her mate. The deep scars left behind proved that.
There were so many of them. The fear that in fifty years of wearing a mask, he had forgotten his true face. The memories of the atrocities he had committed. The things Amarantha had done to him.
It was the latter that he had avoided the most. It had been easier to come to terms with the things that he was, in some way, responsible for. That was what kept some measure of control.
“When I dream of her or see her, I’m always powerless. When I murdered or threatened in her name, I could at least pretend that I had some measure of control. I chose the words I would say or the way I approached someone. If I killed, I could pick the method or take away the pain. But it’s the times I couldn’t change a thing that come back to me. Those are the worst. Anytime I’m back there, I’m pinned beneath her again, or one of my brothers is, or she’s – she’s hurting you. And all I can do is watch.”
Rhys’s mind went to the murder of the children from the Winter Court. He hadn’t given the order, but he had been unable to stop it. Powerless when it mattered.
What good was power if you couldn’t use it to protect?
His skin started to crawl, and he lurched over to the side, half-convinced he was going to throw up again as shivers wracked his body.
Feyre let him; her hands steady on his shoulders. He took another breath to inhale her scent. Strong. Real.
“ I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re here with me, and you’re safe. You are in control.”
Outside, the rain still poured, coming down in torrents. The pounding rhythm of the water was steady, solidifying his place in this reality.
He would never be powerless again, he had vowed.
When nausea had subsided without him throwing up, he pushed himself back upright and let the silence engulf them as he reckoned with the wound that festered inside him.
It was so much easier to shove things aside. It was one thing to comfort others – that came easily. He felt his mate’s torment almost as acutely as he felt his own, but he always yearned to comfort her when the nightmares came.
But his trauma had never manifested like this, so wholly interrupting an intimate and treasured part of his life.
Feyre was the one who was always working to make sure he felt as safe as possible with her. They had discussed setting boundaries he was comfortable with, but he had told her that for the most part, he didn’t feel the need for them. Being with his mate was a wholly different experience, and one he had hoped to keep mostly separate from the dark stains on his past.
And yet they insisted on bleeding through to every bright part of his life.
But still, he knew that parts of him had healed. In recent years, things had gotten better, the flashbacks subsiding. He no longer saw her ghost standing over him when he awoke, and the scent of vanilla was no longer as sickening.
He had never exactly told Feyre – though he suspected she knew anyway – but there had been times in the past where his mate would unknowingly do something that reminded him of another place and time. Always something small, like the tone of her voice or the way her teeth grazed over him. But in the past, he had always been able to wash the old pain away and let Feyre reclaim the memory as love burned bright in her eyes.
That was why it hadn’t felt necessary to set many specific boundaries with her. Being so intimate and close with someone was its own kind of healing, a balm to his shredded soul. While he knew that there was no way for someone else to heal him entirely, she made him feel safer than he had in a very long time.
In the end, the only boundaries he had specified were the ones that he felt were absolutely necessary. There were other things that they had agreed to talk about more or take slowly. But he had decided that there could be no bondage on his part. And he swore that he would never, ever, bring a knife into their bed. No matter what fantasies it might play into.
“Hold me?” he finally asked, and the request came out so quiet and broken that Feyre’s heart cracked a little more. She wordlessly moved closer to him so that their sides were touching, warmth radiating off of her. Membranous bat wings sprang from her back to loosely wrap around him and provide a safe place from the outside world.
If only the demons didn’t have to be fought inside Rhys’s mind.
Feyre looped one arm around his waist, pulling him in close, and placed the other softly on his chest. A subtle way for his mate to ground both of them, hear the pulse of his heartbeat and let him focus on his breathing before he said anything more. Rhys let out a deep breath.
“Under the Mountain…time became meaningless. Ten years in, the chances of Tamlin breaking the curse were already looking bleak. The deadline loomed, yes, and we dreaded it, but in a strangely monotonous way. The kind of dread you get from living in fear for fifty years. Days of her tortures bled into each other for me. There was warming her bed, yes, but the other things she did and forced me to do. I think I lost touch with the world. Velaris seemed like a foolish daydream; it was only remembering the faces of my friends and the vows that I had made as High Lord that kept me sane. Later, it was the dreams from you.”
He would never forget the snippets of someone else’s life he had glimpsed. It had been a small gift to know that there was a girl out there who was tired and hungry and angry but still found hope. Still found beauty and moments of contentment in paint on a table.
Those dreams and memories had warmed him on the most hopeless nights. But dreams and memories couldn’t stop the hurt while it happened, only provide something to soothe it.
He gestured to his knees, where the permanent reminder of his vows was inked in the mountains and stars. He had gotten them done shortly after becoming High Lord, during a time where he was a little more arrogant, a little more hopeful. But every bit as proud.
“I had these tattoos done to remind me. A physical mark of the promise I made to myself, to only bow for my crown. At the time, I believed that it was the way I would keep the Night Court safe through whatever happened. By remaining unyielding.
His voice cracked, unable to hide the tidal wave of grief that rose. “Amarantha made me break that promise nearly every day.”
A fresh wave of tears fought their way out, and Rhys let them fall, letting out the loud cry that rang deep from his chest, echoing throughout the room.
At last, he let himself feel that agony.
At his side, Feyre made a strangled sound. He knew that if he found the courage to look up at her, he would see the tears sliding down her face as well. The hand that was on his chest slid down to find his hand – if you could call it that; it still ended in sharp talons. Still, she threaded her fingers – tiny in comparison - through his, giving a light squeeze.
Throughout it all, Rhys could feel Feyre hovering near the walls of his mind, constantly making sure that everything she was doing was okay.
The tenderness of it made him crack a little more, in a different way. The idea that he had been blessed with a mate who didn’t think of him as broken or damaged.
When he found the strength, he continued.
“I told myself that it wasn’t surrendering. By bowing to her will, letting her control my body, I knew I was keeping my vow to protect my Court. Velaris remained safe, and even the courtiers from Hewn City were shielded from most of her wrath. But all the same, I was so powerless. In her bedroom, Amarantha could do whatever she pleased with me.”
He studied his taloned hands once more.
“If she was here right now, she could push these back into my skin as she pleased. I was so powerless,” he repeated.
Feyre gave his hand another squeeze.
“Some nights, it was just as simple as fucking her until she fell asleep. Those times were the easiest, when she just wanted me to be the wicked seductor who loved the same games she did. It was easier then, to keep my mask on and pretend I enjoyed it too.”
He swallowed, bracing for the undeniable truth that he was about to voice. At last, he lowered his towering mental shields, well over five centuries of adamantine and steel coming down. Feyre slipped inside them, wordlessly waiting.
“ Cauldron, Feyre – I tried so hard. But there were times when I couldn’t do it. My mask wasn’t strong enough, and I failed. I think she saw the truth, or part of it. She knew I didn’t delight in her as I claimed to, though she didn’t know just how deep my hatred ran. And yet...she kept me around all the same. If your dog is vicious but muzzled so that he won’t bite, you can keep him around without fear. She knew her whore wouldn’t raise a finger against her.”
He paused, talons scraping on the floors as he fisted and stretched out his hands. No pockets to hide them in this time.
“ I was weak, and I failed. I let her do those things to me, and even that I couldn’t get right.”
He generally avoided thinking those things, knowing it was the quickest way to spiral into despair. But he knew that it was true, all laid out like this. His pain, his guilt, his shame. The vulnerability chafed at him, even if his mate was the only one here. Even if he was the one who wanted her to know, she had every right to be ashamed of him.
He could feel that Feyre had something to say, though she hadn’t made a sound.
“What is it?” he asked out loud. His voice came out tangled up and all wrong, scratchy. Completely at odds with the velvety purr he usually spoke in.
“Rhysand,” she said, gently untangling their hands so that she could reach out and touch his cheek, guiding him to turn his head until he made eye contact. “You know that there is nothing that you have done, nothing in this world that would stop me from loving you. There is no shame in what happened, and you are not weak or a bad person for surviving. That’s what you are – a survivor. And I could never be ashamed of that. You shouldn’t have to feel ashamed of that. And the things that happened to you, that she forced you to do – they are not your fault.”
He nodded, trying to accept what she said as truth. There were no words – not to explain how he felt, express the maelstrom raging in his chest.
Again, they sat in silence until he was ready to continue. Feyre’s wings still cocooned around them, and he studied the veins and muscle in them. Like his, and yet unlike them. Hers hadn’t yet gone through centuries of battlefields and assassination attempts. Unscarred so far.
“I know you’re hurting, Rhys. Let me share the burden. I see all of you, and I am not afraid.”
Rhys nodded again; all he was capable of.
He was so tired.
So tired of fighting, of hiding the pain.
He pulled away from Feyre’s hand on his cheek, and she let it fall. In its place, he took her hand once more, fighting against the urge to squeeze it tight. He didn’t yet possess the control over his power to shift it back from the skin of a monster.
Sobs racked his body, shaking his toes, his ribs, his arms, and chest. Feyre was offering to take the pain, and for once, he wanted to give. He couldn’t hide it, not in the arms of the one person who made him feel truly safe.
And because she already knew the pain he was in, because she was willing to listen, he offered up another broken shard of himself.
“She…she would chain me up. Leave me there for hours, sometimes, long after she had her way with me. Either pinned to the bed or strung up on the wall. Some of them had faebane in the metal, it would make – make me even weaker. Even if I had tried, I know there was no way I could have overpowered her. I could never get free of the chains.”
He had been so weak, so helpless. He had let Amarantha destroy him bit by bit, and he hadn’t been strong enough to shield everyone else from her atrocities. Not even Feyre had been safe.
He blinked, and in the seconds of darkness behind his eyes, he saw the ghosts of years long gone. The Winter Court children. Innocent servants she had carved up. Lesser fae trapped in the catacombs, resorting to unspeakable acts.
And yet he knew that if he hadn’t done it, hadn’t whored himself out as a traitor, it would have been a thousand times worse for his people. But he couldn’t stop the shame from rising again, twisting his gut back into tight knots.
Would his mother have wept in shame to know what he had done? Would his proud and arrogant father have disowned him when he found out? His father, who would never have been caught in bed with the enemy?
And what of his sister, whose violet eyes were reflected in him? Would the stories he stirred up inevitably have come to chase her if she still lived?
The Royal Family of Night had borne a bad reputation for centuries. They had made it their own, claimed every trace of the rumors that swirled like shadows. But this had been different. He no longer controlled the rumors. But for the first time, nearly all of them were true. Everyone had seen him stand by Amarantha without so much as a furrowed brow.
“I kept asking myself…what was the point of all the power I had been given if I couldn’t use it to protect myself? Because it wasn’t my magic or skills as a warrior that kept things from completely going to shit. It was letting her have me. It was because she wanted to fuck me.”
Feyre shook her head.
“ You’re forgetting. It was your cunning that saw us through, Rhysand. It was your cunning, and your kindness that saved me.”
“I don’t know if I would call what I did kindness.” The faerie wine he had given her, the dancing in front of the court. More heavy stones of guilt on his back.
“It got us out, Rhys. And I am grateful for that.” Her tone left no room for argument.
He didn’t know what to say to that. Again, too much grace.
But he just let himself cry, as he hadn’t in so, so long.
When his sobs had subsided and Feyre had wiped away some of his tears, he gathered himself up to finish the tale he had set out to tell.
“ The chains weren’t the most painful thing she would do. But, in so many ways, they were one of the worst. To be trapped in her chambers, pinned down with no escape. Nothing to distract myself with to try and forget –“
Even though he wasn’t speaking out loud, his mental voice broke again. Those long hours he had spent chained felt all too recent, wrists and feet losing feeling in them and then red and raw when he was freed. The blood would trail down his body and onto the floor, pooling there until a servant scrubbed it clean.
Waves of sorrow still radiated off Feyre for all that he had suffered. The starlight danced around them, to comfort and soothe.
“ Do you want to know the worst part?” he asked bitterly . The part that brought him the most shame.
Feyre didn’t say anything, only sent more waves of the star-kissed night to caress his mental shields.
“I begged her. Her soldiers couldn’t break me during the first War, but she could. She did. And the promises I made to myself couldn’t hold when all I wanted was for it to stop and she wouldn’t stop taunting me, and humiliating me and waiting for me to beg like I was a dog.“
His breathing quickened again as the memories surged to the surface from the icy depths of his mind.
Powerless, powerless, powerless.
He was weak and he had been nothing but her whore.
“Rhys. Rhys. Rhysand. Come back to me.” Feyre’s voice broke through the chorus of voices taunting him, though he hadn’t fallen as far as the first time. It was so easy to tumble down into that pit, let the grief consume him.
Yet another thing that terrified him. The ease with which he could be broken down again.
“ Come back to me, love. You are safe now, I swear it.”
He let the world come back into focus, the darkness of his creation clearing just enough. The radiant stars shone through. They were the one thing that had always offered him some comfort, a strange reminder of the depth of the universe.
“ Will you – touch me again?” he asked, and Feyre nodded immediately.
“ I am yours. Just tell me how, Rhys.”
He brought a hand up to his chest. Long ago, another’s hands had wounded him there.
“ I need –“ he spoke, trying and failing to explain how he needed to feel her touch, to know that it was Feyre.
She frowned at first, trying to decipher what he could not say. So he took one of her hands and covered it with his taloned one, bringing it up to his chest.
Mercifully, it was enough to help her understand.
Feyre moved again, coming to kneel before him, even as Rhys was slumped forward, curling in on himself. She scooted closer so that their knees touched – hers bare, covered in gooseflesh from the room’s chill, and his, with that sacred mountain and stars.
She placed both hands on his chest, fingers feather-light as they landed on the same places where Amarantha had carved her ownership half a century before. A shiver wracked Rhys’s body as he leaned in to rest his forehead against hers.
He hadn’t realized how clammy he was until skin met skin so directly, dampness evident on his brow. The tears still flowed down his cheeks, and Rhys distantly wondered how he hadn’t yet run dry. Across from him, Feyre’s cheeks were still damp as well.
He felt the flow of magic hum through him, doing his bidding at last. He knew that if he looked down, he would see that talons and scales had given way to fingers and toes.
“ Tell me again.”
“ You are mine, and I am yours, Rhysand. We made it out, together, and she is dead. She will never hurt a soul again. And I am so sorry for all those years you suffered alone for so long. It’s far more than anyone should have to bear. But you are not weak. You are so, so strong. To remain brilliant and kind through everything is no small feat, but I see the light in you. And it burns so brightly.”
He let the words wash over him like the gentle river over a sharp rock, praying to the mother that they were true.
He had survived.
They remained intertwined for long minutes, the pounding of the rain fading to a quieter tapping as it came down on the city. He focused on that, and the sounds of their breathing. Feyre’s long hair brushed up against his cheeks as she inhaled.
“I think…I might try to go back to the library tomorrow. Just to be, before some of my meetings.”
“Don’t worry about the meetings. I’ll work with them,” Feyre replied. “If the library feels right, stay there for as long as you need.”
“What if it never goes away?” Rhys asked, aware of how childish he sounded. “What if no number of visits to the library or anything else is enough?”
Feyre shook her head. “I can’t answer that. But scars heal over. They fade. We can take it one day at a time, darling.”
She was right. Scars did heal and close. But the deep ones never faded completely.
You can let yourself be consumed by it, or you can learn to live with it.
His words to Feyre from those many months ago echoed back at him, this time sent by Feyre.
“She does not define you, mate. And she cannot consume you. You are so much more than that.”
“ I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll try not to let her. I don’t want her to control me like this; I want to live.”
“I know,” Feyre soothed. “ I know.”
“Can we go outside?” he asked at last. “On the balcony?”
Feyre nodded, well aware that it was still raining, albeit more gently than before. “Will you put some clothes on first? You’ll be freezing otherwise.”
Letting the rain’s sharp bite freeze his bare body had honestly been half of the plan, but he knew that Feyre was right. She went over to his dresser and selected a pair of his favorite soft black pants and a warm navy sweater from the drawers. He accepted the bundle gratefully.
As he dressed, his eyes barely left her. She went over to her armoire and procured one of his old sweaters out of it, light gray and oversized. Letting her silken robe fall to the floor, she pulled it over her head, pulling on a pair of loose sleep pants to cover her legs.
This is real. It’s real, and you are in control.
To prove it to himself, Rhys looked out at the darkness he had created. Feyre had spun stars through it, intertwining his endless night with her starry heavens. But there was no reason he couldn’t add more. With a slow inhale from him, twice as many stars formed in the sky of their bedroom.
But even the wonder of their power paled in comparison to the real thing. He could glimpse the stars just barely through the rainy skies when he cracked open the glass balcony door. A cool breeze rushed in and sent shivers back up his spine. But he felt strong enough to stand for a while, so Rhys stepped out onto the balcony and leaned on the wrought-iron railing.
The rain on his skin held autumn’s chill but had no bite. Rather, it felt good. Clean. The balcony’s roof protected them from the brunt of it, but the breeze still sent it to fall on his skin.
Rhys gazed out onto his city, the one he had given up everything to protect. Rebuilding efforts from Hybern’s attack were still underway, scaffolding lining walls like crutches.
His heartbeat was beginning to return to its normal rhythm. He took a long, deep breath, filling up his lungs with the scents of the rain and his city and his mate. Feyre was an unmoving presence beside him, and he let himself lean into her – though he was much taller.
“Thank you for trusting me,” Feyre said over the noise of the rain. There was still sorrow for him dancing in her stormy eyes. “I can’t imagine how difficult sharing these things can be for you. And I am so, so proud of you. My mate.”
He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear those words. To have someone tell him that he wasn’t as hopeless and broken as he had convinced himself he was.
“Thank you,” Rhys said, hands clenched on the slippery metal railing. “For staying with me.”
“Always,” she replied. “Always.”
The pain wouldn’t go away overnight. He knew that, had known it for a long time. But as his breathing evened out and the rain cleansed his skin, plastering raven hair to his forehead and soaking through his clothes, the memories loosened their claws.
He was out. He was free.
And he was in control of his life, his power.