rainstormsdarling

[rainstormsdarling]

A COURT ACROSS SEAS AND STARS

Morrigan was Rhysand’s supermodel-esque cousin, Azriel the resident spymaster, and Cassian, like his brother, was an alpha-asshole, in the most delicious way possible. He seemed to have a dark sense of humor, strong opinions, and little interest in keeping either to himself.

“Well, well," Cassian had said after Rhys sauntered in with Feyre following closely behind. "Looks like Rhys finally brought a girl home for more than one night.”

Feyre flushed faintly, her attention snagging on the similarities between the males—and the differences too. Morrigan, the stunning blonde female in red, perched on a stool near the well-stocked bar, while the males lounged in low-backed chairs, which Feyre idly noticed had been fashioned to accommodate their powerful, membranous wings. The Illyrians were dark-haired, tan-skinned, their muscled bodies covered in dark serpentine leathers.

“You even look like brothers,” she said, turning to Rhys with a question in her gaze.

“All bastards are brothers of a sort.” Rhys said lowly, with a glare in Cassian’s direction, “And, I had no choice, did I Feyre darling?”

“Fuck you, Rhys” she replied.

Cassian roared a laugh, and Azriel’s eyebrows flicked up in amusement, even as he continued to scrutinise her. Shadows curled around the clear cobalt-blue stones adorning the back of his broad, brutally scarred, hands. Whatever caused those scars had to have been horrific if even his immortal blood hadn’t been able to heal them.

The mutual respect and affection that lay between the Illyrians was palpable, and while they were all sinisterly attractive, that was where the similarities ended. Where Rhys was every bit the elegant high lord; cruelly beautiful and unyielding, Cassian was rough-hewn and brash. Cocksure. Burning hot and little vicious. A lord in his own right. The Lord of Bloodshed, apparently, and the commander of Rhysand’s armies.

The spymaster, on the other hand, was near-unreadable. Classically handsome, but endlessly cold. If an assassin’s blade were made into a male, it would take the form of Azriel. Indeed, an obsidian-hilted dagger was sheathed at his thigh.

As Feyre studied them, a petite female entered the room, holding a glass of deep red liquid. At first glance, her appearance was almost ordinary: glossy black hair cut in a blunt bob, tan smooth skin. But her silver eyes, swirling like liquid mercury, hinted at something more than high-fae—something otherworldly.

The female’s gaze fixed on Feyre, and Feyre felt the suffocating, terrifying power radiating from her.

"So, there are two of us now," the female said, her lips stained red from whatever the glass held, which suspiciously looked like blood. "We, born of distant realms, thrust into new worlds, cast into new bodies."

Feyre swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She had heard stories about Amren, but nothing prepared her for the reality of the creature standing before her.

“And welcome to our merry little band” Rhys said with an exaggerated drawl, and an annoying sort of twinkle in his eye. “Everyone, meet darling Feyre. Feyre, meet my inner circle. I’m sure you’ll all get along splendidly, that is, once you stop your positively nebulous illuminations Amren.”

Amren just glared at Rhysand, neither one remotely intimidated by the other.

“I’d hug you, but I’m afraid I’d snap a tiny thing like you,” Cassian said, breaking the tension with an indolent grin.

Mor, of course, had no such reservations. Feyre allowed herself to be pulled into a luxurious hug that smelled like rich amber and vanilla perfume.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, for bringing him back” Morrigan was chanting as she squeezed Feyre tightly, her voice trembling with emotion.

Feyre didn’t move. What an odd evening it was turning out to be.

Morrigan squeezed once more and then pulled back, wiping a tear away. “And once I teach you how to dress in something other than healer’s garb, I think you’ll actually be quite lovely.”

Feyre sputtered.

“Now, sweetheart, don’t be rude,” Cassian said with an amused quirk of his lips.

Morrigan was elegant in the way only High-Fae nobility could be. She had exquisite features, her long, glossy blonde waves tumbling over her shoulders. A daring red dress draped over her lithe frame perfectly.

“I’m not being rude. That was a compliment,” Morrigan sniffed daintily.

Azriel coughed—or at least made a valiant attempt to disguise his laugh as one.

“Mor, I’ve heard your compliments before, and they need work.” Cassian said dryly.

“Feyre, you are a vision. Forget Mor, I can see why Rhysie here has hidden you away all these weeks”

“That’s exactly what I said!” Morrigan insisted, putting her hands on her hips.

“We all heard you, and that’s not what you said,” Cassian teased. He shot Feyre a wink. “She’s not just a pretty face either… Thanks for saving this bastard over here.” He jerked his head in Rhysand’s direction.

Azriel nodded to Feyre and sent her a quiet smile but didn’t embrace her, which she was grateful for.

Feyre honestly wasn’t sure what to do with herself. These people seemed friendly enough, but they weren’t exactly her friends either—not yet. They had been through hundreds of years of battles and wars, but now here they were, bickering and teasing each other like nothing had happened.

Before she had a chance to ponder the absurdity of her life in Prythian any further, the mood shifted slightly, and they made their way to the dining room - sans Rhys - who had abandoned her with them in search of more whiskey apparently. The cozy warmth of the elaborately carved stone fireplace was lit, the soft flickering of faelights—it should have been comforting. But a sense of tension hung in the air.

Morrigan picked at a platter of cheese and fruit as they settled in, but her smile faltered as Amren spoke abruptly.

“Why did you do it?” The raven-haired female asked curiously.

Morrigan jumped in before Feyre could answer. “Not that we don’t appreciate it of course, but… are you really that uncommonly kind-hearted? Is that a human trait us Fae just never learned?”

Feyre snorted, “Kind? No. Curious and stubborn? Yes.”

Cassian chuckled, “Now that sounds more like the humans I remember.”

Feyre rolled her shoulders, attempting to stretch the tired muscles for her long day in Velaris Infirmary. "He needed help, and besides it being heartless to just leave him... once I heard the start of his story, I had to know the rest."

“Well, for whatever reason you decided to come along with him, thank you. I know it wasn’t for us but still, we appreciate it more than you could know.” The sincerity in Morrigan’s voice was evident.

Feyre felt awkward with the intense stares she was receiving.

“Oh, stop ogling the girl. It’s time to celebrate Rhy’s freedom.” Amren snapped her fingers and flutes of sparkling fae-wine appeared.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Rhysand?” Feyre inquired.

“Oh assuredly, but I'll be honest, I need more alcohol to deal with the decidedly nauseating feelings that have overcome me.”

Feyre found herself in agreeance and graciously accepted the glass of sparkling fae-wine from Amren.

The bubbles tickled her nose as she finished the glass in one long sip.

“Cauldron's Tits, I didn’t know the humans could drink like that.” Cassian chuckled.

As a human she typically couldn’t, but she was fae now, not that she bothered to correct him.

“An overachieving prodigy in everything she does, I’ve heard from Madja.” Feyre smiled at the good-natured jest from Mor and accepted a refill. She knew she needed to slow down but wanted to enjoy the reprieve from heavy thoughts for a few moments longer. Warmth spread in her chest as she polished off the second glass almost as quickly.

“Who is?”

Feyre quickly looked up as Rhys stalked into the room, having somehow procured another two bottles of amber-liquid, one already a third empty.

“You know drinking so fast is a waste of good whiskey, it’s meant to be savoured.” The words slipped off Feyre’s tongue, tasting of sparkling wine.

He looked slightly surprised that she had reprimanded him for a moment, before drifting his eyes down to her own glass, now empty, and up again with a raised brow.

“I’m sure the Lord of the Court is good for it.”

Feyre couldn’t stop the dramatic sigh that left her mouth.

“If you get too inebriated and lose your balance I won’t be patching your wounds. You’re already causing too much work for me, Rhysand.”

“Am I to believe that my darling Feyre is a lush and lightweight?”

She shook her head slightly, feeling her long braid swish against the back of her neck “I’m neither a lightweight nor a lush, thank you very much. We are celebrating your release from 49 years of captivity, are we not?”

“And your presence here in our world?” said Rhys, tilting his glass into hers.

Feyre let out another long sigh, this time tiredly.

“No. Let’s not talk about that right now. I really don’t want to talk or think about that right now.”

Rhysand stared at her for a moment. His jaw clenched as if he was holding back something he didn’t want to say but he gave a firm nod and looked away.

Feyre’s heart ached slightly at the look that had been on Rhysand’s face and she didn’t know why. If she hadn’t had that second glass perhaps she could have figured it out, but for a brief moment, she could have sworn she saw something like regret.

He showed almost no signs of inebriation. His words were unslurred and his eyes were endlessly cold as ever. She had never seen anyone drink so much alcohol and remain so outwardly unaffected.

It was terrifying how controlled he was.

She decided that was enough sparkling wine for now.

Watching from her plush dining chair, she observed as the friends with a winding history reunited once more after almost fifty long years. Cassian and Mor bickered good-naturedly over the best vintage of fae-wine. Azriel and Amren traded thinly veiled insults over an overly complicated game of cards.

Feyre sat, playing the role of a spectator. It was bizarre. Their friend and High Lord had just recently escaped Amrantha’s tyrannical rule Under the Mountain and they happily chatted as if it was an ordinary Friday evening in winter.

After another hour of surface-level small talk, Feyre decided to take her leave for bed, with idle promises to have lunch date in the Palace of Thread and Jewels with Mor and visit the training grounds at the House of Wind with the Illyrians.

—

“You think others will be looking for her? Our enemies?”

With her new-found fae hearing the murmured voices traversed the stillness of the townhouse as Feyre paused in her ascension of the stairs.

“And Hybern’s,” Azriel added quietly, and Feyre felt her stomach twist.

“Because of Amarantha? Yes,” Rhysand said in a low voice. “Anyone who sided with her and managed to get out of that mountain alive will be looking for Feyre. If they’ve allied with Hybern, it’s almost a guarantee.”

Cassian’s jovial tone from earlier in the evening was gone and replaced with the seriousness of the Night Court’s General. “We’ll take care of her. We’ll strategise. No one’s getting through us.”

“And Hybern? You know they won’t take this blow lying down.”

Rhysand’s voice was quiet, but the steel in it was unmistakable. “They won’t. The King will not take kindly to Amarantha’s death, nor Prythian’s escape from her clutches.”

Feyre’s breath hitched as silence from the room below stretched longer. It had only been a matter of time before Amarantha re-entered the conversation, but the reminder of the potential threat caused her usually steady hands to tremble. Hazy images of fire and brimstone flashed in her mind. They were free now, but for how long?

Azriel’s voice abruptly cut through the silence. “Do we trust her? With Velaris? With the knowledge of this city?”

Rhysand’s response was immediate, unwavering. “Yes. She’s here, isn’t she? It’s a bit late for the alternative - short of going into her mind and wiping her memories”

Amren, sitting silently for much of the conversation, spoke then, her voice low and cool. “This is not an insignificant concern, Rhysand.”

“One that hasn’t been made without a great deal of consideration, Amren.”

Feyre could feel the weight of silence, almost tangible as stretched out with agonising slowness. She waited with bated breath for Rhysand to materialise before her, taking her memories from her as he pleased.

“I trust her,” he said, his voice firm. “And so will you.”

notes:

Chapter 15 - entire work available on AO3, but let me know if you would like me to continue - I have major writers block eek - and any and all feedback and comments just mean so much xx

[rainstormsdarling]

A COURT ACROSS SEAS AND STARS

Rhys was drunk.

Or well on his way to getting there, by the liquor-soaked smell of him.

He leaned suggestively against the cerulean-blue wall of the hallway, a crystal tumbler filled with a knuckle-length of amber liquid in one hand and a lazy smirk on his face.

From their conversation earlier that day she had assumed tonight’s dinner would be a more formal affair, and any drinking would occur after the meeting’s agenda had been discussed.

Feyre watched as he cocked his head to the side while he perused her. The collar of his black tunic was unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of the tattoo that she knew coiled around his chest. How much had he had to drink?

Rhys raised his hand in front of her face and pinched his fingers together in a futile attempt at measurement.

“Are you reading my mind?” she asked, outraged.

“The answer to both of your questions,” he drawled, although his words remained unslurred, “is only a little.” A broad smile stretched across his face, his teeth gleaming ominously in the dim faelight.

Flashes of pages flipped through her mind, and she sorted through them, turning them over - Daemati. Those who could slip into another’s mind as easy as strolling from one room to the next. A telepath.

She had guessed at it. But knowing he had the ability to tear into her mind without a moment's notice was another thing entirely.

Feyre recoiled slightly, staring at him in disbelief. “You’re daemati” she stated.

“And it only took you five weeks to realise it,” he mockingly praised, “Albeit, you have been rather busy studying to be the most insufferable healer in all of Prythian.”

She stared angrily up at him, dangerously close to breaking her oath and slapping that irritatingly perfect smirk off his face.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Feyre darling,” he remarked. “It’s not as if I want to be in there. I had a momentary lapse of control, that’s all. If I had to subject myself to the constant stream of your consciousness, I would have drunk myself to an early grave long before this.”

Feyre flushed furiously.

He stilled, eyes appraising the redness on her cheeks. “Why, Feyre, what kind of delicious things have you thought about me?”

Her heart thundered as she scrambled to divert her mind, conjuring up the most mundane images; alkaloid structures for anesthesia, listing botanicals; vervain, verbena, monkshood, mantle, henbane, nightshade… night - no-

Rhys glanced down at his glass, nonchalantly swirling the liquid inside before knocking back the last of its contents. He stared into her eyes with bored amusement.

“Enough,” Rhys intoned. “I can teach to shield your mind later. But for now, we have guests waiting and I need another drink.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the dining room. “Shall we?”

***thank you for reading chapter 14, full work available in the link!!! Love you guys and your feedback means everything please leave a comment so I can continue this story!

[rainstormsdarling]

A Court Across Seas and Stars

Chapter 2

In the recent snow, the yellow gleam of lamps washed over the cobbled streets, reflecting off the signs of nearby shops and cafes. Warm amber and rose, neon blues and greens thrust beams into the full dark that was falling. The glowing metropolis of Edinburgh in late December was stunning, the grand Old Town buildings with their ornate facades contrasted against the magnetic energy of the diverse pubs and restaurants. People spilled out onto the streets, talking and laughing. Night was falling quickly but the city was just coming alive with light. 

Feyre turned left at the end of the lane, towards the community garden and away from the congested traffic and colourful lights. She cut through the park on the way to and from her flat each day, and never got tired of walking through the shady green canopy, wooded and dim and wet. As a gust of wind stirred the branches overhead, she remembered the strong sense of magic she had felt here when she was younger, not dissimilar to what she had felt this afternoon in the library. It felt like a world within a world, a place she had imagined as a child where one of the winding paths might take her to another land. But it hadn’t happened then, and whatever it was that happened today - it couldn't happen now.

A breathtaking echo of something wistful rolled through her as she thought of the stranger in the library. There was something about his presence, even down to the cadence of his speech, that was thrilling and ancient and wild. The tunnel of trees finally opened, and Feyre lifted her face to the sky, watching the moon drip eerie light onto the heavy grey clouds below as they passed beneath - the calm before the storm. 

The tranquillity in the air evaporated with the fast approaching sound of footsteps. She glanced over her shoulder and stopped dead in her tracks.

‘Feyre. Could you wait for a moment? ’ That voice. Rhysand’s voice, low and level. It felt familiar to her now, at least in tone, although it ought not to. 

She turned around fully, her eyebrow hiked. ‘Rhysand. What do you want?’

But his gaze was still focused on the street ahead, the buses and cars rolling by, with their beeping horns, and the familiar fast beats of city streets as they passed. He looked dazed. 

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

His eyes travelled back to hers. ‘Feyre, you must believe me, I am..’ He took a breath, and his voice lowered as he stepped closer. ‘Not from this time, from this place. And I need to get back to my world, immediately.’

She stared up at him warily. Something about his expression halted her, catching her snarky reply on her tongue. Looking past his strong mouth and sharp cheekbones, his tan skin looked too pale and his eyes too bewildered. A muscle feathered in his jaw, ‘Please, Feyre. You saw the book did you not? Somehow I have traveled to this world…’ he gestured to the street beyond as he said desperately, ‘and I need to know where I am, and if I can get back.’ His broad chest expanded as he took a breath. A bitter gust of wind blew, sending his shirt billowing. She noticed then just how inadequate his attire was for midwinter in Scotland. Her eyes traveled back up to him in speculation. He gazed back imploringly, waiting. 

‘You truly don’t know anyone here?’ She asked. He nodded stiffly. The idea that this man was really from another world, and could somehow travel through them was more than Feyre could comprehend. But… she did see that ancient book glow, felt the tang and mineral grittiness of magic as it filled the air and stung her nose. 

Big, fat drops of rain started to fall, and she pulled up the hood on her coat. They dripped down his forehead and spotted his shirt. She watched the spots grow, turning transparent as they stuck to his skin. As much as she wanted to believe she imagined what had happened, if he was telling the truth, leaving him here alone would be thoughtless. When she met his gaze, those violacious eyes beseeching, she wished she had some of her wary sensibility back. There was so much about him that made little sense to her, and she felt frozen in place as he unravelled her with his eyes. 

Apprehensive, she took a step backwards, and he raised one hand to calm her. 

‘Do not fear me. I will not harm you.’ He said evenly. 

But Feyre was afraid. Not of him, no, she was afraid of what had happened in the library that afternoon because it made no sense in the analytical, rational part of her mind. She didn’t think she was afraid of him for some unfathomable reason, because there was something low in her stomach, something purely instinctual that recognised him on some level. Even if she didn’t understand what that was yet. 

As they stared at each other, he exhaled then backed away another step.

‘I’m sorry. I never should have followed you here.’ He looked away, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. ‘I’m sorry’ he said again quietly, his expression slipping into something unreadable before bowing his head and turning away.

Her heart started pounding, and she knew that she was being more than a little reckless when she shouted, ‘Wait!’ 

He stopped and turned, the corners of his lips drawn downwards.

‘Why don’t you come with me,’ she said quietly.

His eyes widened fractionally, and he stepped back towards her, wiping the rain off his face. 

She remembered the umbrella in her bag and hastily took it out, opening it with a woosh. Gesturing for him to come closer. ‘Look, Rhysand… we can’t go back to the library tonight. It’s storming and I’m cold and all I want to do is go home and have a long bath.’ She looked up at him and knew she sounded whiny. ‘I can… try to answer your questions, but why don’t we get somewhere warm and have some food first?’

His eyebrows drew together and he nodded. ‘Yes. That would be… most appreciated. Thank you, Feyre.’

‘Okay then.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Let's go,’ and inclined her head towards the continuing path, the wet pavement gleaming under the soft orange lamplights. She lifted the umbrella to allow Rhysand to be concealed underneath, and he moved closer, his body crouching low, before she allowed him to take the handle and hold it over them both.

She didn’t know if it was the moisture in the air, but his scent of sun-ripened citrus, salty wood and cedar wrapped around her as he pulled her closer to him, the umbrella protecting them against the downpour. As they splashed through puddles in the heavy rain she envisioned swimming in a cliff-lined cove, the soft drift of smoke wafting… where sensuality rose after night had fallen. The painting was almost fully formed in her minds eye. 

She dragged herself back to the present as she saw the familiar lights of her apartment building come into view, and they walked towards the narrow stairway squashed between the local Thai takeaway, Aom’s, and the newsagents. Feyre pushed open the security door and walked inside the building, holding the door for Rhysand to enter. He looked around the stairwell, noting the flickering yellow lamp and paused. 

‘This way’ she said, walking up the stairs ahead of him, ‘I’m on the 2nd floor.’ 

They were halfway through climbing the stairs when Rhysand broke the silence, ‘Feyre, won’t your - family or uh husband… mind you bringing me home with you?’ he asked carefully,  his voice slipping over her like warm honey.

‘Oh no, I live alone.’ she replied, continuing up the stairs.

‘You do?’ 

‘Yes,’ she chuckled, ‘Is that so hard to believe?’ she asked, looking back at him over her shoulder. 

‘Well, where I am from, human women do not usually live on their own.’

They rounded the stairs and she got her keys out. ‘Well, I think we can safely establish that our worlds are fairly different, don't you think?’ she offered. 

He nodded, ‘Yes’ the corners of his full mouth lifting, but his eyes tightened. Assessing.

She opened the door, holding it out for him. Glanced down at the empty stairwell at the neighboring apartment, and then back to him again. ‘Why don’t we talk inside? Somehow I don’t think my neighbors would be accustomed to this topic of conversation.’

He appraised her for a moment longer, decidedly agreeing, then walked inside. His petrichor-rich scent washed over her as he passed. Even his smell was intoxicating, intensely masculine, and sinisterly attractive. She watched him as he cast a brief but thorough glance around the living area of her flat. Now that he was inside, the space felt too small, cramped almost. He didn't just occupy space in a room, he owned it, saturated it. Where there was her green kitchen, benchtops stacked with papers and books, vanilla caramel candles, and bowls of fruit, now there was only him. Filling it with his strong presence, so that it was all she could see, all she could focus on.

Suddenly nervous, she quickly turned away, shutting and locking the door. Taking the moment to steady her mind before turning around. Bracing herself, she stepped purposefully towards the kitchen island and dropped her bag onto one of the barstools.

‘Well, um this is it. My home I mean.’ She watched him warily, noting how his rain-soaked shirt clung to him. Before he could answer she asked,  ‘Would you like a shower or something? I can put your clothes in the wash if you want?’

He blinked, then nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Alright. Come with me’ she smiled, leading him to the hallway. She opened the linen cupboard and took a towel out before handing it to him. She gestured to the door opposite, ‘That's my bedroom', she walked further down the hallway. ‘And this is the laundry and bathroom’, pointing to the doors on her right. 

‘Go ahead’ she nodded towards the bathroom door, ‘I’ll try to find something you can change into’ and walked towards her open bedroom. 

She doubted anything would fit him, considering his stature. But there could be an old bathrobe somewhere that might do the job for the time being. It was either that or… nothing. Resisting the urge to indulge herself further in that particular thought, she rifled through the back of her built-in closet, pulling out a fluffy pastel blue bathrobe that was at least two sizes too big. She grabbed it, and walked back to the bathroom where he was looking at her hairdryer with a puzzled expression. He held it up to her, dangling the cord in front of her face. 

‘What is this instrument? I’ve never seen anything like it’ 

She found herself grinning, ‘That is a hair dryer. For drying your hair.’ 

His eyebrows pinched together as he studied it once more. 

‘Here take this’ she shoved the bathrobe into his hands, ‘Let me show you.’

She plugged the hairdryer into the wall socket and turned it on, the rattling sound of hot spinning air coming on at once. He jumped back, startled, withdrawing a dagger and almost tripping into the bathtub. 

‘Sorry, sorry’ she hastily turned it off, stumbling back. He looked at her in alarm, before seeming to remember the dagger in his hand and carefully sheathed it again. 

‘No, no. I’m sorry’ he repeated after her. There was a protracted silence and then she burst out into laughter, semi-hysterical bursts that made her eyes brim with water. This whole situation was too bizarre. 

Catching her breath, she looked up to him with tears in her eyes. ‘I think I might put this away now…’ she trailed off, ‘Unless you’d like to use it?’ she said with a chuckle. His eyes were alight with concern, and maybe a quiet hum of amusement too. But he shook his head firmly.

‘Thank you, but perhaps not today’ he said, grimacing.

‘Okay.’ She put the blasted thing in the cupboard under the sink. ‘There’s some soap and shampoo and stuff in the shower if you need it.’ She looked back to him, where his dagger was safely strapped away once more at his hip, and debated telling him to put it elsewhere while he was in her house but she doubted it would make a difference. At least he hadn’t unsheathed that sword again from where she could see its hilt peeking over his broad shoulder. 

‘I'll go start on dinner now’. She paused. ‘Is pasta alright? You’re not allergic to anything are you?’

‘No I'm not allergic to anything.' His lips quirked in an echo of a smile, before pausing. 'I’m sure anything you make me will be fine.’ He said softly, before facing his back to her.

‘Okay’ She turned to go, closing the bathroom door behind her. But not before she caught him whispering, ‘Thank you Feyre.’ 

Notes: Thank you everyone for reading so far I appreciate each and everyone of you! As I mentioned this is my first fanfic (and first work ever to be perfectly honest) so please bear with me (I'm sure each chapter is laden with grammatical and spelling mistakes... eeek!). In terms of the story... well Rhys has somehow managed to transport himself to modern day Scotland, rest assured both he and Feyre will make it back to Prythian and be reunited with the IC... Please let me know what you want to see :)

See here for more

[rainstormsdarling]

A Court Across Seas and Stars

Chapter 1

Summary: In present-day Edinburgh, Feyre Archeron is having a morning like any other – filled with research for her PhD in art history and endless cups of tea. Suddenly a mysterious and extraordinary male appears, and she is drawn to his side compelled by his dark allure. When Rhysand returns to Prythian, Feyre embarks on a journey that sweeps her not only into realising her true power and passion, but also into the arms of male that is not of her world. But Rhys and Feyre must confront their own histories that haunt them in different ways, and question where they truly belong. In what begins with a search for the truth, Feyre finds herself torn between two worlds and two irreconcilable choices; love or her life.

please see the end for notes :)

....

Edinburgh, Scotland - 21st December 2022 (Winter Solstice)

When Feyre thinks about all the work she has to complete by the end of the month, she feels paralysed.

So mostly, she doesn't.

Instead, she paints.

For her, painting wasn’t just a productive form of procrastination, there was also a deeply therapeutic aspect to creating something soulful with her hands.

On this particular winter morning, the heady scent of earl grey tea, banana bread, and oil paint filled the air of her tiny Edinburgh flat and drifted over to the second-story window that was cracked a third of the way open -as far as it could go - where condensation dripped down onto the weathered and flaking sill.  

She lifted the canvas off its mounts, placing it haphazardly on the kitchen benchtop amidst an assortment of reference books, open laptop, and freshly baked banana bread that adorned the hardwood countertop.

Her colleagues at the art gallery would surely applaud her new contribution. And she didn't mean the art - unless they were suddenly accepting banana bread as a modern art form.

Feyre excelled at justifying even the most irrational choices to herself. Amidst the relentless deadlines of her penultimate year of doctoral research in art history, indulging in a third piece of banana bread felt undeniably well-deserved, even if it was 9 AM on a Wednesday morning and she ought to be on her way to the library right now.

...

After dropping off half of the banana bread to the art gallery where she worked, later that morning Feyre made her way across campus in the mid-winter mist, frost nipping at the tip of her nose and bitter gusts of wind blowing tendrils of her brown hair that had fallen free from her bun away from her face. 

Outside the library she stomped her boots, flicking off little droplets of rain and wayward leaves, before pushing through the great doors. This early in the morning the library was clear and mostly empty, and she made her way up to the seventh floor, where she took her usual spot on a desk hidden amongst the rarely visited section on reference materials for the history and philosophy of renaissance art.

Sitting down with a quiet sigh, she took out her laptop and supplies, glancing out the rain-streaked window before opening a spreadsheet and starting work for the day.

She worked through lunch and into the early evening, absentmindedly twirling her pen in knots through her dark hair. Thoroughly engrossed in the statistical minefield of the dataset she was working on; she almost didn’t notice when she felt rather than heard a heavy thud from behind her. Scrunching her eyebrows, she looked up just as another rumble sent dust falling from the wooden beams above her head.

‘Hello?’ She called, jumping to her feet.

Creeping tentatively down the corridor, it felt like all the many particles in the air were vibrating around her.

Something about the dimly lit stacks at the end of the hallway called to Feyre; a sense that she was stepping towards something intended to be unseen, unnoticed. But a low thrum echoed in her blood and in her bones, urging her onwards. The air around her felt noticeably cooler now, almost freezing, as she reached the final row of shelves. As if all the windows in the library had been thrown open to the icy winter wind.

Peering around the corner, her eyes widened as she took in the sight before her. Crouched on the ground, surrounded by scattered books and loose pages in varying degrees of damage, was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

Everything about the man in front of her seemed to exude danger, and yet she could not for the life of her stop staring at him. Dark hair fell across his forehead in a disarray of midnight blue-black strands offsetting his suntanned face. His white dress shirt was partially untucked from his black leather pants and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying strong forearms that were covered in whorls of dark ink. The tattoos flowed under his shirt, over his chest where they peeked through the unbuttoned neckline, and up his neck.

She had an inkling the strange markings continued down the rest of him, too, but as her eyes traveled downwards, she caught the hilt of a vicious-looking dagger strapped to his side. Although disheveled, there was no denying the dark allure that seemed to radiate from him.

Uneasy, she stepped backwards, and directly into the bookshelf behind her. A gasp slipped past her parted lips as he sharply glanced up at her, his features as stinging as cut glass. 

 Before she could blink, the stranger had drawn a sword into his right hand from where it was sheathed against his spine. It sang as he swept it through the air, holding it at her neck.

She glanced down at the sword, and angled her chin higher, swallowing deftly. The blade's length was inscribed with runic letters which emitted a faint obsidian glow, casting shadows from where he pointed it at her.

Her heart pounded like a drum, but she kept her focus on his eyes as she asked faintly, ‘Do you need any help? I - heard a loud noise...’ 

Pale blue-violet eyes narrowed as they scrutinised her, piercing in their intensity against his golden skin. So intensely deep that she felt like she could fall into a thousand skies full of stars if she stared into them long enough.

‘Who are you?’ He said finally.

The cadence of his voice, deep and even, but rough around the edges sent shivers along her skin and spread goosebumps in their wake. It was a rich, cultured voice, accented in a way she had never heard of. It wasn’t exactly said as a question either, but more of an order, and Feyre bristled at the command in his tone.

‘Who are you?’ she challenged in return, raising an eyebrow.

Realising as soon as she said it that it probably wasn't the smartest to question a stranger alone, and who was holding what looked like a very real and very sharp looking sword to her neck. She nervously glanced down at the sword once more, then back to him.

Although, she certainly hadn’t noticed him in the library before, and she would have, without a doubt. Feyre’s mouth dried out. Great, she was literally being held at - sword point - and she was thinking about his looks? She supposed some people must find him irresistibly attractive, in a basely sexual sort of way, if they could get past the unsettling aura of carnal danger and depravity that emanated from him.

The man languidly stepped out of his crouch, lifting the sword with him so the blade maintained its perfect balance at her throat. Feyre pressed her back closer against the bookshelf behind her as he rose to his full height with sensual grace. He would have to be at least a whole foot taller than her, six foot five or more, and her breath caught in her throat as he prowled closer. His eyes seemed to twinkle in dark amusement as they beheld her in front of him, a half-smile playing on his lips, like he could smell the emotions coursing through her. As if he could hear her traitorous heart beating furiously in her chest.

His smile curled upwards as she willed her heartbeat and breathing to calm, this man was clearly an actor or performer. The billowy shirt, tight leathers, the long sword, merely costume for a peculiar period-drama the university’s theatre department currently had in season.

Carefully he stepped around the books strewn across the floor, only stopping once he faced her, not more than a metre away, studying her with a predator’s gaze. Her shoulders stiffened with his close proximity.

‘I’ll ask you again, who are you and where have you brought me?’ 

 ‘What do you mean where have I brought you? All I heard was you thumping around back here and I came over to check if you were alright.’

She swallowed thickly, and surveyed him once more, taking in the fine leather boots that appeared to be half-heartedly concealing more blades. He made an impatient sound and she dragged her eyes up to meet his again, only to find that he seemed to have leaned in even closer. Her whole body felt on edge from the intensity of her vulnerability.

His warm breath fanned over her cheeks as he demanded ‘Where. Are. We.’ 

She lifted her chin, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears, ‘We're in the faculty of fine arts library. Now, would you mind stepping away from me please?’ 

The air shifted and he went preternaturally still as he tracked her movements with wide eyes. Shock and confusion flashed across his features, so quick she could scarcely believe she saw it as his expression molded back into something that resembled cool indifference once more.

‘Forgive me’ he murmured, bowing his head slightly. But his eyes remained locked on hers as he took a careful step back. ‘I seem to have ah… lost my place.’ 

‘Right…’ She shifted uncomfortably on each foot. Her eyes sliding between his eyes and the long double-edged sword, where the gleaming obsidian light leaked from its tip right up to its dark hilt. Noticing her stare, he sheathed it smoothly on his back behind him. 

She fiddled with her necklace nervously, running the amulet between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Are you a theatre student?’ She asked abruptly.

‘No, I don’t belong to the theatre.’ His eyes narrowed in disdain.

 She looked around at the shelves, and the discarded books on the floor again. Not really knowing what else to say, she said  ‘We should really tidy this stuff up before the librarian comes up.’

Not waiting for an answer, Feyre stepped around him and began picking up books. Some seemed to be close to falling out of their bindings, errant pages coming loose. ‘How on earth did you manage this?’ she asked.

‘I fell’ he said, looking up from the books he was beginning to stack in a neat pile. ‘What is earth?’ Only curiosity laced the question.

‘What –‘ she started to say,  but as she did the heavy book in her hands started to glow, light shining outwards from the spine. The air was thick with the combined aromas of book-like mustiness and something metallic, a tang of mineral bitterness that seared her nose.  A low rumble shook the air, echoing off the walls and sending more books tumbling in its wake. She let go of the tome and stumbled back, only to find it shockingly still hovering in the air before her. Magic - that scent that effused the air and gave it a strange charged quality - it was magic making the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

‘What the– can you see this?’ Looking up at the stranger with wide eyes.

‘Yes, I – you need to tell me where we are -‘ he started, but then the pages froze in the air, mid turn. Like someone had gotten out a remote control and hit pause. Everything went still as the whole world around them paused in time, even the wind outside seemed to halt its course through the trees for a moment as the heavy tome dropped to the floor with a resounding thud. That strange glow dissipated until only the waning December sunlight at dusk shone from the window of the dimly lit, dark wood library once more.

Feyre sucked in a breath, her heart pounding. The late nights working, studying, and never getting enough sleep had finally caught up with her. She was actually seeing things, and having hallucinations. The sense of panic that rolled through her then was staggering, but the tome, old and heavy, leather-bound and covered with dark inscriptions was still not a mere half a metre before her. Like the mysterious stranger who studied her now with narrowed eyes. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to take a slow breath, steadying herself against the bookshelf behind her. This couldn’t be real, he couldn’t be real, she thought. Obviously, he was nothing more than a hallucination, a very vivid one at that, but not real nonetheless. It was frightening that she had lost her grasp on her senses so fully, but she could only stand there, frozen, as panic rushed through her veins like acid.

Her attempts to breathe and calm herself were failing, and she felt a familiar anxiety rising up within her chest, her lungs stuttering in small, rapid inhalations. ‘Darling’ said a low, even voice from above her, and suddenly she felt a firm but barely there pressure applied to her shoulder. The stranger’s hand, warm and broad, gripped her shoulder, his thumb rubbing up and down gently.

‘Take slow, deep breaths’ he said softly. ‘Can you hear me?’

She took a breath, and then another.

‘Yes.’ Unfortunately, she didn’t add. She didn’t want to admit that everything she had just seen and heard from him right now was most probably a sure sign of insanity. Wringing her hands at increasing speed, ‘I’m fine – well, no, I’m not. But I will be. I’m just stressed out, another overworked grad student, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack and now I’ve started seeing things – no, conversing with figments of my imagination, and –‘

‘You’re not seeing things.’ The stranger interrupted, ‘Well, you are, but not figments of your imagination. I’m really here and you are really talking to me’. He paused. ‘Why don’t you tell me your name?’

She peeked open her eyes. He stood directly in front of her, absurdly intimidating with his dark eyes, staring down at her from his height – which now that he was so close it must be well over the six foot something she originally thought. And his hand, large and pleasantly warm, was still wrapped around her shoulder. She let her hands fall to her sides and sighed resignedly.

 ‘It’s Feyre’

‘Fey-ruh’ he repeated, drawing out her name in that low voice of his like he was testing it on his tongue.

She eyed him warily, ‘Yes, Feyre. And what’s yours then?’

‘Rhysand’ he said shortly, with a scowl. A strange, odd name. A name that didn't sound of this time or place. 

‘What is happening to me?’ She asked breathlessly.

‘Concentrate, Feyre. Take another breath.  What you saw just now – with the book –‘

‘Glowing and flipping through the air, you mean?’

‘Yes that –‘

‘Wasn’t real, right? and neither is this conversation, so now I’m going to walk back to my desk, pack away my stuff, go home and pretend this never happened.’

He stared at her for a moment, then dropped his arm and nodded. ‘If you want to forget it, fine. But at least tell me how to activate the portal in this-’  he looked around darkly ‘library… before you go. I would like to get back to my world before dinner if possible.’

He lifted one eyebrow, staring expectantly. For a minute she just blinks up at him, confused.

‘Look, whatever is going on here I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I really have to go now.’ Taking a deep breath, she turns around hurriedly and starts down the corridor. Only to come face to face with none other than the austere senior librarian, Ms. Argyll. Feyre was almost certain the stern older lady was capable of moving silently through the dark wood halls, appearing from between the shelves at the slightest noise. Never mind the wrath you might face if you fail to return a book on time or in less than perfect condition.

‘Miss Archeron, do I need to remind you that this floor is of silent study?’ She said in her icy Scottish burr, which altogether made her more frightening. Feyre froze. If Ms. Argyll stepped any closer, she was going to see the destroyed books hidden behind the stacks she now stood in front of.

‘Ah.. no. I mean, no, I know. Sorry, Ms. Argyll.’ Stepping forward nervously, Feyre angled her body hopefully to shield the fallen books behind her.

Ms. Argyll stared grimly down at Feyre from her red-framed glasses. ‘And who, may I ask, were you talking to?’

‘Well, I was just practicing –‘ Feyre started to say when she felt movement to her left.

‘That would be me, my lady, please let me apologise for any disturbance we might have inadvertently caused. Feyre here was graciously helping me locate a book,’ Rhysand said smoothly from her left.

Ms. Argyll narrowed her eyes ‘You know young man, that’s what the computers are here for’

‘I am not a young- computer?’ He looked at her with a mildly confused expression.

Feyre jumped in, ‘Please rest assured next time I will absolutely make sure to send him down to the front desk if he has any trouble finding something. We are really sorry about the disturbance, and we’ll be leaving now’ She turned to Rhysand expectantly.

‘Yes’ he confirmed, nodding at her.

‘The library closes in twenty minutes even so.’ Ms. Argyll seemed unconvinced but sniffed haughtily regardless. ‘See to it that you two return any books to their rightful places'. With a final severe glance of disapproval, she turned on her heel and stalked – indeed silently – down the hallway.

Feyre exhaled, before turning abruptly to face Rhysand. ‘She can see you’

‘Yes.’ He drawled, ‘and so can you.’ Again, with that raised eyebrow.

‘Ughh’ She rolled her eyes, ‘Are you going to tidy up those books?’

‘Already done, sweetheart’

‘That’s not possible, and don’t call me –‘ She stepped around him, but the books were indeed placed back in their spots on the shelves. Not one yellowed page to be found scattered on the floor.

She whirled back to him. ‘Alright, what is going on here? There had to have been at least fifty books, not to mention the mess caused–‘

‘You two, out. This instant!’ Came Ms. Argyll’s raised voice down the corridor.

She grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him over to her desk where she started packing up her things hurriedly.  ‘This is unbelievable. She’s going to be on my back for weeks, and I needed that twenty minutes - I have at least five more books I need to reference.’ She whisper-shouted up at him. 

Rhysand only looked back at her, his mouth quaking in faint bemusement as she hastily shoved her supplies back into her bag. He was leaning casually against the desk, as if a suddenly glowing book was an ordinary occurrence for him. To her disbelief, tucked under his arm, although no longer glowing, was the very book from before.

‘What on earth are you doing with that? You can't seriously be thinking about taking that out of the library?’

‘Darling, I can and I will.’ He crooned. ‘and again if you’d care to enlighten me. What is this earth?’ He cocked his head to the side as he studied her, and she could have sworn there was true curiosity in his eyes. 

Feyre’s chest was tight with anxiety merely considering the question like she’d found herself on the precipice of the unknown and had no choice but to leap. Her head was growing light, and entertaining the idea was pure nonsense. Instead, she shook her head and strode for the direction of the stairs, not caring if he was following or not.

She took the stairs two at a time, only stopping to exhale once she was out of the library and the great doors were sliding shut behind her. It had snowed while she had been inside. The courtyard outside was blanketed in it, and the visual relief alone from all the darkness and unease she felt inside the library was soothing. She squared her shoulders, slowly descending the outside steps.

‘Wait –‘ a deep voice said behind her. She whirled mid-stride, boots slipping on the slick steps. Losing her balance - her eyes closed, bracing for impact – but then suddenly there was a large, warm weight steadying her. A firm pressure on her upper back and waist, as Rhysand caught her.

Feyre opened her eyes and looked up with a wince.

‘Are you okay?’ He said it in a low, intimate tone. She swallowed thickly, but her answer caught in her throat, his face was so close and her heart was beating too fast. Although only concern was written over his features, an incredibly confusing blend of desire and irritation swirled in the pit of her stomach. Did she actually just fall for a guy? And a ridiculous one at that. Can this day get any worse? Rhysand lifted her to her feet but kept his hands on her waist.

‘You alright, lass?’ the gruff voice of the campus security guard, as he trudged over. ‘Is this man bothering you?’ twitching his head towards Rhysand as he dropped his hands and stepped back.

 ‘Um no, everything’s fine. I just tripped that’s all.’ She looked between them.

The security guard surveyed them with narrowed eyes, his eyes halting over Rhysand’s clothes, before glancing back up at her. ‘Very well. You two best be off then. Channel four is saying there’s a storm on the radar tonight you know.’

Feyre looked up at the grey sky then and noticed the cooling temperature. Grimacing, she said, ‘Alright, have a good evening then,’ 

 The security guard merely shrugged, making an indecipherable noise in reply, and ambled off.

She stared blankly into the distance as he made his way through the snow, her breath clouding in front of her.

‘Feyre’

‘Yes?’ She turned to face Rhysand. His brow was furrowed again, glaring fiercely off at the security guard, before fixing on her once more. He started opening his mouth, but then closed it again.

‘Thanks for catching me’ she said softly.

‘Of course,’ inclining his head slightly, ‘Forgive me, darling, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He purred, and his eyes seemed to darken imperceptibly. Great, she was staring again. 

 ‘That’s alright. I um, really should be going now though…’ She looked towards the snowy courtyard and streets that lay beyond the campus buildings.

He was frowning at her ‘Where will you go?’

‘Home. To my flat’ She turned to go, she really didn’t feel like explaining her actions to this strange man who looked like he’d walked out of a bizarre period drama.

‘What is a flat - never mind. You will go without anyone to accompany you on your travels?’

Throwing her hands in despair, Feyre turned back and faced him.  ‘Yes of course I will. Do you need something?’

‘You act uncommonly strangely for a female of your age’ 

Feyre grit her teeth and raised a brow. ‘A female my age?’ He couldn’t be serious, she seethed. ‘What, pray tell, do you mean by that?’

Rhysand merely gestured to her, his face expressionless like what he was pointing out was the most obvious thing in the world.

They stared at each other for a moment in stilted silence.

‘Your behaviour, your odd manner of dress. You are a human woman are you not?’

She stared at him perplexed. ‘What's wrong with what I’m wearing?’ She looked down at her cream-coloured blouse, dark denim jeans, heeled boots, and coat. She looked good, better than good even. Considering most days, she couldn’t be bothered to change out of her grad student uniform of a fluffy sweater and black yoga pants. As if he could talk with that ruffled neckline. She rolled her eyes skyward, this man was infuriating.

She blew out an aggravated breath. ‘Look Rhysand – if that is even your real name – I don’t care if this is a new method of acting practice, or some kind of sick joke, or whatever. I really don’t have time for this and I want no part in it. Alright? Goodbye, and I wish you all the best for your performance.’ With that, she turned sharply and walked towards the lane leading out of the campus grounds.

Notes: if you are still here thanks so much for reading, I appreciate it and would love any and all feedback - let me know if you would like me to keep going.... follow the story on ao3 here

[rainstormsdarling]

do you ever see a character that’s worshipped by a fandom and go “you’re not that great”

[rainstormsdarling]

Kidnappers: We have your father

Eris: Ok thanks

[rainstormsdarling]

In the Shadow-Spell

A hoarse cry tore through the shadow-spell, and Feyre thought that she had never heard agony like that, not in all these past weeks of healing in the Velaris infirmary. She stilled at the sound, her senses on alert.

It was Rhysand.

*one shot, Rhys has a nightmare acomaf*

....

Feyre hadn’t been asleep for more than an hour when she awoke with her every nerve alight. Lightning coursed through her veins, her eyes flying open. When she did, what she saw was utterly different from the velvety night that had become so familiar to her. In the darkness, obsidian shadows crept along the ceiling and puddled in the corners of her room. Writhing, searching, seeking.

The shadows were in a frenzy that matched the manic pace of her heart, sweeping across her room, clamoring to consume her. And they felt like pure, icy, undiluted terror.

A hoarse cry tore through the shadow-spell, and Feyre thought that she had never heard agony like that, not in all these past weeks of healing in the Velaris infirmary. She stilled at the sound, her senses on alert.

It was Rhysand.

She lept from the bed and down the hall. The door to Rhys’ room at the end of the hallway was blasted open, pitch-black ink seeping out of it rapidly, engulfing the ornate carpet, the cerulean-blue walls, wrangling with the diminishing faelights.

And the scene that greeted her as she stumbled into his room was nothing short of petrifying.

Shredding, rippling darkness consumed the room, cruel and thieving as it devoured every last bit of warmth and hope.

Another anguished cry tore from his throat and Feyre didn’t hesitate to fall forward into the room, as if tugged by an invisible force, something that came from between her ribs, eyes straining, desperately seeking the outline of the bed, of him.

At last her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and she found him, the bed ice-cold to the touch, silk sheets shredded by the black wreaths of darkness rippling from his hands. His head was thrown back against the pillows, chest heaving, blue-black hair falling on the pillows like ink spilled across a page.

Her eyes roamed over his exposed chest, cataloguing the shallow breaths, the golden skin slicked with sweat. His lips moved with harsh murmured words, ones she could not comprehend, and Feyre worried what sort of horrors were so awful that mangled his beautiful darkness in such a way.

“Rhysand, wake up." Her voice quivered with concern. With trembling hands, she reached out a gentle hand to his shoulder, finding the muscles there taut.

“Rhys” she said softly, then again, this time louder and with more urgency. “Rhys, wake up, please.”

He groaned again, his features twisted, and the sweat that beaded across his brow bled down his temple.

“Rhysand!” Feyre pleaded, panicking now, climbing onto the bed, swinging a leg over his body so that he was pressed between her thighs. Shaking his shoulders, willing him with every ounce of her being to wake.

His thrashing grew more frenzied, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to reach him, couldn't seem to pull him back from the icy depths of his nightmare.

"Rhys, please," her voice broke. "Come back to me."

She was desperate now, desperate and scared, desperate and furious, furious and confused as to why she couldn’t bear to see him like this.

His violet eyes snapped open, and their gazes were locked in rage, in fury, in raw terrible power -

Suddenly she was thrown onto her back, pinned beneath him, a strong hand crushing hers above her, another at her neck, his night-frost tipped canines bared to the hollow below her ear.

“It’s me,” she gasped. “Feyre.” Her breaths heaving, her wide eyes locked beneath his wild ones.

She kept her voice soft, but she felt caught under his predatory stare.

"Feyre,” she repeated, as she beheld the anguish reflected in his eyes—the same anguish that had him panting just as hard as she was beneath him.

“It was a dream,” she panted. “Just a dream… A dream…��� she repeated—a mantra, beckoning him home.

Something broke -

He reared back.

"Feyre..." Rhysand's voice hoarse and broken, canines receding beyond his lips, resting his forehead against hers. His hands shook as he held her.

“I'm here," she murmured, and her voice trembled with relief. "I'm right here."

“You’re safe, it’s just me, just you and me, at home, we are safe,” she said. He drew a ragged gasp that sucked at the air against her face, and she felt him shuddering.

Seeing him like this, Feyre instinctively fell back on her training - a grounding exercise she’d refined through countless encounters with those enduring the trauma of wars within their minds and a practice she honed for herself.

"Rhys," she began cautiously, her voice a gentle murmur in the cool darkness of his room, "I'm here with you. Let's ground ourselves, okay?"

He exhaled harshly, his hand seeking hers in the darkness, grasping onto her so tightly she could feel the storm raging in his blood.

“You can’t ever comprehend the terror of watching your body star in something your mind didn't agree to Feyre”, he laughed humourlessly. “You can’t fix me. Don’t try.”

Feyre looked away and tried to swallow, but her saliva was acidic. Her hands trembled and his features swam before her eyes. Salty tears that gathered were blinked away when she had no answers to that—to the desperate tenor in his rich, cultured voice. So she instead examined the whorls of ink on his chest and arms, the glow of his tan skin, so golden now that he was no longer caged underneath that mountain.

She took a shallow breath. Hesitating.

"Tell me, Rhys," she continued, "What is something you can see right now?"

His fingers slid along the curve of her thumb, but he refused to open his eyes. She had never seen him so disheveled, so disconcerted.

“Look at me,” she said, her voice soft but stern, one she learned as a healer. “Rhys, tell me something - anything - tell me something you can see.”

He took another breath against her mouth and his eyes fluttered open. His starkissed eyes were so dark, and she watched as they roamed over her face, over her tousled hair spread across his pillow, before settling on her own blue-grey ones, softly glowing like the moonlight filtering through the window. "The moon," he rasped. "Its silver light eddied in your eyes."

She nodded, a hopeful smile lifting the corners of her lips. "Yes, the moon," she agreed. "The new moon, hidden and safe, but there to guide us gently through the darkest of nights."

"And what's something you can smell?" Feyre asked quietly, interlacing his fingers with hers.

Rhysand closed his eyes, his senses attuned to everything around him, and suddenly she wanted to stare into his eyes again, the vulnerability she glimpsed there. "The scent of jasmine," he murmured. "It's faint, but it's there, lingering in the air."

Feyre breathed in deeply, allowing the scent to fill her lungs, to anchor her in the present moment with him. "Jasmine," she repeated softly. "Its fragrance soothing and familiar, the night-blooming flowers a reminder of tranquility in the dying of the light."

"Now, tell me" she continued, her voice breathy, "what's something you can feel right now?"

Rhysand's fingers tightened around hers, grounding himself in the heat of her touch. "Your hand in mine," he whispered, his voice tinged with something other than ice. She felt him swallow. She felt him press himself closer to her. "Steady and reassuring, reminding me that I'm not alone."

Feyre squeezed his hand gently, a silent promise. "Yes, my hand," she whispered back. "Always here to hold you, to remind you of the warmth that surrounds us."

"And lastly," she said softly, her voice barely a breath above the stillness of the night. "What's something you can taste?"

Rhysand's lips curved into an immodest half-smile, the first hint of starlight breaking through the darkness. "The taste of the night air," he replied, his voice growing stronger with each passing moment. "It’s chilled flavour. Space to breathe, to savour."

Feyre smiled back, "Yes, the night air," she echoed. And Rhysand might have dipped his gaze to her lips, like he wanted to taste those too. But he didn’t move, and they laid still for ages, content to let the silence stretch between them.

There was no restraint in his stare, and she felt laid bare, her body still pressed against the mattress beneath his. She swallowed under his gaze, to which his eyes dropped to her neck where she could feel heat rising. Her hands were still entwined with his, and she made to remove them, to remove herself before he would ask her to leave -

“Look at you” his voice rough, still riddled and raw from the power that was ripped from him.

Feyre took a shaky breath and her breasts pushed against him.

She disentangled her hands and pushed against his chest, gingerly sitting up, realising they now knelt before each other, him unclothed, her not much better. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

Her night dress was bunched around her hips. Her legs against his. And he was so still, so frozen. But her lungs felt clear, as though it was a relief to be here, touching him. She glanced to the window, and her stomach dropped. An hour or two at least had passed. It would be dawn in a few hours.

“Stay”

She stilled, and held a breath.

“Stay,” his chest jerked as he spoke, and he stared down at her, expression unreadable. “Please.”

Her heart stalled, and she desperately wanted to ask why. Why? What was she to him? She had so many questions. She was conflicted. She bit her lower lip. But she could see the tension still lurking under the surface, in the clench of his jaw, the press of his lips.

Her throat tightened so much it was hard to swallow. She slowly lowered herself back to the mattress as she held his gaze. “Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” he repeated. But he still didn’t move.

“Come here” she breathed, outstretching her arms and catching his face in her hands. Then he was in motion, his hand to capture the back of her head.

His hands were soft, brushing against the nape of her neck before he turned her, pulling her against himself. His lips were suddenly behind her ear and his mouth was burning.

“Thank you, Feyre.”

He pulled her impossibly close, holding her tightly, and the rhythmic beat of his heart lulled her into the space between dreams.

She drifted off as he ducked his head close to hers, his lips brushing against her hair as he murmured, “You are my salvation, Feyre,”

She didn’t deny it.

Notes: This is foremost a one-shot but was originally planned as an additional chapter to the story I'm currently working on - A Court Across Seas and Stars, but doesn't quite work (as yet, if you think I should add it later please let me know!). I love healer Feyre and wish there were more fics that featured her healing him? If you have any recs please let me know :) Anyway, thank you for reading, any and all feedback is most welcome!! xx