time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)
chapter four: until the night is over: loop seventeen
Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter.
Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.
A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt.
Warnings: canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence, temporary character death
Rating: Explicit
Chapter Word Count: 7.5k
Notes: Behold, my humble contribution to @feysand-hivemind's timeloop fic! Working on this story with all of you wonderful, talented people has been an absolute delight.
Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3
Another failure, and Rhys was back where he had started.
Again, the dream. The wolf, the arrow, and Feyre, sharp hate in her eyes. And he was back in Amarantha’s bed.
The loops were starting to pile up. There had been far more variables, far more failures, than he had hoped. Would there be a limit to the number of second chances he was given?
Beside him, Amarantha stirred. He tensed, shifting his gaze over, but she only adjusted her head before falling still again. Her long red hair fanned out across the bed, brushing up against his shoulders.
His sleep in Amarantha’s bed was almost always shit, so the good news was that he had plenty of time to think.
In nearly every loop so far, save the first one, he had tried to change Feyre’s path early on. The window between Feyre letting go of her hatred of faeries and beginning to trust Tamlin was practically non-existent. Either she didn’t trust him because he was a faerie, or because he was an enemy of the Spring Court and obviously sneaking around.
The first time, she had progressed the farthest – but exposing her to Amarantha’s ire, when she was still on edge, had been disastrous.
There had to be some kind of middle ground.
He loathed the idea of letting her go back Under the Mountain. He wouldn’t watch Amarantha break her again.
And yet – what if Feyre going Under the Mountain was the key? It was where they had, at least, gotten closest, with Feyre admitting her love for Tamlin, even if it had been too late.
The far easier option would have been to get her to admit her love for Tamlin sooner, before she even stepped foot in Amarantha’s court. But what if that wasn’t enough? His appearance at the Spring Court in the first loop hadn’t been enough to spur her on.
All he had were theories, the best of which had been strung together with hardly anything to hold them.
Clare Beddor – that was the name Feyre had given him in place of her own. Had he given that name to Amarantha and told her that Tamlin had brought a human to the Spring Court, he would have been spared in the first loop. Of course, that didn’t exactly solve anything, because Feyre still wouldn’t have.
Of course, that was assuming Amarantha found her under that alias. As long as she was in love with Tamlin, he doubted Amarantha cared what a human’s name was.
But what if Clare hadn’t been fictional? It was an unmistakably plain, human name, perhaps belonging to someone from wherever Feyre had once called home.
Even if it wasn’t, was it possible for him to orchestrate things so Amarantha’s ire fell on someone who wasn’t Feyre?
The makings of a plan began to take shape in his head.
It wasn’t a particularly honorable plan. It involved putting Feyre in danger, it involved at least one scapegoat. But he had already lost his – his Feyre too many times. And he knew, deep in his heart, that he would do whatever it took to keep it from happening again.
He knew by now that sleep would elude him the rest of the night. His mind was restless, but any moment of repose was strength.
There might not have been any more dreams ahead of him tonight, but Rhys lay awake and went through his usual ritual, picturing those he loved and wondering what they might be doing right now. Tonight, he dared to add one more name to the list.
I will not fail you, Feyre.
-
The previous times he had felt the call to seek her out on Calanmai, he ignored it. This time, however, it would be necessary.
And Rhys couldn’t deny that he felt a little thrill at the idea of seeing her again.
It was a perfect spring evening. The air was cool and fresh on his face – something he never took for granted anymore. He didn’t know how Amarantha could stand to spend most of her time Under the Mountain, choking on the same stale air year after year.
Cloaked in shadows on the edge of the tree line, Rhys observed the nearby figures, only illuminated by firelight. The drums had been beating for hours now – it wouldn’t be much longer before they reached their peak, and Tamlin would select his maiden. He bit down a wave of revulsion at the thought of Feyre being selected for such a ritual.
Luckily, if her thoughts from the previous loops were any indication, it wouldn’t come to that.
Not far from where Rhys stood, there was a group of half a dozen male lesser faeries. Loud, bawdy, and vulgar. After a moment of combing through their minds, Rhys saw that their thoughts were equally foul.
He selected the worst three, and then planted the seed of an idea in their heads.
Go and see what kind of trouble we can find. Plenty of fresh meat on a night like tonight.
As the minutes crept on, the pulling sensation in his chest drew tighter, and he scanned the firelit crowds for the shape of his painter.
Where are you? Come, find me. Go see Calanmai, he urged, even if she wouldn’t hear.
At last, he caught a glimpse of her weaving through the crowd, alone.
Any other time, he would have been angry that Tamlin didn’t have any protections on her. Wandering alone on a wild night like this only meant trouble for a human woman.
However, in this situation, it played right into his plans.
Feyre wandered through the crowd, likely searching for Tamlin or Lucien. Slowly, she wandered away from the throng, closer to his edge of the woods.
Closer to where he had led the males.
He watched from afar as they approached Feyre, nearly cornering her. One of them leaned in much too close –
And Rhys winnowed, right behind Feyre, catching her as she stumbled back on a piece of loose rock.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
-
The first meeting on Calanmai set things into motion. Though he had longed to linger, he had kept things brief, not getting as much as her name out of her.
She had thought he was the most beautiful male she had ever seen.
Why did the knowledge bring him such pleasure?
The name of the game was to still appear intimidating and a bit frightening, but not so much that he couldn’t be trusted. He couldn’t let the mask drop the way he longed to, but it was better than nothing.
He hadn’t been able to avoid taking the head, branded with the Night Court sigil, to the Spring Court a few weeks later. If he spared the faerie Amarantha had initially chosen, she would just pick another. However, he was able to put it somewhere else when he delivered it.
It was simple enough. He winnowed to the Spring Court and immediately sought out Feyre’s room. He could sense her even without having her in his sights, still fast asleep in the time just before dawn.
He cast his magic towards her, dragging her subconscious into a slightly heavier sleep. She would sleep halfway to noon, but that would give Tamlin plenty of time to deal with his little gift – and even if he didn’t, she would be far less likely to see it in the smaller garden where he left it, spiked on the ornamental fence.
He saved Feyre from the horror, but Amarantha expressed her displeasure that he had picked somewhere too subtle.
Her nails were sharp on his bare shoulders, tendrils of red hair brushing his neck as she loomed above him.
“What happened to your sense of theatrics, Rhysand?” she crooned. “Perhaps I need to put on another show, to give you some more inspiration to work with.”
Encased in the ring on her finger, Jurian’s eyeball spun. If the male was still in there somewhere, at least one of them could be panicked about the situation.
“If you wish it, my queen,” he crooned.
Whatever he could do to satisfy her nearly unabating thirst for violence before Feyre arrived.
-
Weeks passed, and Rhys spent hours trying to find another way back to the Spring Court. Every little interaction he had with Feyre before she came Under the Mountain could be crucial to their success.
Unfortunately, Amarantha’s paranoia only stretched so far.
“Why so eager to go back to the Spring Court, Rhysand?” Amarantha mused one night, when he had again suggested it. “One might think you’re hiding something there.”
He forced himself to stay calm, to continue rubbing her shoulders to relieve the tension from them.
“Only eager to see Tamlin flounder, my queen. You must admit, his attempts to break the curse have been laughable.”
“Which is why I’m hardly worried now. You serve me here, Rhysand.”
For not the first time, Rhys wished the bed would open up and swallow him.
-
In the days leading up to the curse’s deadline, Amarantha finally loosened his leash as she had in the first loop. He knew the terrible things he would have to do in the days to come, but he also couldn’t deny his excitement at seeing Feyre again. Other than the day he had left the head spiked for Tamlin, he hadn’t so much as glimpsed her.
The bustle and brightness of spring greeted him as he winnowed onto the front lawn. Even with a fraction of its denizens, the manor was busy, as always.
Last time, the way things had unfolded was accidental. This time, he needed to keep this part as close to how it had first happened as possible.
He let scraps of his power wash out before him, alerting the whole manor of his presence, strolling into the dining room that only appeared to hold Tamlin and Lucien.
This time, he immediately noticed the third plate betraying her presence. He swore he could sense her, too. How had he been so oblivious the first time around?
He let the same words as before spill from his lips, as if he was acting out one of the plays Mor loved to watch at the Velaris theatre. Taunting Tamlin and Lucien, pretending to be surprised when he let his gaze land on the third plate.
When Tamlin’s glamour fell from around her, he had to hold back his sigh of relief. She was still safe and whole – lovely, with the midday sun at her back, bringing out the gold in her hair.
“I remember you,” he said softly. “It seems like you ignored my warning to stay out of trouble.”
It was all he could do to keep up the familiar song and dance with Tamlin and Lucien. The urge to reach for her, make sure there wasn’t a single mark on her, was stronger than ever.
Instead, he reached for her mind, seizing it between his mental hands. As he traced his finger across her collarbones, her throat, he felt her fear.
“Don’t be afraid, darling,” he whispered into her mind.
“Don’t – “ Feyre ground out, too afraid to say much more.
One day, I swear, I will make it up to you, Feyre.
He flipped through her mind – and curiously, found no memories of her being intimate with Tamlin. Only memories of Tamlin biting into her neck on Calanmai – only hours after he had first met her.
“Amarantha will enjoy breaking her,” he said, letting his cruel words settle over the room. “Almost as much as she’ll enjoy watching how you anguish over it.”
He was aware of Feyre’s growing apprehension as he threatened Tamlin, and he almost reached back into her mind, to whisper something more soothing to her, but he stopped himself just in time.
Not here. Not now, when there were so many variables still at play.
Tamlin shoved at him, but he sidestepped easily.
“Not now, Tamlin. I’d hate for the lady to see you become a smear upon the floor.”
Tamlin fumed, but Rhys finally had an excuse to turn his attention wholly back to Feyre.
“What’s your name, love?”
He felt her hesitation – felt the lie in her mind before it formed on her tongue.
“Clare Beddor,” she gasped.
Rhys smirked. “I’ll be sure to give Amarantha your regards – all of your regards.”
-
When Amarantha summoned him to the throne room for a full report, it was all too easy to tell the truth. To give her Clare’s name.
Anything for Feyre.
Now all that remained was to wait and see if his gambit paid off.
-
Two days later, and the Attor dragged poor Clare, kicking and screaming, Under the Mountain.
As he had expected, Amarantha made a game of pulling pain from her like notes from a violin. He stood there and watched, the same bored smirk on his face.
He went into her mind, took away her pain as easily as snuffing out a candle.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Clare. I know you didn’t deserve it, didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Please, just end this,” she begged, unaware or uncaring of who she was speaking to.
He hated himself a little bit more as he didn’t reply. For Feyre to be safest, Amarantha’s bloodlust had to be fully spent.
“I don’t have that power, but your pain is gone. Scream when she expects you to.”
Over the next few days, Rhys remained at Amarantha’s side, watching as she tormented Clare. Perhaps because he was a glutton for punishment, he delved into her mind to get a glimpse of the person whose life he was destroying.
She was a simple village girl. Kind, gentle, she loved teasing her younger brothers and caring for her family’s animals. She hated the taste of oatmeal, and shunned the Children of the Blessed when they came to town.
The days wore on, and finally, Rhys couldn’t take it anymore. He reached back into Clare’s mind and ended it, once and for all.
-
All too soon, the doors to Amarantha’s throne room swung open again as the Attor dragged another human girl through its doors, throwing her on the ground before Amarantha’s throne.
Rhys felt the pain in her knees as they hit the marble, so sharply it might have been his own. He did his best to steady his breathing. If anyone sensed how quickly his heart was beating, he would be fucked.
He had to focus. Amarantha couldn’t know that a single thing was amiss this time around.
“What’s this?” The False Queen asked, leaning forward in her throne.
“Just a human thing I found downstairs,” the Attor hissed, leering at Feyre, and Rhys fought the urge to mist the wretched creature then and there. “Tell her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs – why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court.”
He watched as Feyre proclaimed her love for Tamlin in front of all seven courts, bargaining for his freedom. She practically beseeched him to say something, but he didn’t so much as nod. Only sitting there as still and unfeeling as his stone heart.
“Give me a single reason I shouldn’t destroy you where you stand, human.”
“You tricked Tamlin. He is bound unfairly.”
Amarantha prattled on, enjoying the sound of her own voice. Rhys would have blocked it out entirely if Feyre’s safety didn’t entirely depend on Amarantha’s words. What would come next was the one part he had truly been unable to predict.
After all these years, Rhys understood how Amarantha worked well. If he had gambled right, she would offer to a game with Feyre, string her along for a bit while dangling Tamlin in front of her like a carrot. Not an optimal outcome, but it would give him time to better understand Feyre’s purpose on this path. From there, he could formulate the rest of his plan.
After she had just torn Clare apart, doing the same to Feyre would be boring, predictable. All things The Deceiver despised.
“I should have listened when darling Clare said she’d never seen Tamlin before, or hunted a day in her life. Though her screaming was certainly delightful. I haven’t heard such lovely music in ages. I should thank you for giving Rhysand her name instead of yours,” she crooned.
Though he stood in the shadows, off to the side of Amarantha’s throne rather than directly beside it, he felt the eyes of the court turn to him. Feyre didn’t spare him a glance, her eyes locked on Clare’s mangled body, but he could feel the horror radiating off of her.
He had known Clare’s death would complicate things. But seeing Clare through Feyre’s comparatively innocent, human eyes – the weight of his crime crashed down fully upon him.
Another sin added to the list of reasons he would burn in hell.
Amarantha verbally toyed with Feyre for a bit longer, enough that Rhys’s dread grew as he started to wonder if he had gambled wrong.
But then she spoke the words he had been praying for.
“I’ll make a bargain with you, human.”
He saw Feyre stiffen – and he was far from relaxing, either.
“You swear you love Tamlin?”
“With my whole heart,” Feyre insisted, her voice heavy with conviction.
“Well then. Proving your devotion should be easy. You complete three tasks of my choosing – three little tasks to prove how deep that human sense of loyalty and love runs, and Tamlin is yours. Just three little challenges to prove your dedication, that your kind can indeed love true, and you can have your High Lord.”
She turned to Tamlin, spouting more nonsense about fickle human hearts. Rhysand’s mind was already racing.
Three tasks – they could be anything, with so many variables. How would Amarantha see fit to make a human prove her love?
Amarantha went on to list conditions, stipulations, throwing a riddle into the mix.
That made him relax a bit. Amarantha had never been as clever as she gave herself credit for. Even if she forbade everyone from giving Feyre hints, it couldn’t be too difficult.
“So – are we agreed?” Amarantha said at last.
Feyre glanced across the throne room once more, eyes locking on Tamlin, who still hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Agreed,” Feyre said.
Cauldron, please, tell me I haven’t just subjected her to a fate worse than Clare’s.
And with Feyre’s words and a swing of the Attor’s clawed arm, ripping into her skin, her fate was sealed, and Rhys’s along with it.
-
Rhys did his best to monitor Feyre from a distance. She had appeared alright when Amarantha gave her the riddle shortly after her arrival. He knew Lucien had already been to see her and patched up her injuries from the Attor’s beating, but it wasn’t enough. He had to see how she was faring and start getting her to trust him.
Also, a selfish part of him admitted, he hated to be so far from her when she was at last within his reach.
Amarantha had given her one of the worst cells in the dungeons, which was truly saying something. It was foul smelling and damp, and perfectly situated so that the screams and groans of the other prisoners angled themselves into the cell.
When he winnowed inside, she looked so small, curled up on a palette of foul-smelling hay that threatened to make his nose start running. At least she had a cloak to keep her warm. She hadn’t arrived with it – Lucien’s, if he had to guess.
At first, he thought she might have been asleep, but she shot up, eyes flying to where he stood in the corner of her cell.
“Hello, darling,” he crooned, stuffing his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t have to hide his tense fists.
“What do you want?” she hissed, blue-gray eyes narrowed.
Good – the fire hadn’t gone from her yet.
“I’m only checking in on my favorite human. How are you faring?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one.”
“I’m fine,” she said, scowling in a way that reminded him of Mor when she was irritated.
“Is that so? Because your situation would imply otherwise.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she shot back.
“I mean you’ve come to claim Tamlin, without the faintest idea of what you’re getting yourself into.”
“You’re just saying that to get into my head.” Her voice was steely, but he saw a shiver shoot through her. Not just from the cold, although that was likely part of it.
“I assure you, I only have your best interests at heart. And, just between the two of us, I’m happy to extend my assistance in any way I can.”
A dangerous, dangerous thing for him to say.
Feyre raised her eyebrows. “You want to help me? You’re Amarantha’s – her lackey.”
“That’s what everyone thinks,” Rhys admitted. “But have you never considered that I might have my own agenda?”
“Well, I don’t want any part of it,” Feyre spat.
Internally, Rhys grimaced. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with her today.
With a wave of his hand, he summoned a blanket he had stashed in a pocket realm earlier. It wasn’t anything particularly nice, and there was a hole worn through in the middle. One of the nobles’ discarded rags.
“Think on it,” he said, tossing the blanket towards her, and winnowing back out of the cell before she could reply.
-
A few more long days went by, and Rhys could barely stand the thought of Feyre alone in her freezing cell. He slept on silk sheets and ate some of Prythian’s finest food every evening. Not only that, but her first trial was rapidly approaching, and he had made almost no progress in gaining her trust. He hadn’t been back to visit her, but he had checked in on her thoughts a handful of times. They ranged from bored, to angry, to fearful. She was pondering the riddle but hadn’t come closer to the right answer.
Six days after his initial visit, he convinced himself that he had waited long enough. It was midday, and Amarantha was sound asleep. She had dismissed him after he had serviced her – a rare mercy. It also gave him the perfect window of opportunity to visit his painter again.
“Go to hell, Rhysand,” she said, sounding bored when he appeared.
“What – no Rhysand, apple of all eyes, or Rhysand, all my waking moments are consumed with thoughts of you?” he purred.
She glared at him - a sight that was becoming quite familiar. “What do you want now?”
“The same thing I wanted to do last time. To see how you’re faring down here, Feyre.”
“How the fuck would you be faring, in my shoes?” she spat.
“You’ll find you have no idea what my shoes are like,” he shot back. Cauldron, what was it about this woman that set him ablaze so quickly?
“How is Tamlin?” she finally asked.
“The High Lord of Spring is doing perfectly fine, as far as I can tell. Amarantha has been dragging him around like a puppy, but he hasn’t so much as budged.” He said truthfully.
That seemed to bring her some satisfaction. “Good,” was all she said.
“Does it bother you? That he hasn’t been down here to see you?” he said the question in his same coy, teasing tone, but he longed to know the answer.
“What does it matter to you?”
“Feyre, please. I – I can’t lose you again.” He blurted it out before he even realized what he was saying. But it certainly got her attention.
Fuck, this was really starting to wear on him. In his desperation to monitor Feyre at every hour, he had barely been getting any sleep.
“What?” That got her attention, and she turned to him at last. A crease formed between her brows, trepidation in her eyes.
How much could he tell her without obliterating any chance of earning her trust? With his powers stolen, he didn’t dare to go in her mind and wipe away the thought. As much as he hated to admit it, he was out of practice on human minds, and he certainly wouldn’t be testing his theories on his painter.
But if he played it right – perhaps having her know could prove advantageous. He just had to make sure he didn’t sound insane.
Feyre was still waiting for his reply.
In the quiet, he used his magic to feel for any listening ears. Years of intuitively knowing when Azriel was nearby had honed his senses well.
“What do you think my goal is, here?”
Feyre frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
“Just tell me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I assume to save your own skin and piss Tamlin off however you can.”
Well, her assumptions could have been much worse.
“Feyre, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say, and not make any assumptions or jump to conclusions until I’m done.”
“Why should I trust you?” She spat.
“Have I done anything to cause you harm thus far?”
“No, but-“
He cut her off, knowing he would never get a word in edgewise over his painter if he didn’t.
“I have been Amarantha’s lackey under this Mountain for forty-nine years. Most of them have been long, the same things happening year after year. But months ago, something changed. I had a dream.”
Skepticism danced across her face.
“I dreamed of a young woman, drawing her bow in a snowy forest. Aiming at a deer first, and then a wolf, which she shot with remarkable precision. It left me with a strange feeling in my chest, but I cast it aside, convinced it was only an exceptionally clear dream. But the feeling didn’t go away. On Calanmai, I felt a strange inclination to visit the Spring Court. Another unusual feeling – I’ve made a point to avoid that court and the sycophants that live there for years. So I ignored the pull. I barely believed you were real, much less human, until I saw you for the first time, in the dining room with Tamlin and Lucien when I interrupted your dinner.
“That’s not –“
He kept going, or he knew he would never finish. It was best to keep this part succinct anyway. “By then, Tamlin’s time was almost up. He sent you away to protect you, but you came back, came Under the Mountain, just as you did now. But your timing was poor, in a way you had no control over, and Amarantha was angry, and I tried to protect you from her wrath, but – things didn’t end well. We both died, and I was prepared to meet the Mother.”
“And then….I had the same dream, of you killing the wolf. And I woke up the same way I had the time before, and I watched the same events unfold before my eyes, only changed by my interference. Not just once. Over and over. You always killed the wolf, you always came to Prythian and fell for Tamlin. And eventually, I realized that I’m stuck in some kind of loop, reliving the same events over and over again.”
“You’re insane,” Feyre breathed, taking a step back.
No, no, no. He couldn’t let this go poorly.
“Let me prove it to you,” he said, extending his hand. “Mind to mind.”
“I’m not letting you in my mind again,” she said, taking another step back. “I felt you, back in the dining room in the Spring Court. Tamlin has told me plenty about you, you know. I’m not a fool.”
He took a step towards her, bridging the space between them. Even as both of their lives hung on the line, something was electrifying about arguing with her like this. It made him feel more alive than he had in a long time. He could admire her stubbornness, even as it worked against him.
“And what has Tamlin told you?” he asked softly.
“That you’re responsible for terrible things.”
“And you believe everything Tamlin tells you? Even when he concealed this whole mess from you?”
“That was part of the curse. He couldn’t help it.”
“Couldn’t he?” Rhys raised an eyebrow.
Feyre dropped his gaze at last, falling silent.
“I swear to you, on the Mother that I will not harm you. Nor will I enter your mind again without permission.”
He watched her consider for a long moment, fingers fidgeting at her sides in an attempt to appear unruffled.
“Fine.”
She didn’t hide her scowl as she held out her hand, and Rhys considered telling her that he didn’t need physical connection to initiate it, but refrained. This was, after all, the first time she had willingly let him touch her.
He took her callused hand in his – though his was much too smooth, after all these years away from weapons that had once been like an extension of his arm.
For a brief moment, he considered showing her Velaris, snippets of his happy memories. If things went awry, he could always start the loop over again. But even that felt too risky. He couldn’t divulge it.
Instead, he did what he had promised and entered her mind. Gently, like walking through a forest in autumn and trying to avoid snapping a stick.
“See? Not so bad, is it?”
“Can we get this over with?”
He caught brief glimpses of her thoughts. Wondering if he was insane, wondering if she was insane for letting such a mentally unstable individual near her.
A strong sense of curiosity, too.
Good. That meant that not all was lost.
He showed her his memories of the first time he had watched her shoot the wolf, and their meeting in the dining room, and standing before Amarantha. He skipped over their deaths – that was the last thing he wanted to show her. Instead, he skipped ahead through other loops, showing their interactions or things he had watched her do.
Selfishly, he tried to pick the ones that painted him in a more flattering light.
After he had sifted through all the half-decent memories from previous loops, he switched gears. She needed to see more of him to trust him, and Velaris was too risky. But there were other things he could show.
He sent memories of him drinking with Mor, sitting at a desk next to Amren, piles of documents surrounding them both. Flying with Cassian and Azriel.
He could feel her jolt of surprise at the last one, at the revelation of his wings.
How peculiar, for that to be the thing she found most shocking.
At last, the memories ended. He could have sifted through her thoughts some more to find out what Feyre was thinking, but he found himself wanting to hear her voice her thoughts on her own.
She was staring at him in stunned silence as she pulled her hand away from his.
“Well?” Rhys promoted. “I’m sure it’s a lot to take in.”
She took a few steps backward, dropping back on the pallet, eyes wide.
“So you and I are all just players in this sick game? No – I’m not even a player. I’m a pawn.”
“Feyre –“ he tried to interject.
“If we fail, you’re the one that has to do this all over again. I – this version of myself, and everything I’ve gone through – I don’t even die. I just cease to exist.”
Rhys thought he might have preferred being in her position to reliving the same months over and over, but he kept that thought silent.
“It’s not fair. But – we’ve never done it like this before. We have to believe that this time, we’ll make it through.”
“How many times have you said that to me?”
“Never,” Rhys admitted. “I’ve never told you that we’re in a loop before.”
At that, the tiniest sliver of amusement appeared on her face.
“Well, that would explain why you did such a piss-poor job of it.”
“But you believe me?”
She exhaled, letting out a huff of air. “Unless you have some insane strategy, I don’t know why you would be making it up.”
“I meant everything I said earlier,” he finally said.
This was so, so far off the course of his original plan.
“We have never worked together before. If we do, I believe we can get out of here.”
What came after that, he truly had no clue.
“What about those other memories, Rhysand?” she asked. “The ones that weren’t part of the loop? Were those just to make yourself look good?”
“Would you think worse of me if I said yes? I won’t lie, I’ve done some monstrous things. But they have all been in the name of keeping my people, my family, safe.”
That seemed to resonate with something deep in her, and he watched as she seemed to mentally to go some far-off place for a moment.
“And Clare?” she murmured.
He offered up another bit of truth. “It was her or you.”
A grim line of determination creased on her forehead, and Feyre was silent for a long, long moment. Rhys again had to stop himself from instinctually reaching into her mind to see what she was thinking.
“Alright,” Feyre said at last. “What’s your plan?”
Rhys could have fallen to his knees before her at the relief he felt.
“You go through the trials like nothing has changed, you’re still fighting for Tamlin’s love. I swear that I will be beside you every step of the way, keeping Amarantha’s attention off of you as much as I can. And for the love of the Mother, think on the riddle she gave you.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
“What about the trials? Do you know anything about those?”
He shook his head. Amarantha had been tight-lipped about whatever she had in store for “the puny human.”
The sound of footsteps drawing near to Feyre’s cell drew his focus. “We don’t have much more time.”
“I have so many more questions.”
“Next time we get a spare moment, I’ll answer them,” he promised, scanning her up and down as if signs of the truth between them could be seen on her.
Before Feyre could respond, the door swung open, revealing the red-skinned, pot-bellied guards that escorted her everywhere. They tossed in a stale-looking piece of bread and a bruised, mushy apple.
It simply wouldn’t do.
Reaching into their minds was as easy as cutting through butter.
“No more of this slop. From now on, you’re to bring her a fresh, hot meal from the kitchens twice a day. Tell the others, and the kitchen staff, too. Stay out of her cell, and don’t touch her. If you do, you’re to take your own daggers and gut yourselves. Understood?”
Feyre straightened, staring at him with a mix of emotions he couldn’t entirely decipher – but Cauldron, how he wanted to.
“You’re welcome,” he purred instead. Her surprised eyes were the last thing he saw before he winnowed away again.
-
Rhys could scarcely believe how well things had been going.
Of course, if you considered his painter trapped Under the Mountain by a murdering psychopath “going well.”
If he had thought Feyre consumed his thoughts before, he had been wrong. Having her in such a close proximity, not loathing him, felt like a fantasy.
Rhys did his best to make good on his promise. Each day, he made a point to send a hot meal to her cell. He was getting the sense that Feyre’s first trial would be some kind of physical test, and she had to keep her strength up. He installed wards that muffled the sounds of the screams that tore through the walls to Feyre’s cell at all hours.
In his free seconds, he found excuses to sneak back down to the dungeons under the guise of emotionally tormenting Feyre.
In reality, he was doing his best to satisfy her insatiable curiosity. She did her best to act nonchalant, but Rhys recognized the curiosity, the stubbornness, behind the mask. He knew it because the same traits were reflected in him.
Talking with her was a…disarming experience. She had seen him without the mask he had worn for so long. She saw the desperation that lay underneath without him having to voice it. It only made him question more why the Cauldron had shoved them together into this wretched situation.
“A question for a question,” he finally said one night, after she pressed him for more information on the Night Court. “You’re learning all of my secrets, but I can’t say the same. I’ll answer one of yours if you answer one of mine.”
Pure selfishness, on his part. He couldn’t help it.
She raised her eyebrows. “What about me could possibly interest you, Rhysand?”
“Rhys,” he corrected automatically. “And I think you’re drastically underselling yourself, darling.”
She shifted uncomfortably on the hay pallet. Even after everything he told her, she was still fiercely protective of her secrets; especially the human family she had left behind.
“Fine.”
“You said you’ve seen this over and over again. How do they end? Is it always with me dying?””
“Not always,” Rhys replied honestly. “Sometimes I go first.”
That set her mouth in a grim line.
“I know you like to paint,” he said. “Why?”
She gave him a funny look. “I always enjoyed it, even as a child. My mother hated that out of all the talents that were suitable for a young lady, I had an affinity for the one that was as messy and wild as I was. And when things changed and my family lost our fortune, painting became a rare luxury. A bit of color in my dreary life, I guess.”
When they weren’t asking questions, Rhys prepped her about the different trials Amarantha might have in store. The first one was less than a week away, and he was still in the dark about it. It could have been some kind of duel, or puzzle, or perhaps an archery test. Amarantha had remained impossibly tight-lipped about it.
Whatever it was, Rhys knew Feyre would prevail. The hours he had spent in her cell, getting to know her, had only strengthened his opinion on that. And if for any reason, she stumbled, he would be there to pick her back up.
They had each other now, and this strange, tentative trust. They would not fail.
-
At last, the day of Feyre’s first trial was upon them.
The day prior, Amarantha had her lackeys bring in some sort of muddy labyrinth, hauled up from the catacombs somehow and reassembled in a giant pit. And in the early morning hours, when Rhys gazed upon the completed project, he knew what awaited Feyre in a few hours.
“Feyre – I know what your first trial is. She’s going to have you outrun and hunt the Middengard Wyrm.”
He was at a loss for how to describe the wretched creature, so instead, he sent an image of it into Feyre’s mind, well aware of how terrifying the creature was.
He felt the tide of horror rise up in her mind.
“She wants me to kill that thing?”
“Yes – but Feyre, the Middengard has weaknesses. It’s blind, and it relies on smell. It knows its lair like nothing else, but if you can disrupt it, you’ll throw it off. I’ll be a second pair of eyes for you, too. Don’t worry.”
“Easy for you to say,” she responded, voice shaky.
Oh, she had no idea how not easy all of this was.
Later in the morning, he found himself back in Amarantha’s bedchambers, where she sat at her vanity and brushed out her long hair, her back to him.
“Rhysand,” she mused as he came in. “You haven’t gotten anything else interesting out of the human, have you?”
“No, my queen. It seems she truly loves Tamlin. She believes with all her heart that she’ll be able to free him.”
The Deceiver scoffed. “And you haven’t noticed anyone helping her? Nobody developing any attachments.”
“Not at all.”
Her smile, slippery as a snake, curled upwards in the mirror’s reflection.
“Very good.”
-
An hour later, Amarantha’s court had gathered around the pit that held the Middengard’s lair, waiting for Feyre’s entrance.
In a typical move for her, Amarantha had her throne moved into here so she could preside over the festivities above everyone else. A smaller chair had been brought in for Tamlin, who sat beside her.
That was another merciful thing about Feyre and Tamlin’s presence down here. It saved him from having to be at Amarantha’s right hand as often.
Feyre was brought in, escorted by her usual guards, and Rhys was again struck by how small she looked. But she held her head high, chin jutted out in defiance.
“So, dear Feyre, are you ready for your first trial?” Amarantha crooned. She looked especially bloodthirsty today, dressed in a long-sleeved black gown. There was a glint in her eyes that Rhys didn’t like.
In response to Amarantha, Feyre nodded.
“Well, I have been ready too,” Amarantha continued. “I’ve been excited to see how you’ll fare against the little surprise I have for you. But I suppose it won’t be much of a surprise, will it?” Her tone turned icy.
What?
“Imagine my shock, Amarantha said, “When someone came to me this morning with a full report. Telling me that someone’s been helping you the past few weeks. Fresh meals, warm blankets. Information.”
No, no no –
Who had betrayed him? He had been so careful.
He raked through his past interactions, doing his best to keep his face a blank mask, only cocking an eyebrow.
Amarantha’s hawkish gaze whipped around to him.
“Rhysand,” she hissed. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Gasps of shock and rapid whispering went up around the room.
“I don’t know what you're referring to, my queen,” Rhys replied smoothly. He wasn't afraid for himself - only Feyre. He had withstood Amarantha’s wrath many times before, and he would do it again.
“Liar,” she hissed, and before Rhys knew what was happening, a wall of force hit him, sending him crashing to his knees.
No, not again -
He struggled to bring himself to his knees before another wave of her stolen power hit him, sending him back to the floor.
The throng of people that had been near him scurried out of the way.
“You’ve been helping her. Giving her comforts, preparing her for the trials.”
Her questioning earlier had been a test.
“No!” A voice shouted from the other side of the room - Feyre’s. “He hasn't been helping me. You're wrong.”
Her attempt to spare him was touching, but Rhys knew it was too late for them. And it only turned Amarantha’s attention back to his painter.
Tamlin seemed to finally remember that he could speak. “Amarantha, no. You can’t harm her, you made a bargain with her.”
Amarantha laughed – a horrible, high-pitched sound, and Rhys felt the pit of dread growing in his stomach. There had to be some way to salvage this. They had come so far.
“You’re finally defending her? When she only has eyes for Rhysand, of all people? The bargain is only upheld if the human’s heart is still set on you, Tamlin. And there is nothing in our agreement that stops me from tearing her apart whenever I please.”
Rhys stopped caring about Tamlin and whatever pathetic, useless pleas he had when Amarantha extended a clawed nail towards his painter.
Her hand flicked, and Rhys watched, still crushed on the ground, as Feyre joined him on the unforgiving floor with a scream.
He knew this was the end.
“You should apologize to me, human. I offered you a chance, I arranged this entire trial, just for you. And yet you refuse to play fairly.”
Her limbs twisted, going in directions that made him nauseous.
His body was on fire, but he reached for Feyre’s mind.
“Feyre,” he rasped, unintentionally saying it out loud, too.
“Rhys, are you there?” Feyre asked.
He sent out a wave of comfort, as much as he could manage as he fought through the fog of his own. “I’m sorry Feyre, I wanted this to go differently.”
“If she spares you somehow – don’t let her find my family.”
He knew she wouldn’t, and the moment Feyre’s heart stopped beating, it wouldn’t matter anyway, but he didn’t say that.
“I won’t let her find them.”
“I guess you’ll see me in the next loop,” she said, sounding strained under the wave of pain, making her thrash and scream through gritted teeth.
He heard the snap, snap, snap, of her bones, and reached for her mind, to take away the pain as he had done before.
SNAP
A roar of pain coming from Feyre’s mind, and then, silence.
Amarantha had underestimated the durability of humans in her rage.
And this –
All of this – had been for nothing.
He had tried so hard to plan things out, to do it differently this time, and it was all for nothing.
Searing pain sliced through his body once more as he shifted, his gaze meeting Amarantha’s. She had stood from the throne, face twisted into a snarl above him.
“Traitorous filth. After all these years, you try to deceive me?”
“I hope you burn in hell,” Rhysand spat with the remainder of his energy.
Her sneering face was the last thing he saw before the world dropped away into darkness.
24 notes
·
View notes