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phantom-of-the-501st · 1 year

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Thoughts on TBB 1x2 and 1x3

I'm back! I promise that I didn't forget about the whole Bad Batch rewatch analysis thing I just uh... haven't actually been watching TBB recently. In fact it's been a whole month since I made the last analysis post...

But I have some thoughts on the next two episodes! I was hoping to get this out earlier in the week but after writing essays for my exams I had no motivation to churn it out. But here it is!

(Also, I may have started rewatching The Tudors so I have absolutely no idea when I'm actually going to watch TBB again... this whole plan is going very well. I'll try and not wait an entire month again this time!)

1x2

Tech in the Pilot Seat

Straight away, seeing Tech in the pilot seat made me instantly think of that shot from the S2 finale of Echo looking at the empty seat next to him.

That image haunts me.

I will never be the same.

Omega and Dirt

I love the comparison between Omega in S1 and Omega in S2. By S2 you can definitely tell that she's settled into the flow of things and is much more accustomed to a life outside of Kamino. The scene of her discovering dirt for the first time is sweet and kind of funny (especially with Tech's comment) but also kind of sad. Her entire life she has grown up in a completely sterile environment with absolutely no idea about what the world around her was like. The fact that she doesn't even know what dirt is means that she probably wasn't taught about it either. It just proves that the Kaminoans never had any intention of letting her leave the labs. She was one of their experiments, one of their helpers and they were never going to give her the life that she deserved.

But I do love that her awe and desire to explore are still there in S2. if anything, I think taking her off Kamino just enhanced her desire to see more of the galaxy. When we first saw her at Tipoca City, she never showed any real desire to leave, not because I don't think she necessarily wanted to, but because she had resigned herself to the fact that this was her life and that this was in fact normal. She's a child experiment surrounded by millions of other child experiments. That is her normal. At that point, I don't think that she could even conceive just how different the universe outside of Kamino was. But now that she's had a taste for that adventure, she wants to chase that curiosity and explore wherever she can. They may be on the run from the empire, but it was still her first taste of what freedom actually was.

Batch Parenting

So there are multiple points in Cut and Run when they address the fact that the Batch aren't used to having a child around don't really know what to do with the whole situation: Wrecker initially going to take Omega's food, Hunter shouting at her etc. But there is one little detail that I noticed that immediately stuck out to me. When they are walking through the fields to Cut and Suu's house, they are all walking single file with Omega at the back. Now, if we've learnt anything from going on trips at school is that you do not leave children at the back of the line: you have at least one adult at the back and one at the front with the child(ren) sandwiched in the middle. She could've stopped walking and wandered off, or gotten lost, and none of them would've known (unless Hunter's senses picked it up).

It's just one of those little things that show that the Batch aren't used to this. They don't necessarily think that it might be a good idea to keep Omega between them, they just let her trail at the back and assume that nothing will happen.

Echo and Rex

I love how Echo immediately starts asking Cut and Suu questions when they bring up Rex. Personally, I would've liked to have seen a little bit more emotion from that revelation because at this point Rex is officially registered as deceased, but it still makes me happy to see Echo asking about his Captain. That's his older brother. Of course he'd want to know that he's okay. :')

Tech and Echo

My two favourite geniuses with half a brain cell <3

I missed the banter between these two so much when Echo left :(

But I do want to address how close those two are. For Echo, Tech is the other half that has been missing since Fives died. No, Tech will never be to Echo what Fives was, but he's the closest thing to a constant companion that Echo has. The Domino Twins were always paired up, always completing missions as a duo.

And then Echo came back to find that Fives was gone and it would've been a massive empty space that Echo could always feel next to him. But then he ended up with the Batch and naturally partnered up with Tech. Like I said, Tech will never be Fives, but it's probably a great comfort to Echo to have someone by his side again, to have one person out of a group to be your partner in crime.

And I'm sure Tech really appreciated it too. Yes, he's always had his brothers, but it must've been nice for him to have someone who had similar technical capabilities (*thinks about Hunter and the lift*) that he could work with or just talk to. I headcanon that when Echo first joined, him and Tech became really close because Echo was one of the only ones to actually ask Tech about his ramblings and actively listen to them. Yes, they bicker with each other, but they are 100% a couple of little shits when paired up together (...I need Tech back).

Echo

Nothing to say here, I just really like this shot of Echo

Wrecker Knocking Out Droids

So there's a shot of Wrecker knocking out an astromech to help Omega that is very much like the scene in S2 when he steps on the mouse droid. But what I like about the differences in these two scenes is that in S1, Omega needs help after she's wandered off by herself, but in S2 she's gone off alone because they trust her to do so.

It's a little parallel that shows how she's gone from being someone trying to prove her worth and ultimately getting herself into trouble, to being someone who they actively trust to do the things that she was trying to do in S1.

Hunter Didn't Tell Wrecker About Omega Leaving

Just before they get on The Marauder, Wrecker asks where Omega is, meaning that Hunter didn't tell him that she was going to be going with Cut and Suu. And honestly, that doesn't surprise me a whole lot. Hunter is very much a man who will try and avoid difficult situations where possible, so I think he was just hoping to break the news about Omega leaving as late as he could. If he had mentioned it beforehand, Wrecker would've been upset and probably would've tried to contest Hunter's decision. It was probably easier in Hunter's mind to tell everyone when they left (which would've caused it's own problems but Hunter doesn't actually do a particularly good job of avoiding trouble most of the time).

1x3

"Repairs would go faster if I had some help."

...Tech's not there to help him anymore *cries*

Also, the idea of Tech carrying out repairs for the first time after Echo left and that being the moment when it truly kicks in that he doesn't have his partner in crime there... *cries more*

"More squads like this being trained by skilled clones"

The Empire in all their dickish glory are really out here making the clones train the groups of soldiers who would eventually replace them. They clearly acknowledged the skills of the clones enough to use them as tools to teach all the elite teams they were recruiting, but didn't actually care enough to keep the clones around.

And while we're on the subject, there is something ironic about the Empire complaining about the clones lack of loyalty. The truth is, they are loyal. They are arguably the most loyal people that you will ever find, but they are loyal to what they believe is right. The Empire are just pissed that a bunch of highly skilled soldiers have to be brainwashed into thinking that they are not just a group of asshats.

"I'm angry at myself. We don't leave our own behind."

This line alone is all the evidence you need that they still care about Crosshair. They didn't just abandon him because they no longer care, they left because they had to and that decision continues to haunt them. I can imagine Rex saying this exact same thing after discovering that Echo was alive. Neither Rex nor Hunter were wrong for leaving their men behind in that moment, but knowing that they left them will always stick with them.

(Also, the same sentiment is definitely going to apply when they are reunited with Tech because he is 100% alive)

"Enjoy being a commander... for now. We'll see how things shake out."

Now Crosshair looks very put off by this comment, and I don't blame him, but tbf... the guy wasn't wrong. I think Crosshair always knew that the Empire would eventually screw him over, but he hoped that maybe, if he could prove himself enough, they wouldn't throw him out like trash. Being promoted to a commander was probably a tiny bit of hope for Crosshair that he could secure a position, be a more prominent figure.

But obviously we know from S2 that that didn't happen. That role didn't stick, it was only ever temporary and the Empire were fully willing to leave him behind, regardless of the position that he held. They never cared. And so as much as it was a dickish comment from the elite squad member at the time, it ended up being an accurate statement.

Not that it turned out much better for him seeing as Crosshair got rid of him soon as :)

Old Moon Dragon How???

Zoology ramble incoming.

WHY IS THERE AN ANIMAL THAT FEEDS OFF RAW ENERGY LIVING ON A DESOLATE ROCK IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE??? DID I MISS SOMETHING??? HOW IS THAT THING STILL ALIVE??? DOES IT NEVER EAT??? HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE TO BE CRASHING ON THAT ROCK FOR IT TO BE EVOLUTIONARILY ADVANTAGEOUS TO FEED OFF RAW ENERGY WHEN YOU LIVE ON A BARREN ROCK IN THE MIDDLE OF SPACE???

Crosshair vs The Batch

*cries again* Someone give my poor boy, Cross, a hug :'(

But I do like what these two shots show. Despite being in a room with a group of people, Crosshair is alone. He doesn't feel like he has anyone, he's isolated, he doesn't have anyone around him to support him anymore. And then you have the Batch, who are all shown together. They are a family, a unit, they have each other there for support and despite everything being thrown at them, they will always have the squad.

I also appreciate the contrast in lighting. With Crosshair, everything is blue and grey and cold, while the lighting around the Batch is warm and yellow and comforting. It shows how calming and welcoming the environment with the Batch is, while Crosshair is currently alone and away from any of the warmth of his family.

One Final Point

Echo's little "you did good" nod to Wrecker at the end has my heart and is one of my favourite moments in the entire show <3

(Also, Hunter's face in the picture above made me laugh)

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the-lonelybarricade · 24 days

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We Bleed the Same - (5/?)

Summary: The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice... The beginning to a story we know, unfolded a little bit differently.

A gift for my darling @belabellissima💝

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

The emerald eyed beast watched Feyre from the shadows of the ash wood grove.

She was frozen, shaping words of warning but unable to give any of them voice.

Elain’s back was turned, blissfully unaware of the looming threat as she tended to the garden on Lord Nolan’s estate. Her head was tilted mid-laugh, joy shining on her face, until the pleasant sound pitched into a scream when she spied the beast launching from its hiding spot. There was no time to evade its massive body as it tackled her to the ground, its brutal teeth tearing into her flesh.

Feyre couldn’t move. She wanted to lunge towards one of the ash wood trees and pry off a branch to use as a spear. She wanted to cry. She wanted to beg the beast to take her life instead. But all she could do was watch as the beast swiped a claw over Elain’s throat, cutting through her skin like butter.

Elain’s lips parted, fighting for breath in a series of wet, desperate gasps of air. Each of them were futile, catching and dissolving at the slit in her throat. Blood gushed from the wound—so bright against her pale skin—and trickled down to wet the earth. Feyre couldn’t look away as Elain’s head lolled into the growing dark puddle, her struggle tapering.

It was a slow, miserable death. And Elain held Feyre’s eyes until it claimed her.

Then a noise rose from behind, drawing the beast’s attention away from Elain’s corpse. It raised its bloodied maw to the mansion’s front entrance—and only once she recognized the voice did Feyre pry her eyes to where Nesta now stood, wailing at the sight before her.

Run, Feyre tried to beg, but Nesta didn’t. She collapsed to her knees, her face slackened with grief, and she made no move to defend herself as the beast darted past Feyre to strike down the eldest Archeron sister.

Nesta turned her head away from the beast, those fierce, burning eyes meeting Feyre’s.

“You did this,” she said, the words bathed in contempt. “You brought them here. You damned us.”

Feyre thrashed awake, hissing when the motion jerked at her stitches. She was covered in sweat and gasping for air as her eyes flitted through the dark bedroom, searching for any details that could ground her. Remind her that the nightmare wasn’t real.

It was just a dream, she told herself, rubbing away her tears. Elain and Nesta are fine. They’re asleep in their beds. Rhys is going to find the High Lord and…

And what? Kill him? Was that even possible?

Feyre groaned as she threw her sweat-damp blankets aside and reached for the small vial Rhysand left on her bedside table. The pain in her shoulder had steadily returned since he’d left the estate, and was now slicing through her with a vengeance.

She tipped the tonic into her mouth, swallowing past its acrid taste in the delusional hope it could clear away her restless mind just as effectively as it would ease the throbbing. The liquid burned as it slid down her throat and warmed her chest. She sat still, counting her heavy breaths as she waited for it to do something, anything.

It denied her any instant relief.

Fingers shaking, Feyre lifted the blankets to rise from the bed. Silver light poured through a slit in the heavy velvet drapes hanging from the windows. She knew if she pulled them aside, she’d find the estate cast in darkness, the morning still hours off.

But Feyre wasn’t brave enough to pull aside the drapes. Not at the risk of peeking out and seeing those emerald eyes flash at her through the shadows. She couldn’t shake the horror of her nightmare, the sight of all that gore.

If it were an ordinary day, back in the cottage, she would be waking by this time. Preparing for a day of hunting before the sun rose so that she wouldn’t miss a moment of precious sunlight. Her sisters would be grumbling their displeasure at being woken so early while Feyre untangled herself from their limbs.

An odd ache bloomed like a bolt in her chest. She never thought she’d miss sharing a bed with them, feeling the warmth of their bodies and hearing their steady breathing, knowing they were okay. Alive.

She pushed out her bedroom, telling herself she would feel better once she checked on her sisters and saw them each sleeping peacefully in their beds.

Of course, that required knowing where they were staying. Feyre glanced hopelessly down the branching passageways, each lined with dozens of doors, and for the first time she was struck by the sheer size of Lord Nolan’s fortress. She hadn’t bothered to ask Rhys where her sisters were being kept, and he hadn’t bothered to show her.

It was dim in the hallway. Feyre didn’t dare light a candle at the risk that Lord Nolan or his son might see the light passing under their door and decide to investigate. She didn’t want them to think she was snooping—and she promised herself that wasn’t what she was doing. But her eyes did wander, marking the weapons and trophies mounted to the walls, mentally keeping track of each of the turns she took through the dark halls so she could find her way back.

She paused when she came across a portrait hanging on one end of the corridor. It was too dim to admire the art in any detail, but the sight of it pulled at a longing she’d once believed would lay permanently dormant.

Perhaps… perhaps if they were truly to remain here, fed and unharmed, then Feyre would have the luxury of picking up a paintbrush again. Now that she could hang her bow without worrying where her family’s next meal was coming from.

Once, that was all she’d ever dreamed about.

Somehow, it still felt too far out of reach. Like it was all placed so neatly for her atop a frozen lake, but if she stepped towards it, the cracks would set in and she would watch everything collapse in front of her.

“Creepy, isn’t it?”

Feyre jumped at the sound of Nesta’s voice.

She spun around, finding her sister standing in the middle of the hallway, her arms crossed tightly over her dressing gown to keep it from exposing the nightgown she wore underneath. Silver light flooded from one of the windows at her back, haloing Nesta in an unearthly glow that, for a moment, caused Feyre’s heart to stutter. As if she were staring at an apparition.

Her sister was scowling at the portrait over Feyre’s shoulder. “That’s Lord Nolan’s late wife. The Housekeeper says she haunts this place.”

Feyre fought a shiver. “And you believe her?”

Besides the iron bracelet clasped around her wrist, Nesta had never acted overly superstitious. If not from a lack of belief, then from a lack of caring. What did ghosts and faeries matter when the most likely thing to kill them would be starvation? At least, until recently.

Nesta shrugged. “It’s clear she haunts Lord Nolan—or something does. I’ve heard rumors that he’d been descending into madness since she died. Now I can see what they meant. It’s like he’s become a ghost, too.”

There was a harshness to the words, a certain scorn that Feyre understood wasn’t entirely directed towards Lord Nolan. They’d seen the same happen in their own father. His steady decline after their mother’s death. While he lacked the unsettling, vacant stare she’d seen in Lord Nolan, there were still plenty of moments where it felt as though he wasn’t there at all. Moments where they’d needed him to be.

Knowing that words of sympathy would only stir Nesta’s temper, Feyre opted to change the subject.

“Why are you up so early?”

Nesta’s scowl swiveled from the portrait to Feyre. “I never went to sleep.”

There was something vulnerable there, hidden beneath the thorns and thistles.

Feyre’s expression softened. “You’re safe here, Nesta.”

“Why?” She hissed. “Because your mercenary says so?”

“Because there are dozens of guards patrolling the massive iron walls surrounding this place,” Feyre said, keeping her voice steady. “This is the safest place we could possibly be.”

The assurance rang hollow, even to her own ears. And Nesta’s eyes narrowed, zeroing in on that doubt.

“And we’re supposed to just trust that we’re welcome here indefinitely? Out of the goodness of Lord Nolan’s heart?”

It was all of the questions that Feyre kept asking herself. And she faltered, having no answer except, “Rhys says—”

“Yes, let’s talk about Rhys.” Nesta sneered his name. “Your husband shows up out of nowhere and the next day a faerie breaks down our door. You don’t think that timing’s a little strange?”

That gave Feyre pause. “What are you accusing him of?”

“I don’t know,” Nesta said. “Not yet. But there’s something about him. Something off. And your supposed marriage?” Her laugh was vicious enough to cut through steel. “I wish I could say it’s surprising you’d be so easily manipulated.”

Feyre bristled. “I thought you would have been happy,” she snapped. “Thanks to him, you finally get to enjoy the comforts of wealth without lifting a finger. Isn’t that everything you ever wanted?”

“None of it is real, Feyre! I hope you’ll realize that before you doom all of us.”

Nesta turned on her heel and stormed away before Feyre could have the last word. She knew better than to follow after her sister. They fought more often than they didn’t and when Nesta retreated like this, it meant she needed time to seethe.

And though she’d gotten defensive, a part of Feyre was reluctant to admit that Nesta was right.

They were putting so much of their trust in a stranger when, for all she knew, Rhysand was halfway to the nearest port with no intention of returning. And meanwhile they would sit in this estate, deluding themselves into thinking a man-made wall would be sufficient in warding off a High Lord’s wrath.

It was possible they were being kept here as nice, pretty bait to distract the High Lord. Lure him here while Rhysand made a clean getaway. Is that not exactly what she would have considered doing?

But then… it made no sense why Rhys would bother interfering at all. He could have wiped his hands of this from the moment they met in the marketplace.

None of it made any gods-damned sense.

Feyre slid a hand down her face and spared one final glance towards the portrait of Lord Nolan’s late wife.

The shafts of moonlight in the hall didn’t quite reach the portrait, as if intentionally keeping her image shrouded in the dark. Even then, Feyre could tell she was beautiful. She stepped closer, squinting to take in any details. She had sad eyes—brown, like Graysen’s, and slightly hooded.

As Feyre stared, taking in the melancholy of her image, she thought it wasn’t so inconceivable that Lord Nolan would feel moved by Rhysand’s lies. It made sense that he would feel pity for a man afraid of losing his wife.

The only thing she had yet to fathom was why Rhys lied in the first place.

Things were quiet at breakfast. Lord Nolan was notably absent, and without Rhysand to carry the conversation with his little quips, Graysen was left stranded amid the icy tundra burning through the silence of the Archeron sisters.

Rather than go back to bed, Feyre had stayed up all morning thinking about what Nesta said, and what she was supposed to do about it. She didn’t know what Rhysand’s motivations were. What she did know was that he’d kept her alive, and somehow managed to convince Lord Nolan to let her family stay, however temporarily.

And that was good enough.

It had to be, because she didn’t know what the alternative was.

Yet, that didn’t soothe the part of her mind that searched for one. Nesta’s words stirred a restlessness that insisted on having a backup plan, that refused to let Feyre put her full trust in anyone or anything. Maybe she’d permanently lost that ability. Maybe it was for a good reason.

“I’d like to go back to our cottage today,” she said, finally breaking the silence.

Everyone’s head jerked her direction, meeting her with varying degrees of disbelief.

“Just to collect some of our things,” she added, thinking of the coin Rhys had given her for the pelts. They would need it if they decided to leave Lord Nolan’s sanctuary—or if their warm welcome were to expire with little warning.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Graysen said, his face pinched in discomfort.

His reluctance surprised her, considering he’d offered his men to escort them outside the estate only yesterday.

“I’ll be quick,” she assured him. “And I can go with one of your guards, if necessary.”

He pressed his lips together, clearly still uncomfortable with the idea, and Feyre sensed that he was withholding something from her. From all of them.

“Did Rhysand say something to you about letting me leave the estate?”

She couldn’t help the dark edge that slipped into her voice. If he thought he could control her by putting a fake ring around her finger, then he was going to be very disappointed.

“What?” Graysen blinked, his lips curling into a frown. “No. But I’m worried it’s not safe. There was an attack in the village last night.”

The surge in her temper dropped, plummeting into a dark pit in her stomach, where it cooled into stone. Her body felt impossibly heavy as she asked, “Did someone get hurt?”

“A woman was killed,” he said grimly. “A prisoner. She was found dead in her cell this morning. Her…” He cast a worried glance towards Elain, who had gone pale. He lowered his voice, as if it could lessen the blow of the news as he said, “Her heart was missing from her chest.”

Feyre’s pulse leaped into her throat, though she tried to swallow it back down. “And the authorities think it was a faerie?”

He shrugged. “They don’t know how the culprit was able to get into her cell, fae or otherwise. It was still locked when they found her. The bars are made of iron.”

Iron wouldn’t stop the fae. For some reason, she held her tongue from sharing that with Graysen.

“But you think it was a faerie,” Nesta said, reading his expression.

“What else would take her heart from her chest?” Graysen asked. “She was in line for the gallows. I can’t think of a human motive for doing this before her execution. And to happen the day after the attack on your cottage—”

He cut himself off when Elain made a small, distressed noise in the back of her throat.

Nesta filled in the rest, looking at Feyre as she said, “The timing is too strange for the attack not to be related.”

“Exactly,” Graysen said, moving to place his hand on top of Elain’s. “But you’ll be safe in here,” he soothed, speaking directly to her. “Our guards will make sure of it.”

Elain nodded, holding his gaze and looking utterly besotted by his promise. But Feyre and Nesta shared a glance across the table, neither of them feeling assured by his words. All it would take was one faerie to slip through the gates. One mistake, and they’d all be dead.

The threat of the fae was no longer some distant thing lurking behind the Wall. They were here, stalking the woods and hunting in the village. She wondered if Rhys was safe. Never mind her concern that he’d flee without them—it suddenly seemed just as likely that he’d be killed on patrol. He might be skilled with a sword but he was still just a human.

And despite what he promised, she knew that humans were easily killed.

The afternoon sun made the carnage of the beast’s arrival all the more stark. Pieces of wood were scattered in the snow—splinters that had been sent flying from the moment he broke down their door.

Feyre tracked her eyes through the barren trees surrounding the cottage, trying to listen beyond the whistling wind and the footsteps following at her back. Graysen had eventually relented in allowing her to visit the cottage, but only at the insistence that she bring along three guards.

It came as no surprise when Nesta and Elain had no interest in coming with. Nesta had always loathed their cottage and Elain was too spooked by the news of the attack to brave venturing outside the estate.

“Stay here,” she told the guards, once she was satisfied there was nothing waiting beyond the treeline.

They looked prepared to protest, but Feyre stepped up to the gaping front entrance before they could. It was mortifying enough for them to see the outside of the cottage, with its filthy windows and balded thatched roof that perpetually dripped in the winter.

She ran her fingers over the damaged doorway, along the notches where the hinges had been torn off. Only a few feet inside, she could see the remnants of their front door, gouged by large claw marks but still mostly intact.

The memories were too fresh. She couldn’t look towards the fireplace without seeing Nesta and Elain cowering in fear or hearing her father barter her life for gold. It would always sting, but she wasn’t expecting her throat to clog as was reminded, again, of how close she’d come to dying.

And how little they’d seemed to care.

Enough to cry. Enough to mourn. But not enough to do something.

She knew it was her responsibility. She’d killed the wolf and it was only right that she faced the consequences for it. But she also knew that if the situation had been reversed, she would have fought for her sisters. And that’s what made her chest feel too tight.

As Feyre wandered into the bedroom to snatch the coin purse from the dresser, she briefly wondered if she would always be cursed to be the one who loved more. To give and give and give but never feel like she could take.

How long until there was nothing left of herself to give?

For all she knew, it was already too late. It would explain why she felt empty as she pocketed the coin and strode out of the cottage. The guards looked relieved to see her and she offered them a tight smile.

“See? I promised I’d be quick.”

They were efficient in ushering her back towards the carriage, but not before a prickling awareness tingled down her spine. She turned, casting her eyes towards the skeletal forest. It was a familiar sensation, one she’d felt after killing that wolf in the woods.

Miles and miles of barren trees and fresh snow. No matter where she looked, that was all she could see. The wind had stopped, but if she held her breath, she couldn’t hear a sound from the forest. It was eerily quiet. And it set her on edge.

“Is everything okay?” One of the guards asked, noticing her pause.

“Yeah,” Feyre said, swinging herself into the carriage with renewed urgency. “Everything’s fine.”

It was two nights later, while Feyre was crouched in front of the fireplace with a poker, trying desperately to get the sparks to take, that her bedroom window creaked.

Feyre whirled, her heart in her throat, raising the poker that she already knew would be useless against the intruder. What else would climb through her bedroom window, besides a faerie?

The sunset snuck up on her—it always did, in these winter months. She hadn’t lit any candles, too focused on trying to light the fireplace to fend off the steadily dropping temperature.

She’d thought nothing of the darkness pressing into the corners of the room until that soft creak drew her attention towards the far window, revealing a male figure disguised amongst those shadows. He stood propped against the windowsill, the night sky a mantle rising over his shoulders.

“Do I want to know why you were digging through our fireplace, Feyre darling?“

She gasped, almost dropping the poker. “Rhys?”

He stepped closer, face still hung in shadow. “Beginning to miss me?”

Her heart was thundering. It didn’t seem to ease, though she knew he was no longer a threat.

“Of course not,” she said. She meant to lower the poker, but found her fingers tightening.

Rhys chuckled. The sound was dark, scraping. She felt it drag across the ridges of her spine, slightly less pronounced in the time he’d been away. It was remarkable how even just a few days of steady eating could make a difference.

“Such a warm welcome from my wife,” he said. She could picture his feline smile as he glided through the dark with unfathomable ease, as if he were its maker. “Are you going to put that poker down, or are you still debating on stabbing me with it?”

Feyre glanced over her shoulder, toward the large oak door on the opposite side of the room. Puzzled, she asked, “Did you come in through the window?”

“I came in behind you,” he said with another laugh, crossing the room in four long strides. “But you were too focused on that fireplace to welcome your poor husband home.”

“Except you’re not my husband,” she said flatly, returning to her work now that he was coming closer. She wasn’t certain she could handle seeing his face, which she admittedly had been thinking about. Often. “And as we’ve established, I didn’t miss you.”

“Didn’t you?” he crooned, crouching behind her. “I’m glad you clarified, or that cloak might have given me the wrong impression.”

Feyre went quiet. She’d been wearing his cloak because it was warm and of much better quality than her own. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d eventually return to find her still in it.

He asked, his voice like molten silk, “Did you ever take it off?”

Technically, yes. To sleep and bathe. But she knew that wasn’t what he was asking, and for some reason she decided to be honest. “No.”

A low, throaty sound rumbled through his chest.

“Good,” he said. “Then everyone here knows precisely who you belong to.”

“I’m not your wife,” she said again.

When he reached around her and coiled his fingers over the iron poker, she let him take it, making no comment about the way his body enveloped hers, how he leaned forward until she was more or less sitting in his lap. Heat spread through her, and suddenly igniting the fire was a redundant task.

Rhys placed his other hand on her hip while he worked, a claiming gesture that she should have shaken away. But she didn’t.

“Why not ask the servants for help?”

“I don’t need servants,” she said.

“Too proud?” There was an odd note in his voice, one that made her feel as though she’d swallowed an entire glass of brandy. “Or too stubborn?”

“Neither.” She couldn’t deny that she sounded petulant, even to her own ears. Making an effort to sweeten her voice, she purred, “I’m letting you do it, aren’t I?”

She expected more flirtatious comments about how husbands should provide for their wives, but he sounded surprisingly thoughtful as he said, “It’s another thing, then.” He paused in deliberation and then asked, gently, “Are you worried about being a burden?”

It struck too close to home. She knew he could tell, because there was no subtlety in the way she stiffened.

With equal, grating gentleness, he said, “You’re not a burden, Feyre. To anyone.”

An odd sound rose in the back of her throat. She didn’t want to be seen. Not like this. Not by him.

“Of course I’m not to you.” She flung the words at him, hoping he’d rise to the barb and they could go back to bickering. That was comfortable territory. “You’ll light the fire and I’ll probably have to give you the name of my firstborn child in exchange.”

His hand raised to her stomach. “You mean our child, wife?”

The words were teasing, but they warmed her belly as readily as if she’d swallowed a pile of glowing embers. They sparked and fluttered beneath the heat of his hand, particularly as his fingers flexed, caressing her stomach as if a child were already growing there.

Mortified, she pushed his hand away, sparing no effort with being gentle. Rhys merely laughed, allowing his hand to fall back to her hip. The heat inside her traveled with his touch, cascading down. She tried very hard not to focus on where it was pooling.

“Well, you’ll be relieved to hear I require no firstborn children.” He smirked, as if to add an unspoken yet to his promise. “But you’re right, I prefer equal exchanges. How about: I’ll light the fire if you stay in my arms like this. Warmth for warmth, hmm?”

Rhys was already tightening his arms around her as if she’d agreed, and she was reluctant to admit that it felt good being held. His chest blanketed her back, fighting off the worst of the winter chill. She was certain he hadn’t bathed while he’d been away, but he smelled like he had—a clean, heady scent that was becoming increasingly familiar to her. Citrus and the sea.

She closed her eyes and felt herself relaxing into him, even as she groused, “For how long?”

He considered it. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

Lightly, though she thought better to tell him that. Whenever Lord Nolan joined them at dinner, she found she didn’t have as much of an appetite. It made her stomach churn just thinking about how he sat unmoving and unseeing, like he was little more than an empty husk.

“I haven’t,” Rhys told her, drawing her thoughts away from the aging Lord.

Feyre opened her eyes to study him carefully. He was immaculate for a man who had spent days trekking through the wilderness, with no sign of the sweat and dirt she always seemed to collect during her morning hunts. He wore his usual irreverence, but she did sense a heaviness that hadn’t been present before, a tension in the clench of his jaw, the draw of his shoulders.

It dawned on her that he must be exhausted from the journey. And she wondered, the thought unbidden and gnawing, if he’d eaten at all in his time away.

Continuing, Rhys said, “I’ve asked a servant to bring us a meal. So sit with me here while I eat. Talk to me. And then I’ll consider the debt paid.”

Without waiting for her to accept those terms, he shifted forward to light the fire in earnest. To her dismay, he made quick work of a job she’d been attempting for the last half hour. Granted he had both arms to work with.

Flames began licking up the tinder, casting an amber glow over the little space they’d claimed by the hearth, atop a large fur rug.

She watched the light dance over his long fingers as she asked, “Will it always be like this between us? Always a debt to be paid?”

“I hope so,” he murmured. “An unpaid debt is like a promise. So long as one exists between us, it means we’ll be seeing each other again.”

Feyre turned, drinking in his regal side profile. A part of her had been convinced he wouldn’t come back, and she was concerned by the larger part of her that was relieved he had.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” she admitted.

His eyes flickered to hers, only briefly, before he fixed his stare on the fire. “Why not?”

He kept his tone deceptively casual. Feyre studied his expression, watching the flame dance in his eyes. Against the warm lighting, they looked even more striking—closer to purple than blue.

It was inexplicable, but she found herself wanting to be honest with him. So with a deep breath, she admitted, “I couldn’t think of any reason why you’d stay.”

“I had a wife to return to,” he said, flashing another of those infuriating smirks.

“But why would you, really?” Feyre pressed, not falling for his deflection. “Why does any of this matter to you?”

“Is it really so hard to believe that someone would want to stay for you, Feyre?”

“Yes,” she said. Her throat felt tight. “Because we’re strangers. And because you’ve already admitted that you had an ulterior motive for saving me. So tell me why. Who is the High Lord to you?”

He still studied the fire, tracking each soft pop and the resulting spray of sparks with riveted interest. Though his expression remained neutral, she felt his arms tighten around her. And his words rumbled in the back of his throat before he released them, all in one breath.

“He killed my father.”

The admission hung in silence for a moment. Feyre sucked in air between her teeth, not expecting the truth to be so abrupt. So brutal. Even the fire seemed to dampen, as if it, too, were shocked by his words and wished to pay them the proper gravity.

Feyre suspected she had to tread lightly. She kept her voice soft as she ventured, “So you want revenge.”

He laughed, though it was hollow, wrung of any humor. “I’ll admit that a part of me will always want revenge for what he did. But it’s not about that. Not anymore.”

Rhys looked at her, then, sweeping his violet eyes over her face. She seized the opportunity to admire how the firelight slanted across his features, selecting the focal points it felt worth admiring: the arch of his cheekbones, the strong curve of his jaw, the plush of his bottom lip.

It had been so long since she’d felt the urge to paint, but that old desire flared to life as she looked at him. Longing twitched at the tips of her fingers, wishing for some method of capturing what she saw, if only to use it as proof when she inevitably doubted herself later.

Doubted that there was truly softness in his expression when he said, “I told you I came back for my wife, and it’s the truth. I came back for you, Feyre. And I will never let him take away something I care about ever again.”

“But you don’t even know me.”

That excuse was starting to feel flimsy. Especially when he was looking at her like he did know her. Like he could see through her cloak and gown, through her skin and bones, and straight to the haggard soul beneath, where she hid every bitter, twisted thought that was too dark to let the world see.

Her throat felt dry from the way he was looking at her. But he didn’t try to deny that they were strangers.

Instead, he rasped, “Is it so bad that I want to?”

In the back of her mind, she heard every insult Nesta had ever hurled towards her. Illiterate, ignorant, unremarkable, proud, cold, half-wild beast. A wound was opening in her chest, splitting further apart by each of those sharp, silent words.

She pinched her lips together. And though she knew it sounded pathetic, she told him, “I don’t think you’d like what you’d find.”

But it was the truth. No one ever did. And she wouldn’t delude herself into thinking Rhys would be any different.

Rhys opened his mouth like he might argue, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He offered her an intent look, one that promised their conversation wasn’t over, and untangled himself to go answer.

The moment he was gone… it was like an ache. She hadn’t realized how relaxed she’d become in his arms, how warm and content, until it was ripped away. The cold that pressed in was startling, rubbing raw against the places he’d been touching. She edged closer to the fire, all too aware that its touch felt like a poor imitation of Rhysand’s.

What was happening to her?

Rhys returned moments later with a massive tray of food, which he placed on the floor in front of her before resuming his position. He drew her back against his chest and bracketed his long legs on either side of hers. Once he deemed she was situated, he pulled the tray into her lap.

She’d already told him that she’d eaten, but the sight and smell of the steaming food caused the back of her mouth to water. Her stomach growled, betraying her, and Rhys let out a low laugh.

“I propose another exchange, little huntress.”

Feyre noticed he refrained from using wife when he wanted something. Clever man.

Still, she was wary. “What kind of exchange?”

“For every piece of food you let me feed you, I’ll answer any question. And for every two questions I answer, I get to ask one from you.”

Her eyes dipped to the tray of food in her lap. Just like the deal they made about lighting the fire, she thought she was getting the better offer. Not that she would ever admit it.

“Deal.”

With an appreciative hum, Rhys reached for a piece of bread from the tray and dipped it into the sauce. Feyre felt a little shy when he held up to her. She’d never been hand fed before, and she was aware of his rapt attention as she parted her lips to accept his offering.

He brought the remaining piece to his own mouth as he waited for her to finish chewing. It was strangely intimate to watch him bite into the place her lips had just been, undeterred by the thought of sharing her saliva. She supposed, as a mercenary, he’d eaten food in far worse condition.

After swallowing, she asked him, “Where did you learn to use your sword?”

“In Illyria.” She remembered that was the place he said he was from—the mountainous region on the continent. “I come from a warrior tribe. We’re taught to wield swords no sooner than we learn how to walk.”

He prompted her for another mouthful. Once she was finished with it, she asked, “Do you miss Illyria?”

“Parts of it. The Illyrian Mountains are harsh, the camp where I trained even more so. But they’re my mother’s people, and I’ll always wear their marks proudly for that alone.”

“Their marks?”

“Ah,” Rhys chided. “That was two questions, Feyre. Now it’s my turn.”

She assumed by the way he drifted closer, the way the hand at her hip began smoothing slow circles over her clothes, that he would ask her something personal. Something, perhaps, that would force her to admit to the tension they both felt rising between them.

But all he asked was, “How does your arm feel?”

The pain had simply become a dull presence she’d accepted. It was tolerable so long as she didn’t strain the stitches, and she’d gotten used to relying on her dominant hand. But as she focused her awareness on the wound, she found that ever-present pain had subsided considerably.

“Better,” she said in surprise. “A lot better, actually.”

“Good. I picked up some healing salve from the infirmary on the way here. You should let me put it on the wound before you go to bed.”

Feyre nodded. And after another bite of food, she asked, “What happened while you were on patrol?”

Behind her, Rhys blew out a breath. “We tracked the beast all the way to the Wall, but lost the trail there.”

She jerked. “You went all the way to the Wall?”

“It’s why the patrol took so long.”

The furthest North Feyre had ever dared to venture was the clearing where she’d felled the wolf. It would have taken another day and half’s journey from there to make it to the Wall, or so she’d been told.

“Are you out of your mind? What if the High Lord had been waiting there with more faeries? They would have killed you!”

“We were fine—”

“You were reckless!”

Rhys fell silent in the face of her anger. Before he said, drawing out his words, “If I didn’t know better, Feyre, I would think you were concerned about me.”

Whatever concern she’d felt was short lived. At that moment, all she wanted to do was throttle him.

He grinned like he knew it. “It’s my turn for a question. So tell me, honestly. Did you miss me? Were you worried about me?”

“Those are two different questions.”

Rhys looked insufferably pleased with himself as he purred, “Yes, but I think they have the same answer.”

He was incorrigible. She hated him for asking, almost as much as she hated the honest answer was, “Yes.”

Feyre didn’t understand it.

Or maybe she did. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that no one had ever bothered to ask if she was warm or fed or in pain. Maybe Nesta was right, and it was pitiful how easily she could be manipulated by the slightest hint of kindness.

It was kindness nonetheless, and she’d known so little of it. She had no concept of how starved she’d been, how desperate she was to talk to someone who would at least pretend like they cared.

“I missed you, too,” Rhys murmured, raising his palm to her cheek. He turned her face towards his own, his gaze so searing that she felt every doubt and lingering insecurity cower beneath it, afraid of being seen. “You claim we’re strangers, but you feel it, don’t you? This connection between us. I think knowing you could be as easy as knowing myself.”

That was a terrifying prospect, though he didn’t seem to think so.

Terrifying and absurd. There was nothing connecting them besides misfortune and, perhaps, a mutual attraction that was beginning to feel dangerous to act on.

She challenged, “Besides the faerie, besides hunting, name one thing we have in common.”

He answered without hesitation. “We would both trade anything to protect the people we love. Even ourselves.”

The knowing in his eyes was becoming unbearable. Feyre tore her face from his grasp, angling it away from him and away from the fire in the hopes that she might banish the heat of his touch.

It was still tingling along her cheek as she said, “You told me that the life of a mercenary is lonely. That you would never find someone to share it with. What do you know about love?”

“I think,” he said slowly, like she was a feral creature he didn’t want to startle, “that’s another thing we have in common. We’ve given so much of ourselves away that we’ve become isolated in the process.”

Her eyes were beginning to sting. It would be humiliating to cry in front of him a second time. She swallowed a deep breath, blinking back the moisture gathering on her lashes.

Finally, when she trusted her voice to remain steady, she asked, “You chose this life to protect someone?”

“You owe me a question,” he said lightly. “And two mouthfuls.”

Feyre snatched a leg of chicken off the plate. A laugh rasped out of him when she tore the meat off the bone with a ferocity that would have scandalized her sisters.

But then he straightened, sobering. “I see the way that you care for your family. How fiercely you love them. It reminds me—” he paused, a strangled sound rising in his throat. He cleared it away and continued, “It reminds me of how I used to feel when I was around my brothers.”

Brothers. Feyre didn’t need to ask where they were now. One quick glance at Rhys, at the thinly veiled anguish creasing his expression, was enough to tell her what happened to them. Gone. Somewhere even a mercenary couldn’t follow.

“Was it…” she could barely shape words in the torrent of her horror. “The High Lord—”

Rhys shook his head. “It’s a tragedy for another day.”

She placed the remains of the chicken leg back on the plate, her appetite vanished. Rhys must have felt the same, because he moved the tray off her lap and set it on the low wooden table nearby.

Guilt reared inside her. He had to be starving from his journey and she ruined his dinner because she couldn’t stop herself from prying. She could add tactless to her list of shortcomings.

“I still owe you a question,” she reminded him, hoping to lighten his mood.

“I’ll save it. A promise that this won’t be the last we speak.”

Feyre bit her lip. “Why don’t you sleep in the bed tonight?”

It was the best she could offer. If he’d slept at all on his journey, it would have been on the ground. If not a full meal, then at least he could indulge in the comfort of a soft, plush mattress.

His mouth barely, barely tugged at the corners. But the offer had its intended effect when he crooned, “Is that an invitation, wife?”

“Alone,” she hedged.

“No deal.”

“What?” Feyre glared at him. “Are you truly that stubborn?”

Rhysand’s eyes sparkled with a familiar mischief. “I am truly that stubborn.”

Two could play that game.

Feyre crossed her arms. “And if I refuse to sleep on the bed?”

“Then I’ll keep you warm on the floor.”

The dark, sensual promise wended around her, warring with her irritation. He was insufferable, and his self-satisfied grin should have been enough to convince her to drop it, to let him sleep on the floor if he was so insistent.

But she hesitated, pinned by his near-predatory focus. Gone was his quiet sadness. And maybe it was the triumph of knowing she’d succeeded in cheering him up, or maybe it was because she glanced towards the large bed and felt the shadow of her nightmare pressing in.

Maybe they both wanted it as badly as the other.

“Fine,” she said. And just to wipe the smug look off his face, she promptly added, “But no touching.”

“I’ll try to keep my hands to myself,” he swore, though his fiendish grin was less than reassuring.

“If you want to keep them, you better.”

Rhys chuckled, holding up his hands in feigned innocence. “I won’t lay a finger on you until you ask me, Feyre.”

Until. As if it were inevitable.

“But,” Rhys continued, “I hope you’ll at least let me dress your wound.”

“I managed just fine without you.”

“I know you did. I know you could manage anything by yourself, you’ve proven that well enough already. But you don’t have to anymore.” He met her eyes steadily. “Let me help you. Let me make it easier for you.”

Feyre thought, once again, that it sounded as if he were talking to a feral animal. Trying to soothe her so that she didn’t bite at his approach. And she wondered if that’s exactly what she’d become. A half-wild beast, just like Nesta accused.

“Okay,” she relented, feeling a weight ease out of her.

Rhys nodded. She appreciated that he didn’t gloat, though he had plenty of reason to. Instead, he lightly grabbed her elbow and helped Feyre to her feet. He jerked his chin towards the bed, silently directing her while he went to fetch the salve from his pack.

The floorboards creaked under her weight as she stepped toward the bed, feeling oddly nervous. They wouldn’t be touching and she had every intention of turning her back to him the second they snuffed out the candles. But it was still intimate in a way that was different than sharing a bed with her sisters, or fucking Isaac Hale in a barn.

With a swallow of air for courage, Feyre paused before the four-poster bed and unlatched the straps of Rhysand’s cloak. It fell to the floor in a puddle of fur, revealing the nightgown she wore beneath it. The one she’d selected believing she’d be sleeping alone tonight.

Rhysand, to his credit, hardly blinked at the sight of the thin silk and the bare skin it left on display. If anything, he frowned as he ushered her to sit at the edge of the bed so he could begin the careful task of unraveling her bandages.

For all of his flirting, she wondered if he would even be interested in her that way. He was a beautiful man and she was just… some poor, scrawny village girl that no one had ever looked twice at. Except Isaac, she supposed, but their arrangement had always felt more like one of desperation and convenience than any true desire.

Underneath his breath, she thought she might have heard Rhys laugh. She snapped her eyes to his face, narrowing them.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said. Then amended, “I don’t think I’ve seen you so deep in thought before.”

She must have been pulling an amusing expression, if the humor in his eyes was any indication.

Scowling, she asked, “Do you not think I’m capable of it?”

“A clever huntress like you?” He didn’t give her any warning as he scooped his fingers into the salve and began spreading it over her raw flesh with surprising gentleness. “Of course you are.”

Clever was another thing she’d never been called before Rhys. She coached herself not to let the flattery get to her head. He was saying it intentionally, afterall. To soften her.

The salve began to sting as it seeped into the wound, like slivers of flame licking up her skin. She hissed through her teeth, but was privately grateful that it broke her away from the lure of his bedroom eyes and honeyed words.

“Will you tell me what you were thinking about?” He asked. “One thought in exchange for another?”

“More games?”

He smiled. “You know I love games.”

Feyre didn’t want to reveal her pathetic thoughts, so she told him, “You said something earlier… about wearing the marks of your mother’s people. I was wondering what you meant.”

To her relief, Rhys didn’t detect the lie for what it was.

“Ah,” he said. “That’s a longer story.”

“A bedtime story, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

He closed the lid of the salve, setting it aside as he reached for a roll of fresh bandages. And then his fingers returned to steady her arm, his touch an inferno against her cool skin. Every movement was quick and efficient, marked by an expertise that told her he’d done this many, many times. Was that by nature of his job, or because of the warrior tribe he hailed from?

“You at least owe me a thought,” she said, if only to break his quiet focus, the intensity of which was beginning to make her squirm.

Rhys flicked his eyes up to her face, the heat of them just as intense as his touch. She realized it was a mistake to draw his attention away from his task, because whatever reprieve she expected was worsened tenfold as he held her gaze.

“I’m thinking that you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said, his voice warming her blood. “And that I don’t know how I’m going to manage sleeping beside you without losing my gods damned mind.”

“Oh,” Feyre whispered, because she had nothing else to say.

It was stupid, she chided herself, to let his compliments mean anything at all. What did it matter if she was beautiful to him or not? And yet… it felt like every piece of her body was malfunctioning. Her eyes burned and her heart sped into a staggering rhythm. She had no idea what to do with her hands, her legs, her face, though she became painfully aware of each of them.

Mercifully, Rhys finished securing the bandage and stepped away. “It’s healing nicely,” he said. “The healer should be able to take the stitches out in a few days.”

Her mind spun at how he could move on from the conversation so quickly, as if it was of no consequence to him at all. If she was wise, she would dismiss his words as more attempts at flattery and nothing more.

Feyre managed to scrape together enough of her composure to say, “That’s good.” Then, “We should go to sleep.”

“You go ahead,” Rhy said softly. “I’ll bathe first, and then I’ll come join you.”

And maybe he was doing it all deliberately, tending to her needs before his own despite his long journey. He could be manipulating her like Nesta said, pulling her in so easily with his gentle touches and sweetened tongue.

She watched him disappear into the bathing room, feeling ill at ease with the knowledge that, regardless of his intentions, it was working. How could she not soften for him, when he paid her more consideration than anyone else in her life, even as a stranger?

You feel it, don’t you? This connection between us.

Feyre pressed her hand to her chest, swearing that she felt a phantom tug behind her rib cage. Was that her heart finally thawing? It was pumping readily for what felt like the first time in years.

And it terrified her.

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