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starfall-spirit · 3 months ago

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Read on Ao3 // Fic Masterlist

Fic 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.

AN: Bet you didn’t expect to see me here, but I somehow managed to weasel my way in with the cool kids. So here I am, an official member of the brilliant @feysand-hivemind! I'm so honored to be writing beside the absolute icons on this project.

Thank you @sajirah, @popjunkie42, and @tunaababee for the beta reading!

Chapter XIV: Traitors Never Win (Loop 57)

Chapter Summary: Rhys manipulates this loop to once again try to convince Feyre he's an ally, only for it to fall apart when they are caught conspiring Under the Mountain.

CW: Temporary character death, Implied dubious consent

Rhys sensed Feyre breach his wards the moment she stumbled over the threshold to his rooms, his magic caught between tension and satisfaction that his mate was in his space. Still, it took far too long to disengage from his frankly gruesome obligation to return to his rooms—pretend he needed to investigate the how and why she’d been escorted from her cell to his chambers. He’d been painstakingly cautious navigating this loop to make it this far. Raising suspicions just to speak with Feyre wasn’t a mistake he could afford to make. Not after how they’d been discovered in the loop Feyre was conscious of. Between what that Feyre had shown him and the vision the Suriel had shared, he was done using the loop as a crutch to lean on.

He’d tested each reset carefully. Hoped there was another chance to hold the woman who knew and came to love him through her own series of trial and error, but that blessing was short-lived, and maybe they were better off for it. Maybe he wouldn’t have to see his mate turn a knife on herself again.

Play the game, keep her riled enough she didn’t break, earn her trust while showing the wretched court she was nothing more than a human plaything. And painful as it was to never feel that glorious possessiveness from his huntress, don’t let things slip far enough they risk exposing the bond. There was no timeline where Her Majesty would be willing to share the toy she got her claws into.

Winnowing directly to the bed, Rhys watched his mate—coated in grime by now—sifting through old ash to fish out the lentils planted there for her.

“As wonderful as it is to see you, Feyre, darling,” he purred, reclining on the mattress to repeat their increasingly familiar song and dance, “do I want to know why you’re digging through my fireplace?”

She’d already whipped around to face him, ash shaken loose from her sleeves to dust the stone beneath her feet. Her face was pinched slightly, her chin high. “This wasn’t your idea then?” He raised a brow and she scoffed. “One of your mistress’ household chores, I suppose. Clean the lentils from the ash or have my skin peeled off in strips.”

Whatever missteps Rhys may take, one thing never changed. His mate certainly had a mouth on her. So he was left to complement it. Objective two: keep her riled. “Interesting. A bit messy for my taste, but effective. Tell me, darling, how far did you get?”

Feyre scowled, gripping the poker she held just a hair tighter, chin still jutting out stubbornly, refusing to seem cowed in the presence of a predator. Good girl. “I don’t care for your games, Rhysand. Since you don’t intend to skin me, I’d like to return to my cell.”

Rhys cocked his head. “Don’t feel like playing, darling? Pity.” He sighed, smoothly rising to his feet before taking a few steps closer. “I find your little quips quite entertaining. Very well. If you won’t indulge me, we can get straight to business. We don’t have long before the guards return, after all. You need an ally down here and neither your beloved or his emissary seem keen to step up to the plate.”

“And you think I trust you enough to call you an ally?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I would dare wish it, darling. Lady Luck abandoned me centuries ago and you’re too smart to not suspect my motives. This time, though, I simply ask you respect that everyone Under the Mountain has an independent agenda and mine rarely aligns with the witch.”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “You’re plotting to move against her.”

“In a sense.” He dared another step, close enough to pry the poker from her hands and toss it behind him. “One day she’ll fall. But in the end, I won’t be the one to ensure it.”

The Suriel had made that clear enough upon its capture. He needed Feyre on his side, one way or another. He wouldn’t make it through this hell cycle without her.

“What would you expect of me, then? Why would you think I have the means to help you succeed? Killing the worm was a challenge, but hardly on par with—”

He cut her a hard glare before easing into her mind with a tenderness even beyond what he’d granted her in Spring, now so well acquainted with the fragility of her human mind. “Even the walls have ears, Feyre. Enough has been said aloud as is.”

There was a sharp knock on the door, two guards waiting beyond it. “Tomorrow night I will send the wraiths for you. You will not argue. They will be acting under my orders. We’ll see where things go from there.”

If Amarantha doesn’t sniff out his plot once again.

He sighed, moving towards the door. “Wait,” she said. His hand stilled over the knob. “The riddle… Do you know the answer?”

“Yes. And no, I cannot reveal it to you. No soul Under the Mountain can, so don’t be a fool and seek out the fox, either. We’ve all been ordered to keep quiet—not to help you solve it. Even if Lucien could speak of it, he’s far too closely watched after that stunt he pulled, helping you in the wyrm’s lair.”

Watching her face fall, Rhys’ chest tightened with guilt. Still, he made himself maintain his mask and opened the door to let the two guards into the room, each of them closing a single hand over Feyre’s biceps.

Something hot and vicious coiled inside him, flaring when he saw her try to hide her flinch. It took so little effort to claim their minds in a mental talon-tipped fist.

“You’ll remove your hands from the lady, now.” They obeyed. “These meaningless tasks—the chores—are to come to an end. Each morning and evening you will provide her with a hot meal. No more molded bread and water. If you speak of these orders, defy them, or harm her…” His lips tilted up in a cruel grin, “…you’re to slit your own throats. Get out of my sight.”

Free of their hold, Feyre held herself back long enough she would trail behind them, rather than be caught between them. “Until we meet again, Feyre darling.”

It was hardly the first time Rhys had had his mate in his lap, but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the the tenuous balance of guilt and need it brought, granting her one glass of wine after the next as she writhed in his lap, teasing the hard line of his erection with each pass of her hips.

Still, he mastered himself even as the paint gracing her waist and hips was smudged beyond recognition night after night. As for the path of his mouth, every word of his tongue was a tangle of praise and mockery, honey sweet and sharp as a blade. His mental coos became the tiny pieces to a grand plot, carefully placed to linger when she woke in the morning.

It started with little keys to lead her to the riddle’s solution. Hints to make sure she stayed on course through the second trial. The more risky bits of information he saved for the evenings, trusting she was back in her right mind. The roles he would have to play, the lines he would walk—that he wouldn’t risk sharing. The more Feyre knew, he’d discovered, the more likely one of them was to slip up. And the more likely Amarantha was to discover his disloyalty. Suffering this wretched cycle again and again, he’d seen enough of his mate’s torture to haunt him for a lifetime.

A soft breath at his ear drew him back to the present. “What’s wrong tonight?” Feyre whispered, voice just barely audible under the music, conversation, and entertainment of the solstice revelry. It was a rare show of empathy and he clung to it the moment it was presented, even if that softness was nothing more than a drunken falter in her disgust with him.

He sighed, thumb curving along her thigh as he slipped into her mind. “Other than the fact I just killed a male acting on his High Lord’s orders to secure their freedom? To put it simply, darling, it’s been an excruciating forty-nine years. I’m also considering the risk of your second trial. Whatever it is,” he suggested, playing dumb, “your success with the wyrm will not be forgotten. The second challenge will be an entirely different test.”

He’d been more careful about her wine intake this time around, considering the trial she’d face tomorrow, even if he’d have to help her through the grasshopper riddle. But her eyes were still glazed and Rhys doubted she heard the warning in his voice. She dipped her chin all the same, shivering when the next sweep of his thumb dragged across the smooth skin closer to her center before he spread his legs enough she straddled one thigh. She ground down almost immediately and it was an effort not to clench his jaw. “Enough talking, pet.”

She tipped forward, her forehead falling to his collarbone. “I need…” He glanced down, watching her loose a ragged breath. “I don’t know what I need anymore. A distraction. Not another drink or dance or… Just a distraction.”

Rhys leaned down, mouth grazing her ear. “Well then, allow me the pleasure of distracting you, darling.”

It had been a risk to the loop, of course, taking Feyre to his bed again. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not when she was still wrapped around him in the early hours of the morning, one leg thrown over his hip as if it was the most natural thing to fall asleep and wake together.

Cauldron, he needed to be free of this hellscape.

He reached to stroke her hair out of her face, intending to savor the few moments before dawn, when he would have to wake her to return to her cell before her trial. When she would gather her senses and realize what they had done. What she had done after spending the past months navigating her dangerous bargain with Amarantha for her lover.

He wasn’t sure he was prepared to face the regret and anger that waited for him. He could only hope it wouldn’t affect her when it came to the riddle. If her resentment played any sort of aide, she might manage to raise a mental shield to block him out before he could help her.

Realizing his mate was beginning to wake, he carefully eased her leg down from his hip. “Good morning, Feyre darling.”

“What—” Her eyes darted around the room, first raking in the scattered clothing, then her own bare figure, paint smears and all. She clutched the sheet to her chest, face twisting with her horror. “Oh, gods. Tamlin. I didn’t—”

Feyre scrambled from the bed, her disgust with the whole situation laid bare. “You were hardly an unwilling participant last night,” he told her, his smugness not entirely for show. They’d been so damn lucky the bond hadn’t snapped. The way she’d felt around him—clung to him with each slow thrust… Lucky didn’t begin to cover it.

“I was drunk,” she hissed back. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“You asked for a distraction, sitting so pretty on my lap. So, I gave you the one distraction I could manage. I don’t see your beloved offering such an escape.”

She jerked back as if he’d physically struck her, a fresh fire in her eyes. Good. She couldn’t afford to show weakness today.

Rhys stood from the bed, donned his usual pants and jacket before cleaning her of any evidence with a bit of lesser magic and dressing her too. “If you’re ready to face your cell again, darling.”

His summoning was an aberration. One that sent his pulse thrumming double time. “My queen, how may I serve you?” he asked, paranoid now that Feyre’s scent had lingered on his skin. Or his had been found when she was taken from her cell for the second trial.

“You were so careful to tell your little pet to mind her mouth. What is it that you keep telling her at my little parties?” Amarantha mused, brushing her cheeks with rouge, a saccharine smile curling her lips. ‘The walls have eyes and ears, darling’?"

He stilled, almost letting his mask slip. “My queen, what would the warning matter, when her mind is so open to me? If she were plotting against you—”

“And if you were plotting against me, Rhysand?” Dread settled heavy in his stomach. He’d get another chance, yes, but it didn’t make the defeat any easier to swallow. “Don’t get any ideas about helping her with the riddle I trusted you with. It’s long since changed. You’d best hope the little human can think quickly.”

Less than an hour later, Rhys found himself forced to his knees with a blindfold tied behind his head. A roaring crowd was their only preparation before the scalding heat began to make its descent. “I’m sorry, darling. I tried.”

His mate’s panicked pleas were still ringing in his ears when he woke beside the wicked queen once again.

#acotar #feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand fic #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)#collaboration #collaborative fic #time loop #utm!rhys #loop 57: Traitors Never Win #feysand timeloop

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belabellissima · 1 year ago

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time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

Written for the @feysand-hivemind timeloop fic!!!

Pairing: Feysand

Until one day...it doesn't.

Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up in Amarantha's bed Under the Mountain - over and over. Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.

Chapter Summary: Rhys wakes up and suffers a lot. He meets the girl of his dreams only to lose her. He enters a timeloop. Good luck buddy, it only gets worse from here.

Chapter Warnings: Amarantha being Amarantha, references to rape/non-con, blood and gore/violent deaths, brief canonical animal death (andras), mentions of canonical child death (the winter court children)

Read on Ao3 or chapter 1 below!

The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice. Rhys hadn’t felt cold like that - fresh, biting, like the winters in Illyria - in decades. Since before Amarantha had come and tricked them all, trapping them beneath stone.

His body - not his, but rather the body he saw through - shivered at a gust, and though it was briefly discomforting, he relished in it. Relished the way he inhaled deeply, the cold stinging at his nose and throat, chilling his lungs.

He could smell her, the way her hair blew around her face. The little wisps that escaped the braid she’d used to tie it back, the short pieces above her eyes she’d cut shorter to help keep her forehead warm.

His painter.

Her stomach rumbled, and the feel of a bow in her hand made sense. She was hunting, hungry and desperate enough to brave the woods to change that. They looked familiar, like the woods on the slopes of the Winter Court mountains. Rhys had never gotten a glimpse of the surroundings with such detail before, never been able to guess where his painter lived. Where her small cottage resided. But given the snow, the chill in the air, the forest…

Winter Court.

So close the Middle, to the Mountain and Queen trapping them all.

He heard the deer at the same time she did, saw it when her own eyes alighted on it.

Alighted on the wolf as well.

As was the way of dreams, time flowed strangely. Hours seemed to pass as she held the bow and arrow, but at the same time, Rhys felt as if the waiting, agonized and fraught with tension, lasted for the mere length of a breath.

Then she loosed the arrow, and it hit its mark with the kind of accuracy that only came from years of practice.

His painter was also a huntress, it seemed.

She drew another arrow back as she waited for it to die, her heartbeat strong enough he could feel it moving her chest with each thump; hear it in his ears, like the blood rushing through. It was a dull roar, as if he was a child again, holding a shell to his ear because his mother told him once they all held the soul of the ocean, and you could hear the waves if you listened closely.

Time moved again. The blood was sticky on her hands, hot and steaming as she skinned the beast.

Its eyes were the same color as the fae he’d had to kill for Amarantha mere hours before. Glassy, turning dull the more time passed.

Rhys tried to pull back, tried to not watch the gore. He’d seen so much of it the past forty-nine years. The past five centuries of his life. He didn’t want to watch it in his dreams too, in the respite these minutes with his painter brought him. She was supposed to be safe, be the one good thing left in this world.

Not have blood on her hands, because starving was the alternative.

But try as he might, he couldn’t pull back. Couldn’t close his eyes, turn away from the blood before him. The color was so bright against the snow, so red.

Red, like Amarantha’s hair, her nails. The color she painted her lips before sitting in her throne, the color she made him draw from her victims time and time again-

Rhys’ heart pounded in his own chest, as if to make up for the poor creature’s loss of one, faster, faster, until with a gasp, he shot up in bed, awake.

The room was dimly lit, the faelights extinguished but the fireplace still emanating heat from the steadily glowing embers. He couldn’t suck in air fast enough, couldn’t get his hands uncovered long enough to see that the sticky blood wasn’t there, that it had just been a dream-

The sheet ripped in half with his desperation, but he could finally see them. Saw that they were a sickly, greyish brown from the lack of sunlight, not red from blood. They were shaking, a fine tremor that he often couldn’t stop from appearing first thing after waking, when he still did not know whether he was still stuck in his nightmares or back in the land of horrid, waking tortures.

Past the walls of this room, beyond that door, he was the nightmare. But inside, where no one could see - not while Amarantha still slept, at least - the nightmares ruled him.

Rhys shoved his hands through the damp hair sticking to his forehead, pushing it back and calming his breathing.

He could still smell her. It was strong enough that if he closed his eyes, he might think her laying beside him in bed.

Part of him wanted to pretend.

Pretend it was her instead of Amarantha, who somehow still slept on, unbothered by his sudden movements.

He dropped his hands, slumping back down to lie flat on the bed and stare blankly at the ceiling. It was hewn from obsidian, so it wasn’t entirely smooth. There were waves and divots in it, places with the carver hadn’t been able to - or hadn’t intended to - make it look like anything other than a uniquely shaped cave.

Rhys didn’t love much about being trapped there, but the ceiling was one of the few things he managed to find beautiful. Each stroke of the chisel, each divot in the stone - they looked like the path falling stars would take. Like clouds in the sky; like the scales of a fish or any number of things he missed from the Above. Anything he hadn’t been allowed to see in decades, had taken for granted in the centuries of life preceding confinement.

Rhys let himself wallow for only a minute more. One minute to grieve, one minute to let himself be fragile, here where no one else could see. Then he rolled out of the bed, using a wisp of his magic to replace the ripped sheet with another from Amarantha’s collection, the torn one appearing in his hands. It was a good thing she’d hogged the blanket, he supposed. It would have been harder to replace the lush bedding than a simple top sheet without getting caught. Besides, there were plenty of fae trapped down here too that were freezing while he had a fireplace and access to as many blankets as he could want. Might as well drop it off in one of their cells.

Let someone benefit from his nightmare.

Amarantha held her goblet out to him, not even bothering to look. She was reclined in her throne, overseeing the revel below like a wicked goddess searching for her next favored one. Never an honor to be chosen, but a terror. No one enjoyed having the eye of an all-powerful entity fixed on them.

But Rhys didn’t appreciate her disregard either. He was a High Lord, Cauldron damn it all, and he’d been reduced to being her cupbearer. But it was better than being her toy that night. The other High Lords watched from the corner of their eyes as he picked up a nearby pitcher, filling her cup with wine again.

He wondered idly how easy he might poison her drink. Slip in faebane, nightshade, anything.

“Rhysand,” she drawled, still focused on the scene before her. On the lesser fae with delicate dragonfly wings that was sobbing as one of the Attors’ ilk tore at them, reveling in the screams. Rhys blinked a few times, forcing the delicate mask to stay on his face as he waited for her to speak more. “How long has it been since I last sent a gift to Tamlin?”

“A week, my Queen,” he answered immediately. It had been a puca - a vicious way to die, to be sure, but not nearly as bad as some of the other monsters she had in her arsenal. “It should be arriving in the Spring Court any day now.”

Amarantha smiled, her lips splitting like a flytrap flower, the pink of her lips enough to entice anyone foolish enough to get too close. “Wonderful,” she crooned, finally turning her head to look at him and crooking one finger his way. He let his lips curl into a returning smile, passing the jug of wine to the nearest courtier so he could slide his hands into his pockets as he obeyed, so she wouldn’t see the way they curled into fists, nails digging into palms.

“Go into the catacombs, Rhysand, and release the Bogge.”

He dipped his head in a bow to hide his apprehension.

If he had access to his full magic, to his full might and power, he’d be able to mist the damn thing the moment his acknowledgment made it real. But as he was, the best he could do would be to wound it enough to chase it out from the below.

Amarantha had to know that, but she also didn’t care. What did it matter if Rhys was injured obeying her? That’s what he was for in her eyes. To be the sword that struck down her enemies, the shield that took blow after blow in her defense.

Stolen from its rightful wielder.

None of her guards or soldiers stopped him as he descended. He sent out mental suggestions to the servants, invisible as they walked the halls, to vacate the area. Any who were still in their rooms he had drift further into sleep for the moment. Then he came to the door, wooden and fragile looking, that marked the entrance to the catacombs. The majority of Prythian fae were locked down there, not lucky - or unlucky - enough to be needed for growing and producing food, nor high enough in status to warrant being a guest in the Court Under the Mountain.

Rhys unlocked the door with a twitch of his finger, the magic costing him more than it should have. Such a thing wouldn't have even registered before, just one more unconscious act he would do daily in order to burn off the excess power. But now, he felt it. It wasn’t much, comparatively, but he shouldn’t have felt it at all.

The door swung open on its own, and Rhys felt the presence of the Bogge immediately. It guarded the door, hunted and consumed any who grew too close, too wild to control. It focused all that attention on him. Rhys stared at the ground, refusing to return the stare.

He backed up a step, turned his back to the creature, though his neck prickled with the sense of danger as he retreated back the way he came. It followed him, whispering at him to pay attention, to turn around, to look, to look, to look…

Rhys walked and walked, the door that the Bogge had once guarded snicking shut again. He kept his hands in his pockets as he walked, his shoulders relaxed. He cast his mind out again and again, turning away any who started to head in their direction, until he’d made it to the long hallway that led to an exit. He couldn’t leave, not with Amarantha’s magic keeping them trapped, but he was able to walk right up to the door and open it with her order freshly loosening his leash. Sunlight blinded him, and he sucked in a sharp breath, hissing as he threw up a hand to protect his eyes.

Then he turned his back to the glorious sight, looking straight at the Bogge. “Your lady requests you visit the Spring Court,” he said, stepping aside out of its way, ready for it to attack. It looked like it would listen to its orders, but take him along as a snack for the road.

The Bogge lunged for him. Rhys ducked, kicking out as it landed on his other side. It fell backward through the doorway, and Rhys slammed it shut in its face.

The Bogge howled its displeasure from the other side, but finally ceased after a minute, off to obey its queen.

And Rhys did the same, walking the hallways back down into the belly of the mountain, until he stood once again at the Deceiver’s side, holding her damned cup.

He dreamed of her again, almost every night for weeks. He’d never gotten so many flashes from her life, his painter, his huntress, never seen so clearly the dreams she constructed in the night.

But here, with the end of the curse so close, he did. He recognized it too - those were the hills of the Spring Court, so different from her normal scenery. Kallias had a secret city just like he did, somewhere hidden away where Amarantha couldn't find it, and after that glimpse of the wolf, Rhys had hoped she was safe there. Rhys would do anything to protect Velaris, and he knew Kallias would do the same, so though he watched the High Lord of Winter closely, he said nothing. Let the male plot in the shadows.

What Amarantha didn’t know, she couldn’t order him to uncover.

He thought, briefly, of trying to find his painter. Thought, perhaps, he could see her with his own eyes, rather than her world through hers.

But then he remembered the fae whose wings Amarantha had torn off. Remembered the way she’d laughed, and he’d heard that laugh even in his own dreams.

His painter was safe. That was the important thing. Safe and far, far away from Amarantha. And probably not even real; just some figment of his imagination spawned from the torment of so long compartmentalizing, from wearing a mask and doing horrible things to protect his own people. Even if she was somehow real, how could he go to her? How could he stand before her and let her see the blood on his hands?

Blood he’d put there willingly - not from a desperation to not starve, from hunting for food like her own occasionally were, but rather from the savagery being stuck Under the Mountain brought out in him. Brought out in all of them.

No. She was a dream. A beautiful dream, yes, but one time would soon fade. A dream to keep him sane down here in the dark. Better to leave her there, in the light.

Far away from him.

Calanmai came and went. His painter’s dreams shifted. The bonfires gone, the portraits increasing. More fae faces, masks covering their eyes.

Rhys lost track of the days, letting the hellish monotony of Under the Mountain pass him by.

Would Tamlin manage to break her curse? He hadn’t rooted for his old friend in decades, hadn’t wanted him to have happiness in the wake of his betrayal, but he begged the Mother to grant him that this one time.

The thought ran through his head over and over as he watched Amarantha torturing some poor fae. He remained in the shadows, holding the fae’s mind, while Amarantha dug her nails into his neck, pulling flesh and blood out with her nails. Rhys held back his wince at the sound of the fae choking on his own blood only from the practice he’d had doing the same for years.

It was a truly vicious and horrible way to die, and one Amarantha delighted in. often cooing to Jurian’s eye that he should be used to such a sight. Rhys wasn’t sure how anyone could grow used to such a thing, but Amarantha was the proof, he supposed.

Finally, the poor creature succumbed to his injuries, but Amarantha didn’t stop until she’d used her sharpened nails to fully tear the male's head from his body. Blood splattered her neck and face, coated her dress and arms. A puddle surrounded them, and when Amarantha returned to her throne, the head clutched by the hair in her hands, her dress dragged the puddle into a smear across the red marble.

She sat back on the throne, tilting the head back and forth on her lap as she observed it. Her red lips puffed slightly into a pout, then she held out a hand palm up.

“Give me your ring, Rhysand.”

Rhys slid the signet ring off his left pinky, dropping into her cupped hand. Everything in him recoiled at the idea of her touching it, an heirloom passed down from High Lord to High Lord from the very first one to exist. The flat side of the signet, with the etching of Ramiel’s peaks and the three stars above, should never have graced the skin of a usurper. And yet Amarantha took delight in Rhys’ revulsion, the way she always did whenever she desecrated something sacred to Prythian or to him.

She rolled the ring between her fingers until she held it between her thumb and forefinger. “Beron,” she called, waiting for the High Lord of Autumn to approach her before ordering, “Fire.”

Rhys could do nothing but watch as she then carefully held his ring over the fire Beron held in his hand. It turned red quickly, and Amarantha pressed it to the head behind the ear. Her own fingers didn’t burn, protected by the spell she’d used to seal their magic. She could have heated it herself too, if she didn’t find pleasure in ordering the High Lords around.

The smell of burning meat filled Rhys’ nose. He fought back the gag with practiced ease, holding his breath until Amarantha pulled the ring back and tossed it through the air to him. It was still warm enough to hurt, but not enough to scar him too as Rhys tucked it into his pocket. He left his hands there too, hidden as he flexed his fingers, subtly wiping his palm off.

His hands were covered with metaphorical blood already. They didn’t need burned flesh on them too.

“Take this to Tamlin,” Amarantha ordered, holding the head by the hair again out toward Rhys. She was already looking away, looking toward the crowd for her next bit of entertainment. “Put it somewhere he can admire it.”

Rhys took it from her, dipping his head as he left.

Amarantha didn’t bother to watch him go.

Spring was… bright. Bright and loud, so busy after Rhys had spent so long in the dark. He couldn't even imagine how much brighter it would get as the sun continued to rise, as dawn melted into day. It was easy enough to slip into the minds of the morning gardeners and turn them to other tasks, to walk right up to the heron fountain and spike the poor fae’s head to the beak.

He stared for long enough that another servant began to come his way, and Rhys slipped into their mind on instinct. He was about to turn them away when he caught a glimpse of their thoughts.

Clean the area for the Lady. She wanted to paint here today.

Rhys froze for a heartbeat. Could it be?

He winnowed past the worker closer to the manor, hiding himself in the shadows still cast from the lingering night. He’d made it two steps before he caught the scent on the air, familiar and close and so, so real.

Cauldron, she was real.

Real, and he’d not come to Calanmai. Not come to the time he could have actually seen her, talked to her. But he could still see her now.

The scent was strongest coming from the open doors of a second floor balcony, and Rhys winnowed there before he’d even made the conscious decision. Soft curtains drifted with the morning breeze, and he approached on silent feet, slowly enough his own movements wouldn’t cause a stir.

He saw the bed first, then the two bodies tangled up in the sheets. Tamlin, eyes closed as he slept, and Rhys’ painter next to him. Her face was pressed into Tamlin’s neck, one arm thrown across his torso. Her hair was bunched up around her face, preventing him still from seeing her, but the sheets were pushed down to their waists, revealing his painter’s back to him.

She was beautiful, with freckles across her shoulders that looked like stars to him. He wondered if they coated her face as well. He wanted to trace the dip of her spine, press his face to her and hear her heartbeat, tangle his fingers in her hair.

His hands trembled at his sides from the wanting.

From the sick pit in his stomach as he watched. His painter was with Tamlin, a golden prince with a beautiful land to match. Her skin was a canvas, one he had no interest in marring with his own touch, his own stained hands.

He dreaded what would happen when Tamlin’s time ran out. Amarantha would slaughter her out of jealousy, unless Tamlin sent her away, back to Winter.

Amarantha would not suffer that a female like this could capture his attention, when she received only his scorn.

Tamlin had better send her away before then. Rhys wouldn’t survive it if she died. Wouldn’t survive seeing her beneath stone, torn apart at Amarantha’s hands. He’d rather die himself than watch this last good thing be taken from him, like everything else he’d lost in his life.

A fresh gust of wind blew then, inward toward the sleeping pair. Tamlin remained asleep, but his painter stirred, shifting slightly and stretching as she woke. Gooseflesh erupted across her back, and she blindly reached down to feel around for the sheets to pull them back up and over her chin. Rhys allowed himself the last look, then winnowed away before Tamlin could wake as well.

He landed at the tunnel entrance and stumbled, hand coming out to catch himself on the stone walls. Tearing himself away from her had felt like tearing a piece of himself away, and he had to breathe through it for a long moment before he could stand straight again. He brushed his hands off, making sure not a speck of dirt was on him as he set his face back into his Lord of Nightmare’s mask.

The Mother had been kind to give him such a gift, the chance to see his painter even once. Even if it meant seeing her with his enemy.

It had been enough. Would have to be enough.

Barely a few weeks later, Winter rebelled. Amarantha had grown so angry, Rhys feared she would bring the whole mountain down on them all, regardless of the fact that the rebels had already been slaughtered.

“Ungrateful,” she hissed, pacing back and forth in her room. Rhys tracked her with only his eyes, not daring to move a muscle and draw the ire onto him. “I allowed him to remain here, I host him and his nobles, bestow gifts on him, and he has the audacity to try and usurp me? Just like his father, to revolt. To ignore everything I’ve given them. See if I don’t kill him too.”

“He is the last of his line,” Rhys cautiously said. “Who would the magic go to?”

“I do not care, Rhysand. Perhaps it will go to someone who can do as they're told and obey their Queen properly.”

Rhys couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let his painter’s High Lord suffer for something he didn’t even know about. Enough had died, and if they ever made it free of Amarantha, he doubted his painter would appreciate her home being in such upheaval from losing a second High Lord in the span of fifty years.

“My Queen.” Rhys stepped closer, knowing he was inviting more pain on himself as he did so. “The rebels are dead, and Kallias could not have known of the attempt. He is as loyal as any of us. He knows he is only High Lord because of you, and I do not believe he would be so foolish as to attack you and your authority in such a way. If they had come to him, he would have gone straight to you. You know I keep an eye on them for you. Even if he hadn’t gone to you, I would have.”

Amarantha watched him approach her back through the mirror on her wall. A test. Rhys reached out to put his hands on her shoulders, gently digging his thumbs into the muscle to try and relax her. Make her a little less volatile. Slowly, her tension seeped away, until she leaned back against him, eyes closed.

Rhys’ stomach roiled at the sight, but he did not stop.

“Perhaps I can excuse his ignorance this once,” she sighed. “Enough to spare his life. But he still needs to learn to keep a better hold of his people.”

“Perhaps a trip to your dungeons, my Queen. Just long enough for the message to… sink in.”

Amarantha cracked open an eye, lips curling with pleasure at the thought. She hummed, then righted herself and stepped away from him. She strode to her desk, quickly scribbling out a message before vanishing it with a snap of magic. Orders for her soldiers to carry out.

She returned to him then, raising a hand to trail it along his cheek. “Such a good little pet,” she cooed.

Rhys smiled at that. Imagined tearing out her heart with his hands.

Amarantha took his hands in her own and led him over to the bed, and Rhys did his best to not think at all.

Hours later, a knock came from the door, then the Attor stepped in. “It is done, my Queen,” it said, grinning at Amarantha. “They were unprepared for the attack, and our forces found no resistance. The example has been made.”

Rhys’ heart dropped. He reached out with his mind, tried to find what soldiers she might have sent, somewhere nearby in the Winter Court.

He found them easily enough, but stopping them…

It was beyond him. Rhys scraped at their minds, but Amarantha’s spell held him back. They probably couldn’t even feel it. But he could feel them.

Could feel the way they relished in the pain they caused. Pain that was hours old already. The carnage was done. There was nothing he could do anymore but bear witness through memory.

Rhys watched what glimpses he could get, and was horrified.

Children. She’d sent another daemati to slaughter children.

A dozen of them, minds wiped to nothing.

In bed next to him, Amarantha nearly purred with delight as she dismissed the Attor and turned back to him, hand trailing across his skin.

He thought again of just reaching out and attacking her. Of tearing her apart, or at least trying to. Maybe she would kill him too.

Then he would never have to face Kallias.

Never have to face the knowledge of how he’d failed his painter and her people so spectacularly.

Instead, he let Amarantha crawl over him. Looked up at the carved ceiling, and pretended he didn’t care.

A few days later, Amarantha ordered him out again. It seemed the closer they grew to the deadline, the more freedom she granted him as her paranoia grew.

He couldn’t deny that most of him wanted to go simply to see his painter again, one last time if it were possible. If she was still there, if Tamlin hadn’t sent her away yet. Even if she hated him for failing her people. He didn’t know which he dreaded more: not seeing her, or having to be the reason she left. Having to terrify Tamlin enough that he ordered her to flee.

He’d do it, but it would hurt.

That was the price of protecting those he loved. He was well used to paying it.

It was a relief to not hide his power this time around. To stroll right down the gravel path cutting through a manicured lawn, up the marble steps of the grand entrance. It was easy to bind the sentries to their places, prevent them from stopping him as he walked inside the manor.

He cast his attention outward to find Tamlin, sense the power roiling beneath his skin, and headed toward him within moments. Lucien was there as well, and Rhys could sense their fear as walked closer, their apprehension rising with every step he took, every scuff of his boots on the black and white checkered floors.

They were trying to be casual when he walked in. Tamlin was cleaning his nails, and Lucien stood by the window, gazing out as if waiting for his lost love to return from the dead.

There was no painter.

“High Lord,” Rhys crooned, hiding his disappointment and his relief.

“What do you want, Rhysand?” Tamlin growled at him, flicking his eyes up without moving his head, the hint of fangs at his mouth.

Rhys smiled, putting a mocking hand over his heart. “Rhysand? Come now, Tamlin. I don’t see you for forty-nine years, and you start calling me Rhysand? Only my prisoners and my enemies call me that.” A lie, of course. He’d seen plenty of Tamlin not even a few days earlier. He didn’t want to think too long or hard about why Tamlin hadn’t been clothed in that bed, why his painter hadn’t either. So he looked to Lucien instead.

“A fox mask. Appropriate for you, Lucien.”

“Go to Hell, Rhys.”

Didn’t Lucien know he was already in it?

“Always a pleasure dealing with the rabble,” Rhys said, pushing that bleak thought from his mind and turning to Tamlin. He’d much rather antagonize him and cause him troubles than think about his own. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“We were in the middle of lunch,” Tamlin said.

How boring. Rhys almost frowned, but instead purred, “stimulating,” with as much derision as he could manage.

“What are you doing here, Rhys?” Tamlin demanded, still in his seat.

“I wanted to check up on you. I wanted to see how you were faring. If you got my little present.”

“Your present was unnecessary.”

He was one to talk. Tamlin didn’t have to witness the poor creature's bloody death, pick out the burned pieces of their skin from his signet ring and wash it in boiling water just to get rid of the smell. He wanted to cut at Tamlin, make him feel a sliver of that horror too.

Rhys clicked his tongue and surveyed the room. “What a pity that you must endure such… torture up here in the sunlight and fresh air. It really is such a hardship, isn’t it?”

Tamlin sighed, resigned to his fate as he rubbed his temples. “Save it for another time, Rhys. You’ll see me soon enough.”

True. Only a few more days and he’d be beneath the mountain with the rest of them. Rhys wanted to stay while he could, soak in as much sunlight as he could, but Amarantha had ordered him not to linger, so Rhys turned, preparing to leave the way he’d come.

“She’s already preparing for you,” he warned. “Given your current state, I think I can safely report that you’ve already been broken and will reconsider her offer.”

He ran a finger along the back of one of the chairs as he went, and he would’ve kept going if Lucien’s breath hadn’t hitched as he did. What was making him nervous?

“I’m looking forward to seeing your face when you—”

He cut himself off, noticing it at last. The third, half-eaten plate of food. Tamlin’s before him, Lucien’s to Tamlin’s right, abandoned when Lucien had decided to stare out the window, and a third…

Lucien went stick-straight as Rhys lifted the goblet by the plate, sniffing it once before setting it back down, the lingering traces of his painter’s scent on the rim.

She was here, she was still here. “Where’s your guest?” he asked, the sound casual when his thoughts were anything but.

“I sent them off when I sensed your arrival,” Tamlin lied coolly.

Rhys hid his snarl with a mask void of emotion, turning to face his fellow High Lord. Where could he have hidden her? Rhys would have seen her flee the room from where he’d entered the manor, and none of the windows were open-

The windows.

Lucien.

Rhys lashed out at the subtle magic surrounding Lucien, ripping away the glamour Tamlin had thrown over Rhys’ painter to keep her hidden. He couldn’t stop his rage then, couldn’t wipe it from his face as he finally saw hers for the first time, terror stricken as she met his eyes with her own.

Lucien just pressed her harder into the wall, his whole body a shield between them. As if he would ever hurt her. As if he would punish her for the glamour, when it was Tamlin that had done it.

Tamlin’s chair groaned as it was shoved back. He rose, claws at the ready, always one to react first and think things through second. Rhys ignored him, finding that his painter was a far more captivating sight.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Rhys said, the truth ripped from him before he’d had the chance to shove it down.

He turned to Tamlin, intent on covering that little slip. “Who, pray tell, is your guest?”

“My betrothed,” Lucien answered, the one lie Rhys would never believe.

He laughed, loud and long, then said, “did you know she’s cuckolding you, then? With your own High Lord, no less. I saw her in his bed that morning I dropped off my little present.”

He stalked closer, relishing the way Lucien’s eyes flickered over to Tamlin in apology while Tamlin’s own lit with fury. Lucien pulled his sword free, intent on running Rhys through with it, but Rhys merely batted it away with some of his lingering magic. The sword went flying, smacking the far wall and slicing into the wallpaper. Rhys couldn’t be bothered to look, even as he brushed Lucien aside with his magic as well.

His anger with Tamlin was growing, even as he thanked the Mother over and over again for having a second chance to see her, to finally glimpse her face, the shine of her hair, the way her bangs were just long enough to curl right below her eyebrows, the way her rounded ears held back the rest-

Rounded.

Rhys’ stare fixated on them for a moment, then he took her in in her entirety.

She wasn’t a Winter fae. She was human.

No. No.

Even if she loved Tamlin, Amarantha would slaughter her for daring to exist. Breaking the curse didn’t mean she would be safe - not at all. It would only bring a target down on her back even more so than before.

He had to scare her away, terrify her enough that she sprinted back to her side of the wall and never even thought of looking back.

There was a knife in her hands, and Rhys gently reached out to take it from her. When her weak, human grip failed her, he sent the blade in the same direction as Lucien’s sword.

“That won’t do you any good, anyway,” Rhys said to her, hating every moment of what he was about to do. He gave himself one last look at her, then reached into her mind, holding it gently in his mental talons. Her whole body stiffened, and he felt the pulse of fear deep in his gut.

“Let her go,” Tamlin said, bristling, but didn’t advance forward, panicked that Rhys might crush his painter’s mind for the attempt. “Enough.”

“I’d forgotten that human minds are as easy to shatter as eggshells,” Rhys mused. He brought his hand up to her neck, running one gentle finger along the base of her throat, feeling the pulse of her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. His painter shuddered at the contact, and Rhys would have given anything for her to be shuddering for a different reason than fear. “Look at how delightful she is—look how she’s trying not to cry out in terror. It would be quick, I promise.”

The thought of using his gift to kill her… to melt her mind into mush in the space between breaths. Rhys was almost sick at the thought, and to distract himself - hurt himself, really, with the things he knew he would find - he pushed past her fear and drew forth her memories of Tamlin.

“She has the most delicious thoughts about you, Tamlin,” he said, finding the thoughts he’d been searching for. “She reminisced about the feeling of your fingers on her thighs—between them, too.” He chuckled. “Not just fingers, either.”

“Let. Her. Go.” Tamlin’s face twisted with such feral rage that it struck a different, deeper chord of terror in his painter, and Rhys turned that over for a moment. She cared for Tamlin, but feared his rage too.

Just not enough to outweigh her love.

“If it’s any consolation,” Rhysand confided to him, “she would have been the one for you—and you might have gotten away with it. A bit late, though. She’s more stubborn than you are.”

Rhys caressed his painter’s mind one last time, then retreated. His painter gasped as she sank to her knees, reeling, desperately trying not to scream.

“Amarantha will enjoy breaking her,” Rhys said. “Almost as much as she’ll enjoy watching you as she shatters her bit by bit.”

Tamlin was frozen, arms limp at his side. “Please,” he said.

“Please what?” Rhys coaxed.

“Don’t tell Amarantha about her.”

“And why not? As my ruler, I should tell her everything.”

“Please,” Tamlin managed, as if it were difficult to breathe. As if he had any of the same struggles that Rhys faced, as if he faced even a fraction of the pain Rhys did.

Rhys turned back to his painter. “What’s your name, love?” He hadn’t meant to let the word slip out, but Cauldron, if being perceived as sarcastic was the only way he could voice that truth, then who was he to stop himself?

He waited, nearly impatiently, as his painter held out. He was about ready to gently coax it from her mind when she said, “Clare Beddor.”

Rhys blinked once, the corner of his mouth pulling back. It was such an obvious lie. She didn’t look like a Clare, didn’t say it with any sense of honesty in her voice or demeanor.

But he supposed it was better, safer, that she lie. If only it hadn’t ripped at him to still be left unknowing.

“Are you going to tell Amarantha?” Tamlin interrupted.

Rhys smirked. “Perhaps I’ll tell her, perhaps I won’t.”

Never. He’d never tell her about his painter.

In an instant, Tamlin was on his feet, fangs bared to Rhys’ face.

“None of that,” Rhys tutted, clicking his tongue and lightly shoving Tamlin away with a single hand. “I best be off, back to her. But this was entertaining - the most fun I’ve had in ages, actually. I’m looking forward to seeing you Under the Mountain. I’ll give Amarantha your regards.”

Then Rhys winnowed away, the last thing he saw the terrified face of his lovely painter.

Amarantha was eager for his report, dismissing the Attor from her side the moment she saw Rhys walk back into the throne room. He slid his hands into his pockets as he climbed the steps up to her throne, dipping his head in a bow before sliding into place at her side.

“Well?” Amarantha demanded.

“He is resigned to his fate, my Queen.” Rhys lied smoothly. “I saw no evidence of his attempting to break his curse. Just him and the fox moping, drinking away the last of their wine before they come below to your court. Even his servants avoid him, disgusted with his lack of effort.”

Amarantha smiled, her red lips pulling apart like a wound, revealing bone beneath. “Good,” she mused. “Very good. Perhaps this whole thing will be easier than I expected.”

Rhys smiled, but inside, he was screaming.

Three days later, Tamlin arrived Under the Mountain.

He didn’t even bother to fight.

Rhys wondered why he’d ever expected differently of him.

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of horror, of Tamlin sitting at Amarantha’s side, his face as stone-like as his heart. He didn’t bother to speak, didn’t bother to give any indication that he’d almost broken the curse.

Rhys was glad for that much at least. Even if it meant he’d never see his painter again, at least Amarantha would never see her either. If she never suspected, then how would she ever know?

Rhys had grown used to hell. He could survive it.

And then the worst happened.

He’d been by a table in the throne room when the Attor had dragged some poor soul in. Rhys waited to see if Amarantha would call for him, but she never did, so he resumed browsing for something to eat. None of the items seemed particularly interesting to him, not when his stomach has been roiling with nausea for nearly an hour.

He tried to tune out the Attor behind him, tune out the torture that was sure to come. But then he really registered what the Attor had said - Just some human thing I found downstairs. Tell Her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs—why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court.

Rhys spun toward the sound and his heart lurched.

No.

There she was, his painter, on her hands and knees and glaring up at Amarantha like she had a death wish.

It was a lucky thing indeed that no one was near him, because Rhys couldn’t stop the panicked sound that ripped free before he managed to strangle it down.

The Attor kicked her in the ribs, sending her back down as its claws pierced her ribs. Rhys took a few steps forward, already shaking his head as the Attor demanded, “Tell Her Majesty, you human filth.”

“I came to claim the one I love,” she said quietly, looking at Tamlin.

“Stop,” Rhys whispered, but his painter did not hear him. Did not heed his warning.

“Oh?” Amarantha said, leaning forward in her throne, her painted nails already starting to dig into the armrests.

“I’ve come to claim Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.”

Slowly, Amarantha turned her head to look at Tamlin, seated impassively next to her. He hid it well, but Rhys could feel his terror, his dread. There was no hiding this anymore.

When she realized Tamlin wasn’t going to speak, Amarantha then looked for Rhys. People backed out of her line of sight, leaving a clear path right to him.

Amarantha was quiet as she said, “You… lied to me.”

Rhys was trembling, barely holding back from rushing for his painter, from straight out attacking Amarantha. He’d fail, but it was better than nothing, right? Better than watching as she killed his painter.

He didn’t have time to react. She raised her hand and blasted him back with a wall of white light.

He hit the far wall of the throne room hard enough to crack the stone, and landed face first on the ground after, whole head ringing and bleeding from multiple places. He couldn’t even see, was too dizzy as his ears rang, desperately trying to shake it off and get back to the fight.

Distantly, he heard screaming.

By the time he finally shoved himself back to his feet, whole body swaying and sight doubling every few moments before returning to normal, his painter was already broken on the floor.

Amarantha towered over her, kicking over and over at her ribs, snarling insults at the poor girl desperately trying to curl up to protect herself. Tamlin was thrashing on his throne, held in place by more of Amarantha’s guards.

His painter was already black and blue, blood pouring from her nose and mouth, one arm broken so far the bone stuck out.

Rhys managed one step toward her before the Attor was by his side, grabbing him and shoving him down onto the ground again, sprawling across the stone. Rhys hit his chin on the ground, biting through his tongue hard enough that blood filled his mouth. He spat it out and pushed to his knees, crawling all of two feet forward before the Attor grabbed his ankle and yanked him backward again.

In the crowds, the other High Lords watched, horrified. Terrified.

Unwilling to aid him.

Of course they were. When Amarantha was on the warpath, one learned to get out of her way, not step directly into it.

The Attor stepped on Rhys’ back, digging its claws right into his spine. Directly between where his wings sprouted when they weren’t hidden away. It leaned down over him, hot breath making Rhys cringe as it hissed, “You thought you could lie to Her Majesty and get away with it? She will deal with you soon enough.”

Cauldron, he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t get to her.

His painter screamed again, the sound so loud and sharp that Rhys flinched, before it cut off halfway as Amarantha grabbed her throat and squeezed.

Rhys flung his magic at Amarantha, scrambled to get a hold on her mind, but his mental talons simply glanced off, nothing more than an irritating bug.

Tears blurred his eyes as he lashed out again, and again, each time failing to land a hit.

Amarantha snarled at his painter, then let go of her throat to return to raking those claw-like nails down her skin. His painter screamed again, and this time, Rhys reached for her mind instead.

He seized it in his talons, wrapping them around the girl like a protective cage, bars to block out any threat.

He made her continue to scream, but inside, she no longer felt pain.

Just confusion at what had happened. How she’d gone from sneaking down the hallways to rescue the one she loved to bleeding out on the floor within minutes.

Confusion at where the pain had suddenly gone. If it would return. If she was going to die.

Rhys shuddered at that thought.

Yes. Probably.

And he was a fool for ever thinking he could have protected her.

I’m so sorry, he whispered to her.

Her mental attention latched on him. Rhysand? Is that you?

Rhys closed his eyes, letting his head fall to the ground. He didn’t want to see what Amarantha was doing anymore.

Yes, Painter. It’s me.

What’s happening?

She sounded so small asking it, even in his mind. Scared.

I took your pain away. But I… I can’t save you.

There was a pause, during which he forced her body to scream again, to beg for mercy he already knew Amarantha would not give.

You didn’t tell her about me. You lied to her.

Yes. I knew she would hurt you if I told her the truth.

You lied… to protect me? But I thought you and Tamlin were enemies.

Yes, Painter. He sighed. Tamlin is my enemy. Him. Not you. Never you. And I would rather he have won than Amarantha, anyway.

Rhys looked back up at his painter, lying there broken on the floor. Amarantha’s whole body was heaving with her furious breaths. Blood covered her whole face, and she paused her torture long enough to wipe at her face, smearing it across her mouth. Then she straightened, rolling her shoulders back as she stared down at the human at her feet.

Why do you call me Painter?

I do not know your name. You gave a false one.

Amarantha backed up a step, then kicked one last time at his painters ribs. The crack of her bones was loud enough the entire hall could hear.

You knew?

Even her mental voice was starting to weaken.

Rhys mentally nodded. Yes, Painter. I knew.

Amarantha tilted her head back and forth, cracking her neck like she was just getting started.

Rhys didn’t see where she could go from there. His painter was already standing with one foot into the land of milk and honey.

Will you tell me it? He begged.

It came through like a sigh. Feyre. My name is Feyre.

Rhys closed his eyes, the sound of the name an answer to a question he’d been asking for years.

Rhys?

Rhys’ heart jumped at that. At her calling him Rhys instead of Rhysand. Even without being asked.

Yes, Feyre?

She's not going to let either of us live, is she?

Rhys’ cheek was wet against the ground from his own tears as he said, No Feyre. She isn’t.

Rhys?

Yes, Feyre, darling?

Will you stay with me? Until the end?

Rhys sobbed. Even the fae around him looked over in shock, having never heard him utter such a sound.

“Always,” he whispered, both aloud and to her mind.

And some of the fear in Feyre’s heart seemed to melt away at that. At knowing she at least wouldn’t be alone.

And then Amarantha, apparently done observing Feyre beneath her, said, “You mortals are so fragile. So easily broken. But I’m not done having fun yet. Thesan? Heal her while I deal with Rhysand.”

Rhys’ heart stopped.

Amarantha was going to kill him, yet bring Feyre back.

Over and over, if he had to guess, until she eventually tired of torturing her. But Rhys would no longer be there to take her pain. To talk her through it. To be there with her when she eventually died.

He had promised her she wouldn’t be alone.

He would rather suffer another five hundred years Under the Mountain than ever see Feyre suffer like this again. Ever leave her alone, let her feel the pain of every excruciating minute.

Even if it damned him. Even if it broke something in him. At least he would die quickly afterward.

Feyre, darling?

Yes, Rhys?

I’m so sorry, love.

He didn’t give her the time to realize his intention. Simply dug those once-protective mental talons into her mind, and let her slide into peace without any more pain.

Amarantha didn’t even notice her precious plaything die.

Rhys felt every excruciating moment. Letting Feyre slip away, leaving only emptiness behind in her wake, was a new form of torture he didn’t think even Amarantha could have invented. His mind wanted to tug on her fading presence, hold fast to it and keep her here still, safe and coveted, and it took everything in him to relax his hold. Let her slip through his mental talons and vanish at last.

Rhys couldn’t look away from Feyre’s body as Amarantha approached him. He saw Thesan crouch over her body and pause, then look over at him, understanding what Rhys had done. Thesan shook his head and backed away, already gesturing for his court to leave if they could. Escape the coming storm. The other High Lords noticed and began to do the same.

In his throne, Tamlin stilled, staring down at Feyre as the last of his hope died.

All of them could go to hell, as far as Rhys cared.

Amarantha crouched at his head, reaching down to run her fingers through his hair and grip it tightly. The Attor finally removed the claws in Rhys’ back, stepping aside so Amarantha could pull Rhys up by the tight grip she had on him.

Rhys spat in her face, finally letting down the mask he’d had up for five decades. It was petty, perhaps, but he grinned anyway as Amarantha flinched at the sudden wetness on her face.

Then she snarled at him, the sound beastlike. Wholly animal.

She didn’t give him the chance to speak before she’d dug her nails into his neck and pulled it out, dropping him back to the ground as he choked on his own blood.

It was painful, but Rhys relished every moment. He deserved it, really, for his part in Feyre’s death. For not protecting her enough, for not killing Amarantha fifty years ago when he had the chance.

But Amarantha wouldn’t get to hurt Feyre anymore, at least. Would have to find someone else to torture. And to Rhys, that was enough.

His vision slowly began to fade as he coughed and sputtered, never able to get enough air, but he knew where her body was at least, and no one was holding him back anymore.

Rhys crawled to her, sure he was leaving a trail as he went, finally collapsing at Feyre’s side.

He barely heard it as Amarantha screamed, finally realizing that Feyre was already gone. It didn’t matter anymore.

He’d lost.

He wished it could have been different. Wished he’d heeded the fucking warnings he’d gotten through his dreams. Hadn’t he dreamt of Feyre killing Tamlin’s sentry? It had been months earlier that he’d dreamt of a wolf in the woods. Months that he could have spent preparing. Planning. But he’d been too foolish.

What he wouldn’t give for a different outcome.

I’m so sorry, he thought toward Feyre’s body, the last thing he knew he’d ever think.

And then, finally, Rhysand slipped into unconsciousness.

Into death.

Death was… cold.

Rhys opened his eyes to a labyrinth of trees coated in ice and snow, with harsh winds gusting through and wracking his body with shivers.

Well then. He’d suspected, of course, that he wouldn’t make it to the land of milk and honey, but to actually see it? Feel it?

At least Feyre wasn’t there. She’d make it through the gates to the immortal lands. She deserved that, deserved an eternity of sunlight and warmth. Of flowers, and birds chirping. Of never feeling hungry again.

Not like Rhys did right then, his stomach growling.

He hadn’t expected that, at the very least. Hunger wasn’t exactly something the dead felt. But then again, who was to know for sure? The dead didn’t tend to talk.

A branch snapped close by, and Rhys’ attention snapped to it.

When he saw the deer, he froze.

This… was so familiar.

He pulled back the arrow - when had he picked up a bow? - and aimed for its heart, and then the wolf appeared.

He loosed the arrow. Approached the beast and watched it die.

Knelt in the snow to skin it.

Sat up with a gasp, hands turning to talons as he fell from the bed, hitting the ground hard and loudly.

Where was he? Rhys’ eyes wildly scanned the room, taking in the bedding, the chiseled ceiling, the fireplace glowing with embers.

“Rhysand?” Amarantha’s voice came from above the bed. “Did you just fall out of bed like a child?” Her mocking face appeared over the edge.

Rhys snapped, lunging for her. Her eyes went wide for a moment as his hands locked around her neck, lips pulled back into a snarl as he pressed down.

She’d tortured Feyre. Forced him to kill her to spare her any more pain. Killed him, then. She deserved to die. Who was he to waste such an opportunity?

He wasn’t sure how exactly he’d gotten it, how he’d survived getting his throat torn out, why Amarantha would have healed him. Have him returned to her room, her bed, to sleep beside her as if he hadn’t made it clear where his true loyalties lay.

Amarantha gasped uselessly for air, hands scrambling first at his face, then under her pillow. Rhys squeezed harder.

Her arm came back up, dagger clutched in her fist. She drove it into his chest and shoved him off her. Rhys didn’t even feel the pain as he toppled back to the ground, landing once again on the hard stone floor.

He could feel his heart fruitlessly trying to keep beating, to keep him alive, but the dagger had been true.

Amarantha sneered above him. “Really? You actually thought that would work? What a waste.”

Rhys’ vision faded again.

And again, there was cold. Hunger.

A deer and a wolf.

He woke quietly the next time. Eyes fluttering open to stare at the chiseled ceiling. The bedding. The fireplace. The Deceiver next to him.

What was happening?

Rhys rose from the bed, pulling on his sleep pants and quietly leaving the room. He winnowed to the throne room, stumbling slightly in his haste as he landed. The room was empty due to the time, and Rhys slowly padded barefoot across the stone floor.

There was no stain where Feyre had fallen. No trail from where he had crawled to her. There was no second throne beside the first for Tamlin to sit in.

Rhys stared at the spot on the ground, losing track of time until he heard soft footsteps. His head whipped up, and the lesser fae on the other side of the room jumped in fright at having Rhys’ sudden and full attention on them.

Rhys blinked.

He knew that fae. Amarantha had torn their wings from their back and sent them to Tamlin. They had died.

Months ago.

What was it he had thought, again? Laying there in a pool of his own and Feyre’s blood?

He’d wished it could have been different. Wished that he’d heeded the dreams Feyre had been sending his way for months.

Years.

What he wouldn’t have given for a different outcome.

It seemed the Mother had heard him.

Wasn’t quite done with him yet.

Rhys turned his back to the fae he’d startled, retreating from the throne room.

Feyre was coming, and he only had a few months to plan how he was going to save her. Change things, this time around.

He wouldn’t ever let her die again.

#feysand timeloop #time won’t fly (it’s like i’m paralyzed by it)#feyre archeron #Rhysand #feysand #feysand fanfiction #bela writes #SURPRISE IT WAS ME #I hope you all enjoy!!!

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tunaababee · 4 months ago

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time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) - chapter 10 // we'll sing a chorus (loop 38)

read on ao3 // rating: e // @feysand-hivemind

fic 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 in Amarantha's bed Under the Mountain - over and over. Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.

chapter summary: After having the bond snap in the last loop, Rhysand can't help but yearn for his mate. After manufacturing a meeting near the starlight pool, he attempts to show her exactly what she means to him - and to Prythian at large.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　♡　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

surprise! i'm part of the hivemind!! this is my first dabbling in any sort of canonverse, so i truly hope i've done our beloved pair justice. this project has been a labour of love from everyone and i hope that you all enjoy. even if it's painful. :)

you can read a snippet of my chapter below the cut, or in full on ao3!

chapter title and starting quote are from Forest by Twenty One Pilots.

“And then when just enough light comes from just the right side, and you find you're not who you're supposed to be?”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Rhys jolted awake in bed, sitting almost ramrod straight, tear tracks still staining his face and his throat hoarse. He could feel the warmth of Amarantha’s body beside him, the chill of the cool night air on his skin once more… But there was something else. Something new crawling underneath his skin - that everlasting golden thread and the lacking sensation it had left behind. His mind and thoughts rewired around the knowledge of Feyre and her presence. The empty feeling it had carved out in the hollow of his chest now that he and Feyre were apart.

That he and his mate were apart.

The thought was almost enough to drive him insane – he had been so alone for so long, only to find his match and his equal somewhere so unexpected, that he had half a mind to try and slay Amarantha right now.

While he couldn’t feel its weight against his rib, he felt the remnants, the shape of its ghost. A nagging sensation, a barely-formed idea in the back of his head throughout previous loops had unfurled within his head and his heart. The knowledge that a connection so deep and true he never thought he’d have, let alone deserve, was out there simply waiting for him.

As much as the fury and desperation coursing through his veins urged him to leap from where he lay and go get her, he ultimately knew better.

To go and tear a path from here directly to Feyre would be tantamount to giving them both another inevitable death sentence, and he didn’t think his heart could take it. That didn’t mean he was going to sit there and wilt away under Amarantha’s thumb while Feyre was busy whiling away the time in the Spring Court unawares.

#feysand #feysand timeloop #feysand hivemind #acotar fic #feysand fic #acotar #feyre archeron #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

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amnevitahwritesstuff · 2 months ago

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⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Sixteen: The Wyrm (Loop 66)

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

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.

Part of the @feysand-hivemind

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Teen

Triggers: Major Character Death, Suicide

Length: 1,040 words

[Hello again! Back to provide some emotional catharsis this time instead of silliness. Truthfully, I've had this chapter written since June of 2024 and it's just been sitting in my drafts all this time, waiting to be unleashed. So I'm glad I can finally share it with you all!]

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on AO3 or below the cut

Rhys felt like he was on the edge of a panic attack.

(Then again, this whole time looping madness had felt like one very long, endless panic attack.)

No matter how many times he’d lived through this exact moment he still couldn’t help but fight the wave of anxiety that gripped his heart as his mate—still glaring daggers at Amarantha—was snatched up and dropped into the arena like a sack of potatoes.

The fact that he’d gotten her this far was, quite frankly, a miracle. After his last few cycles he’d nearly given up hope of getting her to this point again. He was tired. And terrified. And he just wanted this all to be over. For he and Feyre to escape this mad, spiraling time loop and Amarantha and her horrors and then…and then…

He didn’t dare think of that nebulous what-if. It felt so out of reach. So fragile. As if just thinking it would pop it like a soap bubble.

Below, he watched Feyre sprint through the mud as the wyrm was released. Good. She understood the danger. Now all she had to do was—

Where was she going?!

Rhys watched helplessly as Feyre turned left…straight into the path of the wyrm. He had no more than a single moment for horror to take hold before he saw the wyrm open its gaping maw…and swallow his mate whole.

She didn’t even have time to scream before he felt her life—that beautiful, brilliant light that shined like a star in his mind—snuffed out as she was crushed between the wyrm’s teeth.

No.

Not again.

Not. Again.

No matter how many times he’d seen his mate die, it still felt like his heart had been torn from his chest, raw and bloody and still beating. His hands shook. He couldn’t breathe. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shred the very fabric of this reality and put it back together so that she would be there again, safe and sound and alive.

He wanted to��ah. Yes. There was that panic attack he’d been waiting for.

“Such a pity,” Amarantha said, clucking her tongue mockingly. She slumped back in her throne with a disappointed sigh. “I was hoping for a little more entertainment today.”

Normally, this was when Rhys was expected to swallow his horror and disgust and reply ‘Yes, such a pity’ and ‘Humans are such pathetic little creatures aren’t they?’.

That is not what he said.

“Has anyone ever told you what an insufferable creature you are?”

She paused, almost as if in shock. Rhys had never spoken to her like this before. Not in all his fifty years under this godsforsaken mountain. He had always been such a good boy to her face. Ready to bow and scrape and offer up whatever she desired. His coy commiseration. His power. Even his body.

But none of that mattered anymore. Not without her.

His mate.

Feyre.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she would remember any of this anyway.

“Oh, forgive me,” he continued. “Were you not expecting that from me? Have I played your adoring pet for too long? Well let me set the record straight here and now. You repulse me.” His face twisted into a snarl. He was sure he looked more wolf than fae in that moment.

Amarantha said nothing, still caught by surprise. Around them, the arena had gone silent. No one dared make a sound as Rhys voiced everything no one else was brave enough to say out loud.

“You’re pathetic. Whatever happened to that great and ruthless general I wonder? The one who struck fear into the hearts of her enemies? Are you so helpless and pitiful now that you had to bind all of Prythian through trickery? Have you grown so miserable and weak that you are reduced to playing games with a human? A child?”

It felt so good to say this out loud. To finally tell her what a vile little cretin she was.

“I’ve met rodents more appealing than you.”

Anger flared across that perfect face. She was upset.

Good.

“Seize him!” Amarantha called, her fingers bone white as she clutched the arms of her throne.

Rhys laughed. He felt manic. Wild. Reckless. He didn’t bother fighting the attor as it grasped ahold of his shoulders and thrust him to his knees.

What did it matter now?

“Look at you. So afraid of a few words. Because you know they’re true. You know you have no allies. No friends,” he laughed, a frenzied edge to his voice. “You know all of us want you dead. You will never know peace. Never know freedom. Never know love. Even your beloved Tamlin can’t wait to rip your throat out.”

He saw the way that last barb cut deep. How her eyes briefly flickered towards the fae in question. And Tamlin, confirming her worst fears, only had eyes for the slithering, blind creature below—as if waiting for the fierce little blonde human to walk out of its jaws, perfectly hale and whole once more.

If only.

“I can’t wait for you to suffer the way you’ve made us all suffer these many long years.”

She plastered a cruel smile onto her face. “I hope that thought will sustain you through what I have planned for you.”

“Ah, but I don’t have to hope, Amarantha, my dear,” he said with a manic grin. “You see, I’ll make it happen.”

A flash of doubt crossed her face and Rhys’s smile widened. Below them, he heard the wyrm slither close, looking for another meal.

“What are you—”

Quick as a viper, he wrenched himself free and for one shining, beautiful moment he saw a flicker of fear in Amarantha’s eyes. He didn’t need to read her mind to know what she was thinking.

Is he going to kill me? Can he kill me?!

His smile was all teeth.

“See you soon my dear.” It was a promise.

An omen.

Then, to the shock of all, he flung himself off the platform and into the path of the wyrm.

I’m coming my love.

It was his last thought before the wyrm opened its jaws wide and—

Enjoy this fic? Check out some of my other Feysand time travel fics (Let Us Cling Together As The Years Go By and The Nights Grow Long) or fics from the many other talented writers on this project who can be found here.

Or, alternatively, check out my ACOTAR Fic Masterlists.

Thanks for reading! 💜

#my fanfiction #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)#feysand hivemind #feysand timeloop #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #acotar #feysand #amnevitahwritesstuff

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climbthemountain2020 · 9 months ago

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time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) - Chapter 7/Loop 33

I Know You, I Walked With You Once Upon A Dream

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: mild canon-typical violence, NSFW, sexual content

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Word Count: 4k

Notes: Surprise! I am part of the hivemind! I am not subtle, lol.

I literally cannot tell you how much fun I have had with this wonderful group of people plotting and planning and cackling over all these chapters. @feysand-hivemind it’s been so fun to match your freak! I’ve had such a blast being a part of this. <3 Thank you @popjunkie42 @tunaababee @witch-and-her-witcher and @rosanna-writer for the beta help! <3

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3 or under the cut.

Dead again.

This time he hadn’t even known that something was wrong. He’d had a grand plan, a measured procedure for how things were going to go. Perhaps, he’d thought, if no one interfered at all, she would make it through the trials on her own and then the two of them might start with a cleaner slate.

He should have known that she wouldn’t survive without any interventions at all. She was so lovely and beguiling, so smart and scrappy, so willful and stubborn, that it was so simple to forget she was also so tragically fragile and human.

It had been two weeks since the last death, the reset having taken him by surprise, but he was biding his time now. Not intervening hadn’t worked, intervening too soon was equally disastrous. So instead, Rhys was performing his least favorite activity as he wiled his time away Under the Mountain: he was being patient.

Blessedly, Amarantha had been sidetracked. Two uprisings in Day and Winter had kept her furious and occupied since he’d last awoken in her bed. The silence and privacy he’d been given in her distracted absence had left him time to think about what other approaches he might take to see this through to a different end.

He sat on his bed in the darkness, the stress of the past two weeks compounding as he wondered where his little painter–where Feyre –might be now. He let his head sink into his hands, the pounding headache moving from his temples to the base of his skull. After fifty years, he thought he’d grow used to this living space, these bare, windowless walls, the stuffy and stagnant air. Normally, he could shove that claustrophobia, that need to breathe , somewhere deep down and far away. But today? Today Rhys had reached the end of his rope almost immediately upon waking, the walls closing in and sending his mind racing against the base need to feel open air on his skin.

How many times was he going to live this torture?

He had wondered more than once about the potential merits of writing all the details down, even just to see them there on the paper. Would it make it more real? Would it make it more tolerable? At the end of the day, he’d decided over and over that it would be no use. He took nothing with him when the loops restarted–nothing but memories and the ever-growing desperation that this might be the punishment he’d earned for a lifetime of idiocy.

And truly, he had earned this. He had done everything for the selfish benefit of keeping his home and his family safe. He would beg, barter, kill, and steal to keep them well and away from this, even knowing what torturous and questionable things he’d be required to do by Amarantha. He thought of his family as he so often did– Azriel’s brooding kindness, Cassian’s easy, teasing smile, Mor tossing her head back in laughter, and Amren’s harsh but loyal nature. He’d do it all again for them.

This time, though, the images didn’t end with them. They floated effortlessly into swirls of golden hair, freckles, and gray-blue eyes. They echoed with her taunting tone, her words–both sharp and curious–, her smile. Feyre was the key to this loop, somehow, and Rhys was going to figure it out even if it killed him. Again.

Tonight had seen Rhys plagued again by nightmares. He had awoken in a cold sweat, the guilt and nausea eating at him as he’d shot awake in the dark room. Every night, he’d relive the light leaving her eyes as she died, that bright spirit guttering out as she searched for him across a sea of faces.

Feyre. Feyre. Feyre.

He felt her name pulse through his mind like the beat of his heart.

He was overcome by a need to see her, to assure himself that she was alright and unharmed in Spring.

Without further time to hesitate, Rhys shot from the bed, tossing on clothes and sliding into the hallway. There were no sounds in the empty night, everyone having retired for the evening. The halls here were eerie even in the best of times, but Rhys hated the creeping feeling that was unique to this cursed place. He crept along the rock-hewn hallways, moving as silently as a specter and listening for even the smallest of sounds. There were no signs that Amarantha had returned, her quarters still quiet as the grave as he walked past. He sensed no thoughts from within, and hoped it meant that she was asleep or gone.

He walked through the last of the halls to the tunnels, easily finding the door where he’d released the bogge. It had only been days ago, but lost in these loops it felt like it could have been years, lifetimes. As soon as he left the stifling swell of the wards, he was winnowing, taking the short bursts to Spring. The closer he got, the clearer the air smelled, that comforting and familiar tang of moss and honeysuckle and grass prickling at his senses. Long ago, he’d considered this place another home.

He shook his head at the thought on his final winnow, arriving at the edge of the Spring woods, the magic of Tamlin’s wards shattering at a mere touch.

Tamlin still couldn’t be bothered to fix his shitty border magic, despite the circumstances. No loops ever seemed to change that. Rhys could see the manor up ahead, a towering mass of marble and vines in the moonlight. The air around him was so warm it nearly felt like floating in a still sea as he moved closer and closer, following that lively trail of lilac and pear to the window he remembered as hers.

That felt like years ago now, too, since he’d come here to find her and Tamlin embracing in their sleep. He shook his head again as if to dislodge the image as he materialized on the balcony’s edge. The security here would be laughable if it didn’t make him worried for Feyre’s safety.

She slept with the balcony doors flung open, the gentle breezes of Spring dancing over her skin. This time, blessedly, Feyre was alone in the bed. She was faced away from him, curled on one side with her hands tucked beneath her chin. He could see the freckles across the bare expanse of her shoulders, and just like before, he ached to touch them. Rhys released a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, the tension already allowing his shoulders to sink back down. Just the sight of her, her mere presence, worked like a balm on his soul.

He looked over to the door, laughing at the haphazard trap she’d rigged up for anyone daring to enter. By his calculations, she hadn’t been in Spring for long. She and Tamlin were clearly not together yet. An emotion flashed in his chest at the huntress’ rope and curtain contraption at the door, an odd flare of something at her audacity, her will. It was becoming harder and harder to not feel things for this ferocious human girl, the ache within him calling to her even when it would all be so much easier if it didn’t.

But there she was, sleeping peacefully and silently on the bed. She wasn’t dead, wasn’t broken. Her throat wasn’t ripped out, she was not being taken by wounds or choking to death, and Rhys could hear the steady thrumming of her heart from the open doors. It took every bit of his willpower to not slip inside the room, to inhale that sweet, light smell of her greedily like a man starved at his final supper.

Rhys knew what the right move was. Feyre was safe and dreaming and that should be all he cared about, especially since she wasn’t with Tamlin. But…

But…

No.

It was not Rhys’s place to be here. He had come to see that she was well, and she looked well. This Feyre didn’t know him, and even the Feyres that did know him wouldn’t have wanted him lurking in her bedroom while she slept. He had to admit he felt a little bad about skulking around Spring to watch her sleeping in the first place, and that creeping thought of truly being the creature of nightmares bit at him. But he’d needed to see her, assure himself that she was living and breathing and okay. Seeing her comfortable and at peace was enough for him. If all went well, he was sure he’d see her again soon enough.

After giving her one more look, committing the soft sighs and smooth lines of her face to memory, Rhys turned to go. But as he turned to step back through the balcony doors and take off into the night, her sweet voice permeated the air. He whipped around faster than a flash of light, worried he’d been caught, but Feyre still slept, turned towards him now, her eyes shut tightly and a murmur on her lips.

Rhys stood shell shocked, unable to draw his eyes away from her form, naked from the waist up. He couldn’t look away from her, even if he’d tried, his mouth suddenly dry and jaw slack. She moved again beneath the sheets, the seam of them dropping even lower down her waist against her writhing.

The smell of her arousal hit him like a brick, and suddenly he was grasping the door frame, cracking it beneath his hands in his grip before his mind could catch up. It was like getting hit with a tidal wave–a heavily perfumed, absolutely delicious tidal wave. Rhys wasn’t one to fall to his baser needs, but the scent was the most overwhelming thing he’d ever experienced. His grip on the doors tightened and the wood warped and cracked beneath his palms. He couldn’t inhale fast or wholly enough, filling his lungs greedily with the scent of her.

His Feyre.

He needed to leave right this second. He needed to get out of there before he did something he would regret.

Touch, claim, mine.

Turning from the room was the most difficult thing that Rhys had ever done in five centuries of living. Moving away from the delicious smell of her nearly broke him, but he needed to go before it was too late. As he turned to jump and winnow, her voice rang out quietly into the silence, so soft that he nearly questioned if he’d heard it at all.

“Who are you?” His eyes shot to hers, but he found them still closed, eyelashes settled on her freckled cheek. She moved her hand over her face, rubbing the heel of her palm into her eye as she sank down further in the plush down of the pillows. “Come back.”

Now that she’d beckoned him, called out as though just for him, he knew he couldn’t leave her, even if he should. He could deny his painter nothing.

She rustled beneath the sheets again, murmuring and moaning softly, and Rhys slipped quietly and gently into her mind, just for a moment, he swore to himself.

Rhys was immediately struck by the smell of her, somehow even more potent than before. In her dream, she was on the same bed, the soft light of the moon filtering in through the windows. She was no longer sleeping beneath the covers, but kneeling, her legs spread wide and naked save for a pair of lacy, navy underclothes.

There on the bed, there was a figure curled lovingly behind her, his hand over hers as it moved methodically within her underwear. The figure was blurred, features not clear in the dreamlike state they were in. It looked nearly like a watercolor, the purples and blacks and blues all running together and unfocused. Rhys walked around the bed, keeping his eyes on Feyre’s writhing frame. The realization struck him as solidly as her scent had, the equivalent of running straight into a marble wall. It was him who cradled Feyre in his arms, the raven black hair and violet eyes beholding himself like a mirror as the hazy image came into focus.

He hadn’t projected that–hadn’t gone into her head to touch her. Had she been dreaming of him as he'd dreamed of her? His little painter…had some memory stuck, or was she dreaming of him in all the loops before they'd met? Had it been him the same way that he'd seen her in his?

He wove those tendrils of power out into the fabric of her dreams, caressing the fragments of sparkling night over the mirror image of him that had hands on her. With a flick of his wrist, dream Rhys was gone, the open air suddenly cold behind Feyre causing her eyes to fly open and land directly on him.

Rhys stuttered a step, ceasing his motions. She shouldn't be able to see him here, not unless he'd willed it. But she was staring right at him all the same, a blush rising on her cheeks.

Rhys was entranced by her, his eyes darting across her freckles, her smile, her hooded eyes, too much and not enough of every little bit of her, as though he couldn't pick just one thing to behold.

Despite dream-Rhys’s removal, Feyre had not removed her own hand, keeping it pressed motionless to herself.

“Hello.” Her voice was thick and smooth as honey, and just as sweet, the sound coiling around Rhys’s ears and going straight to the base of his spine. Feyre looked at him from beneath lowered lashes, and his body itched to step closer. “You came back.” Rhys nodded, the action entirely out of his hands, still completely unsure of how she could see him in this dream without him willing it.

She stayed as still as a statue, eyes firmly planted on Rhys. “Will you tell me your name this time?”

“Rhysand,” he answered without thinking, without planning, cursing himself inwardly as the word left his mouth. But Feyre just smiled demurely at him, the motion lighting up her entire face.

“Hello, Rhysand. I'm Feyre.”

“Hello, Feyre darling.” The greeting purred out of him as naturally as anything, and he could see her breath catch. She sat back on her haunches, that beautiful blush creeping to her neck and decolletage, but still, her hand remained where it was.

“I've dreamed of you before. But you never interact with me. It’s always just flashes, but you're here now.” Her voice had dropped, the husky tone of it driving home that force of arousal building within him. She was so beautiful, so lovely. And in this loop, even if it was just a dream, she wanted him. “This is another dream, right?”

He shouldn't. This was wrong .

She thought it was just a dream, that there was nothing to it. But the way she was looking at him, the way she smelled. He inhaled again, even halfway into her mind the scent was overwhelming. The loveliest thing he'd ever had the pleasure of scenting.

“This can be whatever you want it to be, darling.” He saw her breathe in deep, nostrils flaring as her wide eyes fixed on him.

“Would you, I mean, if you–” Her words failed her, but the intent was clear as she began to move those fingers that had been stilled the whole time.

It was an invitation. She wanted him, her open blue eyes begging for contact.

Fuck it.

“Would you like a hand, love?” He could see the hitch in her throat as she inhaled, her eyes sparkling at the timbre of his voice. She was so responsive, her nipples tightening against the thin lace of her top and leaving nothing to the imagination, and he took a single unbidden step towards her.

She nodded eagerly. “Please.” He felt delirious with want.

Rhys bit back a groan. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it in all these loops, what her skin would feel like against his, her soft warmth against the hard planes of his body. He circled the bed and watched as she took another deep breath, letting her eyes slip closed. He magicked his boots and tunic away, leaving him behind her in nothing but pants as he crawled into the bed.

It isn't a good idea, his thoughts whispered, but as he touched her shoulder and a crackle of something zapped through his veins, he knew he wasn't going to stop unless she asked him to.

She sighed languidly as his fingers danced over her shoulders and played up and down the sides of her neck. He pressed the length of his exposed torso against her back, her skin scalding against his at the contact. He swallowed back a sigh that seemed to emerge from him unbidden, but Feyre simply laid her head back on his shoulder, wordlessly expressing the level of comfort she already felt at his presence in her dreams.

Rhys ran his hands along Feyre's sides, watching as her flesh prickled in response. His fingers slowly crept higher and higher, the silky smooth texture of her skin driving him wild.

“Touch me.” Her voice was a whisper of smoke in the wind, but nothing had ever sounded clearer to him.

He didn't need to be told twice, his magic racing out to mist the thin layers of lace into oblivion. His deft fingers wasted no time in cupping her breasts, feeling the heavy weight of them in his large hands and tugging gently on her nipples as she let out the most delicious sound he thought he might have ever heard. Her soft sighs and gentle moans were like music to his ears, her whimpers a song that he’d been waiting for his entire life. He touched her chest, gently and playfully touching and circling them until Feyre was gasping and wiggling in front of him, her body rubbing against his like a cat in heat. He was painfully hard by the time she was begging and pleading for his hands to move lower, pulling them with her own until they reached her sex.

Rhys hardly managed to bite back a groan of his own when he ran his fingers through her wet heat. She was soaked entirely through, her arousal running down her thighs as he spread her open with his fingers.

“All for me, Feyre?”

“Gods, please .”

He grinned as he pressed hot, open mouthed kisses to her neck and shoulders, dipping his fingers barely into her and circling them around her as she cried out. Nothing has ever felt as good as Feyre trembling against him, nothing had ever sounded as nice as his name on her lips.

“Rhysand,” she gasped as he pressed a finger into her warmth.

“Rhys. Just Rhys.”

“Rhys,” she murmured, turning her face to his and capturing his lips with hers. When their mouths met, Rhys swore the world shifted on its axis, the arousal and emotion and feeling in his chest threatening to explode under the pressure. The light around them went soft and hazy as they moved together, the glow blurring around them like the dream was ebbing in and out with their shared breaths.

He added another finger as she undulated against him, each and every point of contact shooting sparks into his bloodstream as he gasped aloud. She responded by doubling down, reaching behind her to toy with the waistband of his pants.

He felt nearly embarrassed, reduced back to a youngling as he bucked forward into her touch, his rhythm momentarily stuttering.

He tried to pull back, resuming his own ministrations, but she wrapped her fingers into his waistband and pulled him back to her.

“I want to touch you.” He couldn't argue with that.

Rhys shoved his pants down, his erection jutting against her back. Feyre wasted no time in grabbing it with enthusiasm, Rhys's mind reeling with the pleasure of it as she began stroking up and down the length of him. The movements were somewhat jerking with the angle, and Rhys still thought as he brushed against the cheeks of her ass, that it might be the most magnificent thing he’d ever felt. Despite the angle, the rush of it all overtook them quickly, the natural back and forth of it seeming as easy as breathing. Before long, they were both a breathy mess, her head resting back against his shoulder and his forehead against her neck while they moved together.

“You're exquisite,” he whispered into her hair, the smell of her so potent and overwhelmingly lovely at this proximity.

He could feel her fluttering around his fingers, feel the echoes of her impending orgasm grasping at him desperately while she moved her hand faster around him. Rhys was glad she was close because he was losing control, the feelings thundering through his chest and threatening to burn him alive wrapping down around the base of his spine.

He pressed the heel of his hand into her as he pistoned his fingers in and out, the movements becoming more intense as she responded in turn, their touch reaching a crescendo.

“Come for me, Feyre.”

She clenched around him. “Only if you come with me,” she responded huskily, even as she herself tipped over the edge. Rhys followed immediately, his vision nearly blacking out for a moment as he did.

He wasn't sure when he'd eased them to the bed, their breathing evening out between their twisted limbs, sticky with sweat and cooling in the Spring night air. Rhys felt weightless, the dream or the satisfaction allowing the pull of the world to work differently around them. He brushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear and tugging her back to his chest tightly.

“That was incredible,” she whispered, and Rhys fought the urge to preen.

“It was. You are.”

She laughed softly, turning her head to look at him. Her eyes looked like the sky after a storm, the heavy clouds that used to roll in over the snowy peaks of Illyria. Home.

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and Rhys wondered if he'd ever felt so sated in his life. His time here was limited, but he was going to enjoy every single second he had allowed himself.

She had dreamed of him, recognized him. She had wanted him here.

“Will I see you again?” she murmured quietly as he brushed his fingers up and down over her thighs and hips. Her eyes were already beginning to flutter shut.

“I would be willing to put money on it.” His voice was tinged with relief, with laughter, with joy he had not felt in ages.

“Do you have to go?”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. I do.”

She was mostly asleep by now, sighing lightly as her eyelids finally shut and stayed closed. “I’ll see you soon, Rhys.” He smiled despite himself, brushing his fingers lightly across her forehead then placing a kiss there as her breathing evened out.

He carefully eased himself out of her mind. Outside of her dream, he was still leaning against the door to the balcony, the distance between them feeling near-painful now, a throbbing ache in his chest that demanded he step closer. Rhys resisted this time, knowing that the dawn would be coming soon and turning from the room with one final look at his painter.

As he winnowed back to the grounds, walking around the property to the woodline under the cover of remaining night, his thoughts were lighter than they’d been since all this loop nonsense had begun. She’d dreamed of him, his face, his voice, his touch. If she could seek him out in her dreams this way, think of him as a soothing presence instead of something evil, how might that change the future of the loop?

Next time, it could be familiarity and not fear or mistrust that guided their interactions.

Why hadn’t he considered this before? It changed everything .

Rhys rounded the final corner of the manor that bordered the woods, light on his feet and his spirit buoyed with this newfound, unfamiliar, but welcome hope.

The last thing he saw was the form of a sentry, the sword already flying through the air and aimed directly at his neck.

Well, fuck.

#feysand #feysand timeloop #feysand hivemind #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)#acotar fic #feysand fic

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itsthedoodle · 3 months ago

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time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) - Chapter 13/Loop 55

every bond you break, every step you take (i'll be watching you)

Chapter Summary: Rhys, thinking things can't possibly get worse, is once again proven wrong in the worst possible way.

Warnings: NSFW, temporary major character death, implied/referenced rape/non-con

Rating: Explicit

Notes: You didn't really think i wouldn't be part of an unhinged project, did you? Surprise! I love you @feysand-hivemind, you guys have been so wonderful, hot, talented, and unhinged during the whole process <3

Big thanks to my beta @xtaketwox for reading the stuff my 9 months pregnant brain wrote last July and never once asking me "Girl, what the actual fuck did you smoke?".

Read on AO3 here.

Drip drip drip…

The sound echoed everywhere in this damned place: the stone walls, the stale air he could no longer stand to breathe, even his head and heart. He hated this place. He hated the fact he had been staring at the same faces for the last five decades. He hated how he had to pretend he enjoyed whoring himself out every night. He hated how he couldn’t stand to look at red hair or long fingernails. He hated how this whole thing had been modeled after part of his court.

Most of all, Rhys hated himself for not realizing her trap from the start. He had been so foolish, so eager to believe that everyone had an ounce of goodness in them.

The red haired bitch was talking to someone he couldn’t bother to name at the moment, the poor creature so clearly uncomfortable in his captor’s presence. To every question asked, Rhys nodded and agreed with Amarantha — he had absolutely no desire to pay attention to anything that didn’t serve his purpose.

Rhys was tired, so tired that he didn’t know how much longer he could take this. Forty-nine years was a long time to be dealing with the same things day in and day out, even for a Fae, and that was without the loop situation stressing him the fuck out.

His thoughts strayed to Feyre. She had already won two out of the three trials, though he had to admit that he had had his doubts for a moment during the second one. Forcing back the tears threatening to fall, he made himself snap out of his melancholy. This wasn’t home. The sky was the same, and the stars were pretty, but nothing compared to the glimmer of the Night Court sky. The stars hadn’t been shining the same in nearly five decades, and he hadn’t seen his family in just as long.

Rhys was all alone.

He made himself follow another trail of thoughts instead, one of arrows and brushes and the night sky painted on a dresser. Of the hands of a painter, but also the hands of a survivor, someone who hadn’t felt a sense of security in years. Someone just as lonely as he was. He scanned the room for her, expecting to find her near the fae wine—

She wasn’t there.

He looked over at the food table — she wasn’t there either. Now alert and on edge, Rhys tried scanning the room for her general presence, drunk on wine as she was. Something was wrong, very wrong, and he couldn’t believe he had fallen so far into his misery that he had lost sight of Feyre.

Slowly taking a deep breath and trying to calm his racing heart, Rhys glanced around to see whether anything else was amiss.

Everyone looked miserable. The Attor was accounted for, the bitch standing next to him. Every High Lord was present—

Almost everyone, he thought to himself, resisting the urge to growl. Tamlin was unaccounted for.

He cast his mind all over this sham of a court, the usage of his powers draining him more and more by the day, until he found both of them, their presences next to each other. Tamlin’s mind was a fortress, but Feyre’s… she was screaming every thought down the bridge between their minds.

More, more, more

Tamlin moved his lips down her throat, sucking on her collarbone, his hands everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She rolled her hips, so desperate for any sign of friction, happy for any sign of affection from her High Lord after more than two months of being ignored by him day in and day out.

Tamlin loved her, of that she was sure. He had to ignore her to protect her. He felt the same way for her as she did for him, the way he was touching and kissing her more than enough proof of that.

Stolen moments would have been more romantic if they weren’t both stuck under a piece of rock, prisoners to the whims and boredom of a deranged maniac.

Rhys snapped back into his own mind, his mind racing a million miles a second. He tried extracting himself from Amarantha, but her grip on him was so strong, her attention so sharp, that he couldn’t do it without making her suspicious. He tried being a lively participant in whatever shit she was talking about, giving her the most lustful look he could muster while pressing down his nausea at the situation.

My mate my mate my mate.

Amarantha leaned in, licking the back of his ear, her hand drifting down the front of his pants, grabbing him in plain sight of everyone. “You look delicious tonight Rhysand. I am going to take my sweet time with you after we’re done here.”

He swallowed down his disgust and gave her the best smirk he could muster. “I can’t wait.” He lied through his teeth, thankful when she turned her attention to someone else.

Rhys checked in on Feyre again.

“You have no idea how much I missed you. How much I need you.”

Rhys felt himself on the verge of throwing up, but the effect those words had on Feyre were the exact opposite.

“I missed you too.” she said. “Every day is torture without your touch.”

Her hands went to the waistband of his pants, unfastening them as best as she could.

“Quick,” Tamlin said, “we don’t have much time.”

Rhys breathed out a sigh of relief. He was trying to get her out then. If he managed this, Rhys was willing to forget all the years of animosity between them.

Anything for Feyre. His mate was worth forgetting every grievance, no matter how severe.

Tamlin resumed kissing Feyre, who was in turn stroking him with a sense of urgency Rhys had never seen on her before.

No. This was not supposed to be happening. He was supposed to get her out, he was supposed to get her to safety, not take advantage of five minutes of Amarantha’s distraction.

He heard Feyre’s sigh of relief and felt like dying. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. His mate and the male who had already taken everything he loved from him.

Rhys kept mental tabs on them, just to make sure she would eventually get out and would eventually make it to safety, once Tamlin realized that her safety was the only priority.

In, out, moan. In, out, moan. Everything felt like a sharp stab to his heart.

Mate. Your mate. Not Tamlin’s, yours, screamed the one sided mating bond, and he wished he could drown out the noise, wished he could leave this body and be there to stop it from happening.

“Feyre, yes, you take it so good.” Tamlin whispered with every movement, his hands all over her.

Feyre felt like she couldn’t breathe, like everything began and ended with Tamlin, like the feeling of him pinning her against the wall was searing her entire being. She tried to get oxygen into her lungs as she felt her orgasm — and his — approach but felt like there was something binding her airways shut. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This hadn’t happened the last time they’d done this.

“Tamlin, wait. I’m not feeling good.”

But Tamlin was too far gone and kept pounding into her relentlessly, like he was chasing the seconds they didn't have. He bit into her shoulder and groaned, pushing one last time, before spilling himself into her.

Feyre came with a scream, her mouth opening wide, desperately trying to catch her breath, her consciousness minutes from slipping away. She felt her tongue swelling and heart racing. She didn’t know what was going on.

Rhys snapped back in his head, counting his breaths.

In, out. In, out. In, out. He glanced at Amarantha, glanced at everyone else, everyone oblivious to the internal panic he was going through.

“I’ll fetch you a drink,” he said, though he wasn’t sure whether Amarantha had heard him, and left as quickly as he could.

He winnowed to where Tamlin and Feyre were once he was out of sight, and the scene before him was worse than anything he had ever lived through.

“You idiot,” he screamed, not caring whether Tamlin responded. “What did you do?”

Tamlin pulled at his hair, the look on his face one of panic and fear so extreme it was oozing off of him in waves.

Feyre was lying on the floor, face blue, clawing lines at her throat in a desperate losing war to get more oxygen into her system.

“Feyre?” he said, lifting her upper body and resting it on his lap. “Feyre do you hear me?”

Feyre’s hands went limp, and he heard her heart stop.

The beast in him roared. “She told you to stop,” he said slowly, directing all of his ire at the High Lord who had taken yet another person he loved away from him. “She told you to stop. You were supposed to get her out.”

“I- I thought she was enjoying it.” Tamlin’s voice broke. “She enjoyed it last time.”

“Pathetic,” he heard the voice of his nightmares behind him. “Males are so pathetic.”

Tamlin was now on the floor, crying next to Feyre. Rhys placed her on the floor, like she was a fragile piece of glass, and slowly turned.

“My queen, I just got here,” he said with a calmness he wasn’t aware he possessed. “They—”

“Save it Rhysand,” she said, poking Feyre’s head with the tip of her shoe.

Rhys wanted to murder her. He wanted to take her apart piece by piece, limb by limb, until there was nothing left of her, not even her name.

“I thought something like this might happen, which is why I’ve had Tamlin unknowingly consume a special plant that is toxic to pathetic beings like humans. I guess you could say she was allergic to him. And now my entertainment is gone.” she sighed. “I guess you have to find us something else,” she said, approaching him.

Rhys was rooted to the spot, unable to move, breathe, or speak. The beast inside was out of control, but without his powers, both he and Tamlin were nothing more than a cosmic joke.

She placed a pointy nail on his chest and pushed him back until he hit the brick wall behind him. Amarantha ran her nose along the column of his throat, running her tongue from his collarbone up to his ear, her hand drifting down his chest, beneath the waistband of his pants, gripping and stroking him. With his traitorous body responding to her touch, Rhys felt like dying.

His mate was gone, and he hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it.

“I told you I was going to take my sweet time with you tonight.”

She pushed him down, and Rhys was far too gone to wonder whether she realized the state he was in, or whether she even wondered what had caused it. He hit the floor with a thump, knees bent, and stared at nothing.

Amarantha lifted her skirt and lowered herself on his face. “Lighten up, Rhysand,” she said, bringing her fingers to his hair and tilting his head so his lips were on her, rubbing herself on his face and moaning. “Next time you decide to take a liking to one of my pets, remember you’re nothing but my whore, and that your only purpose in life is to pleasure me.”

Rhys was indeed all alone, and he didn’t know how much more of it he could handle.

Closing his eyes, he prayed darkness would come to save him.

#feysand timeloop #feysand hivemind #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)#acotar #feysand #rhysand #feyre archeron #feyre x rhysand #sarah j maas #feyre #feysand fic #timeloop project

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rosanna-writer · 1 year ago

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time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) (2/?)

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: ~2k

To absolutely no one's surprise, I'm part of @feysand-hivemind! I am so lucky to be able to create something alongside the sweetest, most talented group of people with the biggest, wettest, wrinkliest brains (and the biggest wingspans to match). I love you guys so much!

Moodboard by @octobers-veryown

Chapter 1: now we're at the starting line (i did my time) - Loop 0-2 | Chapter 2: Loops 5-11

You can read it Here on AO3 or under the cut!

It had started with a deer and a wolf and a forest. Rhys supposed it could end there, too. There had to be a reason that he found himself back at this moment in particular, over and over.

Something momentous, something world-changing happened every time Feyre loosed that arrow. He knew that down to the marrow of his bones.

Perhaps, then, he’d been tasked with stopping it.

The biting cold and the gnawing hunger were there again, and along with her scent and the sight of her alive, it was nearly enough to distract him.

But her eyes landed on the deer. And then the wolf.

“Feyre!” Rhys called her name, the first time he’d ever dared to voice it aloud.

She turned, and the look she leveled at him was pure hate. A human with ice in her heart, indeed.

Faerie. Rhys heard her thoughts, and she’d spat the word, all venom in her mind.

He hardly noticed. His Feyre moved like an expert, drawing the bow and aiming before she’d even finished turning, loosing the arrow on instinct. It hit its mark, and Rhys couldn’t help but marvel—it had taken him years of training in Illyria to be able to hit a target while doing anything but standing perfectly still.

His painter was a predator, too. He wasn’t even upset she’d shot him.

Rhys’s hand drifted to the wound in his chest as he watched her. Feyre hadn’t wasted time watching to ensure her arrow had found its mark—no, she’d reloaded, and Tamlin’s sentry was already dying, too.

Blood was soaking through his tunic, and Feyre had reloaded again, clearly intent on shooting him a second time to finish the job. Relentless. She had exactly the sort of tenacity Cassian had always said was a hallmark of his most promising recruits.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Rhys said, putting his hands up.

Feyre nocked the arrow but didn’t draw it. “Your kind isn’t supposed to be on this side of the Wall.”

His head was swimming, and for the life of him, Rhys couldn’t tell if it was the blood loss or those blue-grey eyes that were making him dizzy. A giddy, delirious, decidedly un-High-Lord-like laugh bubbled out of him.

“And I would have done something about that if you hadn’t shot me,” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” She reached back for another arrow but didn’t close her fingers around it.

Darkness was already eating at the corners of Rhys’s vision; there wasn’t much time left. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Feyre said something else, but Rhys didn’t hear it over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He swayed on his feet, stumbling backward until he hit a tree.

Something that might have been regret flickered in Feyre’s eyes.

The stain on his chest was growing, the fuzzy darkness overtaking more and more of his vision. Staying on his feet was too much, and Rhys tumbled to the ground. There wasn’t much time left.

Feyre didn’t kneel at his side or take his hand. He was dimly aware of her standing above him, watching silently as the last of his life drained out of him, probably just making sure he stayed thoroughly dead.

Good. She was being careful. Rhys had seen more than a few warriors die because they got cocky in the brief period between landing a killing blow and their opponent's final breath. Feyre was too smart to let someone she killed go down swinging and fell her too, and for some reason, knowing she could handle herself brought him an immense sense of relief.

Rhys faded out of consciousness, and with Feyre watching over him, it was almost…peaceful.

All too soon, he found himself right back where he started. A deer and a wolf and a forest. Cold and hunger.

Perhaps he’d frightened Feyre by calling her name so abruptly last time. He must have made her panic, so of course she’d reacted on instinct and let her arrow fly.

Rhys wasn’t stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. This time, he gentled his voice as he called her name.

And again, Feyre turned. And again, she shot him without hesitation.

But as he brought his hand to his chest again, Rhys noticed her cheeks had gone pink, most likely from the cold. Perhaps though…perhaps he’d overdone it and purred her name a bit too much like a lover.

He caught the tail end of her thought about him being the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and even as blood oozed from the wound next to his heart, Rhys wanted to preen.

He was running on borrowed time before he bled out and time reset. None of this mattered at all, so he said, “For what it’s worth, you’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, too.”

Just for that, she put another arrow in his throat. The world faded into too-familiar nothingness.

Deer. Wolf. Forest. Cold. Hunger.

Rhys had called her name, and that had been a mistake—as far as Feyre was concerned, he had no reason to know it. Though it seemed patently ridiculous, he didn’t want to frighten her into shooting him again, so he said, “Pardon?”

Feyre whirled around, blinking in surprise, and drew the bow. “What do you want, faerie?”

“You need to run. Do not return to this part of the forest. Please. It isn’t safe.”

Her thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion, churning so quickly that Rhys could hardly keep up with all her questions or even begin to answer them. Somewhere in the middle of it, the deer bounded off into the trees.

Feyre swore. As far as she was concerned, Rhys was the reason her only chance at eating that day had just slipped away. She muttered something about faerie bullshit and shot him in retaliation.

As life drained out of Rhys again, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d expected this to turn out any differently.

And yet, he tried again. Each time, Feyre either perceived him as a threat and shot him immediately, or enough time passed that the deer got away, and then she shot him in retaliation anyway.

Rhys had known his painter held hate in her heart for the fae, but he hadn’t anticipated just how deep it ran. In the few seconds he had before she let her arrow fly, it was impossible to get Feyre to trust him.

He lost count how many times she let him bleed out in the snow before he accepted that he needed to play the long game. That was fine—Rhys was an extraordinarily patient male.

He’d known that Feyre changed the world when she sank her arrow into the wolf’s eye. Perhaps trying to stop it was wrongheaded of him; it seemed as good a guess as any that these repeated deaths were a message.

Feyre needed to kill that sentry. Rhys needed to let her.

A deer and a wolf and a forest. Cold. Hunger. And a shadow, watching over all of it.

Resigned to do things differently, Rhys woke again Under the Mountain. He stared up at the ceiling as Feyre’s scent faded from his nostrils, and for a moment, he just savored the short-lived peace. It wouldn’t be long until Amarantha was awake, too.

Somewhere across the Wall, the Cursebreaker was slinging a carcass over her shoulders and trudging home.

And maybe one day, she’d bring Rhys and the rest of Prythian home, too.

#feysand #feysand timeloop #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)#feyre archeron

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feysand-hivemind · 1 year ago

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We're obsessed with this moodboard that Esteemed Member of the Hivemind @octobers-veryown made for our fic time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) 💙

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand timeloop #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

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darling-archeron · 11 months ago

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time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

chapter four: until the night is over: loop seventeen

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.

#feysand #feysand fic #feysand timeloop #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)#acotar fic

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belabellissima · 7 months ago

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time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) - Chapter 8

written for the @feysand-hivemind timeloop fic!

Pairing: Feysand

Until one day...it doesn't.

Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up in Amarantha's bed Under the Mountain - over and over. Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.

Chapter Summary: Rhys forgets some things. Rhys learns some things.

Chapter Warnings: Amarantha, attempted murder, burns, non-sexy penetration, angst (it is me again so...)

Read on Ao3 or Chapter 8 below:

Spending his winnings in the wake of Feyre winning her first trial was out of the question. Amarantha was already pissed enough that he’d won at all, that he’d bet against her trial when everyone else had known to bet against Feyre instead. So Rhys tucked the coins away in his rooms and played it safe. After she’d punished him for publicly going against her, he didn't dare flaunt it. He wanted to hide, wanted to lessen whatever fallout there might be for going against the Deceiver. So he watched with a smirk and sick stomach as Lucien was whipped for helping Feyre. As Tamlin did it to his own best friend.

Part of Rhys felt something close to kinship with the Fox. Hurt by the same person, the same friend.

But kinship was dangerous Under the Mountain, so once he knew the Fox wouldn’t bleed out there on the stone, Rhys put it from his mind. He had plans to make, more things to try. Both he and Feyre had to survive this if the loop was to end, so he had to learn of every possible potential threat that might still exist, uncovered in the dark.

He sent Nuala and Cerridwen out with a whisper of a mental nudge – nothing strong enough that Amarantha might sense it. He felt their acknowledgement, the way they melted into the shadows in the last seconds before he severed the connection. They’d already given him so much information, but they’d yet to try and make it into the catacombs and dungeons where the Prythian fae were locked up. But for him, so close to freedom, he was sure they would risk trying to cross the warded gates and guards that patrolled - especially if they thought it would help him.

Amarantha eventually tired of hurting Lucien and ordered him dragged away, then clapped for the music to play and dancers to begin. They ignored the fox’s blood still wet on the stone, stepping over and through it as the beat began.

Rhys watched the Lady of Autumn from his spot in the shadows, the drawn look on her face and sharp tension in her jaw. Grief and fear for her son overtaking everything in the aftermath.

Then he looked away. Looked away from her, only to feel the dizzy sensation of time fading out. Of the loop resetting.

Fuck. What was it this time?

She should have been safe in her cell.

Rhys opened his eyes, the echoes of the dream with Feyre killing the wolf a normal refrain. Beside him, Amarantha slept.

“Fuck,” Rhys whispered.

Time passed as if a blur. Rhys lived through the motions like a puppet, some other entity pulling his strings as day after day dragged on. Seeing Feyre at Calanmai was the first time he really felt alive again, simply for the fact that he could hold her in his arms, feel her rapid pulse in her wrists when he caught her from hitting the ground.

Then the manor, making Tamlin bow, holding her mind with his own. Alive, the pulse within him said. Alive, alive, alive.

She came under the mountain, made her bargain with the Deceiver. He held her mind as her nose was broken, prevented the pain from reaching her. Helped turn the guards' attention away when the Fox went to heal her.

Then the first trial, the Wyrm. He still bet on her, still knew exactly what would happen when she leaped and let gravity kill the wyrm. There was a thrill to seeing how it all played out, to knowing exactly how he’d changed things, and how he could get the same result every time up to a certain point. Or change it, if that was what he wished. He still hadn’t fully given up on being able to stop the whole farce before it began, but for now, finding a way though seemed to be what the Mother wanted more, as nerve wracking as that was for him. There was a relief in complacency, in trusting what he’d already discovered and lived through.

He knew he didn’t have to fear for her when she threw the bone spear, when she was dragged away to her cell as Amarantha demanded his attention.

It was only after Amarantha was finished with him that the fear returned. After all, he was finally free again to find Feyre and find out exactly what the fuck had killed her this time around. New territory, and changing plans as a result.

He stayed hidden in the shadows of her cell, watching her as she slept, shivering and curled up as best as she could.

She murmured something after a few minutes, eyes roving beneath the lids. They blinked blearily open a moment later, looked right at him, but there was no recognition. No awareness at all that she was seeing anything.

Rhys crept closer, his nose wrinkling as he finally caught the scent of infection over the scent of vomit.

It was bad – bad enough that he wasn’t sure how he’d missed it before. She’d broken her arm in the arena, but he hadn’t realized…

Memories of the war accosted him. He’d seen this before, seen his friends and allies die slow, agonizing deaths from wounds less severe than this. Rhys didn’t know how he’d forgotten before. Of course she was still injured, of course Lucien couldn’t have come to her. Healed her the way he’d once healed her nose. And Feyre wouldn’t make it long enough to wait for him.

Hadn’t, once before.

Rhys allowed the shadows to fall away from him, crouching before Feyre, hands hovering over her when she didn’t stir. She was almost gone already. Again. And was his fault. Amarantha’s fault, truly, but for his own foolishness to be the reason she’d died, the reason she was suffering…

With tremoring hands, he reached for her arm. The moment he brushed it, she screamed, jerking it away from him and coming to with a jolt.

“You,” she groaned, hunching over her injury protectively.

Rhys couldn’t find it in himself to be upset – she wasn’t delirious, wasn’t nearly as bad off as he’d thought she was from first glance. She had a few more days, because this time, he’d caught it. Hadn’t waited around.

“Me,” he replied.

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you. I couldn’t allow Tamlin's champion to waste away to nothing. Not when he can’t come down here to heal you himself, watched as he is.”

Feyre glared at him, saying nothing.

“You can wait, I suppose. Hope for the Lord of Foxes to come heal you again, like he did your nose. But I wouldn’t bet on it. He’s currently bedridden, you see. Tamlin had to beg for Amarantha to spare him after he helped you in the arena, and she did, after making Tamlin give him twenty lashes. Between you and me, I wouldn’t place my hope with him.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed momentarily at the news, her friendship with Lucien worrying her momentarily. Right up until she tried to shift and the movement sent her grimacing again in pain.

“I’ll take the risk,” she said anyway. Rhys pressed his lips together impatiently.

“Just let me heal you, Feyre. Swallow your pride. You know you’re not doing well. You’re dying. Maybe not today, not tomorrow. But Lucien isn’t going to get here before you do. What does it hurt to let me help you this once?”

Feyre laughed bitterly at him. “What wouldn’t it hurt? What would you even want in exchange?”

He spoke without thinking it through all the way. “Come to the Night Court.” Someplace he could keep an eye on her. Protect her. Make sure she didn’t fucking die again.

“Not a chance.”

“Just for two weeks,” he amended, sticking with his blurted out request despite how foolish it was. “Two weeks of every month, two weeks of my choosing, you’ll live with me at the Night Court. Starting after this messy three-trials business.”

“No.”

“No? Feyre, you’ll die. Trust me when I say I’ve seen how a wound can fester. Seen and lived through the aftermath of losing someone I care about to such a fate. I won’t lose you to that fate when there’s something I can do to prevent it. Now, let me heal your arm.”

Feyre, stubborn to the last, did not let him see her arm. Rhys knew it would hurt, knew it wouldn’t endear himself to her in the slightest, but still grabbed her arm anyway, holding it between them so she could truly see the damage. She screamed, trying to pull back, too weak to retract her arm again.

“Look at it,” Rhys demanded. “The veins are already turning dark with infection. Your bone is sticking out, for Cauldron’s sake! I can’t just… heal it, okay? I don’t have that kind of magic. But I can make bargains, and the magic inherent so such matters will take care of the rest. Just accept it already and live.”

“Why do you care?” Feyre gritted out. “Like you said, I’m just Tamlin’s champion.”

“You are far more than just Tamlin’s champion, Feyre. You are everyone’s champion. The only hope any and all of us have left. None of us have a chance at stopping her when she holds our leashes too tight. You’re it, Feyre. Do you not get that?”

“Why would you care about stopping her?” she asked, panting through her teeth and staring at her own arm in his grasp, seemingly debating if it was worth it to pull her arm back or continue to let him hold it if it meant less pain for her. Evidently deciding on the latter, she looked back up at him. “She lets you run free.”

Rhys barked out a laugh, dropping her arm. She immediately tucked it close to her chest, the other one coming up protectively around it. “Free? You have no idea the things I have sacrificed for this. You think Tamlin is the only one who has people he cares about? A court under his protection? We all have that, Feyre, and in all honesty I have more to lose than him. His family is dead, after all. Mine isn’t. And so long as I appear her perfect little whore, they stay that way. Alive.”

An understanding flickered in her eyes.

“Now, do we have a bargain? Because I would really, really love for this whole thing to be over already.” And in more ways than one. He had thought in the beginning that he could do this as many times as it took. Suffer through the loops over and over so long as it meant that in the end, both of them would be alive. But it never ended that way, and Rhys was starting to become reckless. Become resigned, too, with each new variation that lead to a painful death for one of them.

Slowly, Feyre nodded. “Two weeks in the Night Court when you call it in, in exchange for healing my arm.”

Rhys nodded as well and held out his hand for her to take. She did, gingerly sliding her palm into his. Rhys would swear something shifted when her skin finally made contact with his. A warmth, lingering there, even as she swore and pulled back from the sudden rush of magic into her. The infected blood dripped from the rapidly sealing wound, the bone shifted back in, and Feyre almost passed out from it. Rhys barely caught her in time from slamming to the floor, tightening his grip on her before she could fully disengage from him. He watched the swirls of ink bleed into her skin from where he gripped her, a physical manifestation of his magic rushing into her to heal everything. Cleaning her too, while he was at it. It had to be uncomfortable to still be covered in wyrm shit, and he didn’t want to risk her getting another cut - no matter how minor - and having it get infected as well.

A minute later, she blinked her eyes back open, finally seeming to have recovered from the shock and likely pain of the rapid healing. She glanced at her arm, eyes widening as she demanded of him, “what have you done to me?”

The marks were beautiful to him - whorls and flicks of magic settling as traditional Illyrian tattoos for luck and glory. Fitting, and Rhys was briefly disappointed he wouldn’t have a set of his own to match, having already upheld his end of their bargain. But a part of him, and a large part at that, reveled in the knowledge that she was marked by him. That she, who was the true artist between them, would have the art of his people there, a gift from him to keep her going.

Rhys stood, running a hand through his short, dark hair. “It’s custom in my court for bargains to be permanently marked upon flesh.”

Perhaps those marks weren’t always Illyrian, but he was choosing to see it as a blessing from the Mother. A sign he was making the right choice, taking the right steps.

Feyre rubbed her left forearm and hand, not as happy as he was. “Make it go away.”

Rhys laughed. “Not a chance, Darling. Those patterns mean something to me, and they’ll bring you luck.”

She pouted at that, a cute little frown knitting her eyebrows together as she peered closer at the design. His words mollified her only slightly, so she was still almost petulant as she complained, “You didn’t tell me this would happen.”

“You didn’t ask,” he replied. “Now, you should get some rest. Even with magic, healing takes energy, and you’ll need it.”

Before she could reply, he faded into the shadows again and winnowed away.

He hadn’t expected her to be in his room a mere two days after that, a fireplace poker hidden behind her back and covered in ash from his fireplace.

She held her own in their vocal sparring, even drawing his wings from him for a few moments, before he hid them again. It was reckless of him, but he could still see the tattoos on her arm, and it made him happy.

Strange, for him to be happy while underground. He collected the last of the lentils for her as a gift, repayment for the one she had given him without even trying. Then the guards led her away back to her cell, and Rhys couldn’t help but grin as he knelt to light a fire.

The next day, Rhysand felt her sharp and sudden terror. He had been lurking on the edge of her mind just in case, and he was never more grateful for it than in that moment. Without thought, he winnowed to her, uncaring of any consequences in a moment such as that. What did it matter anyway? It would just start over again if he messed up too badly. He’d already killed Feyre himself, watched her die and been unable to stop it, and killed himself to speed up the process. But letting her stay afraid…

She was in the Autumn Court wing. The guards from the day before laughed as they dragged her limp, burned body between them out of a room. For a moment, Rhys saw a different woman, with blonder hair and just as injured by the Autumn Court. A Court made for destruction and decay. Rhys reached out for their minds without a care, gripping their thoughts harshly and freezing them as he strode up to them. Inside the room they’d just exited, one of the younger Autumn princes was sneering at him.

“What have you done?” Rhys snarled at him. He was going to rip this male to shreds. He felt his power growing in his fingertips, the desire to mist him, to rend him blood from bone and make him suffer, rising with it.

“She was rooting around under my bed,” the prince retorted. “How was I supposed to know she wasn’t a thief?”

Rhys felt his wings starting to grow behind him, the beast deep within snarling to protect her, attack him. Kill them all for daring to lay a hand on her.

Feyre moaned in pain behind him, effectively seizing his attention. Rhys turned back to the guards, shadow wings vanishing as he lifted Feyre’s limp body into his arms. He delved deeper into their minds and pulled up the memory of them dropping Feyre off.

“Count how many grains of rice are spilled,” one told her.

“Don’t forget to look behind the furniture.” The other added. “Or else the owner of the room won’t be too happy when he walks through and hurts his feet on them.”

Rhys pulled out of their minds, tearing at them as he went. They both collapsed into heaps, dead before they could realize his intentions. He winnowed back to his rooms, his real rooms, the ones that she had been in not even a day before, cleaning lentils from a fireplace.

He couldn’t understand why there had been uncooked lentils in his rooms in the first place, but now…

Household chores. Classic ones from old faerie tales his mother had once told him. It seemed Amarantha liked the theme. Old fae tales for a girl with an old fae name.

Her eyes were shut tightly from the pain, and she was grabbing at her arm unconsciously. When Rhys dared to look closely, he almost vomited at the sight. The once beautiful markings were marred by burns, oozing blood and pus already from the high heat. Her skin was peeling away in places, and her cheeks were red too, a more superficial burn. Her hair was uneven, the edges charred and fragile.

The Autumn princeling had likely cast fire towards her, and she’d thrown up an arm to protect herself.

Rhys hadn’t yet known Azriel when his hands were burned, but he knew what they looked like healed. And that was with supernatural healing. He couldn’t even imagine how badly Feyre would look having to go through it all the long, painfully mortal way.

Unless they made another bargain? But she would have to be conscious for that. And what would she give? The other two weeks per month? Unlikely.

Rhys set her down on his bed gently, brushing her hair from her face and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before he could stop himself.

He would wait for her to wake, then find something else she could give him for a bit of bargain magic. But in the meantime…

He had a prince to still deal with.

He stalked back down the halls to the Autumn Court rooms, slamming the door open to the room Feyre had been in. The princeling was still there, sitting at his desk. He jumped up and whirled to face Rhys, fists alight with flame, but Rhys didn’t give him the chance to attack. He launched himself at the princeling, determined to get justice for Feyre, for Azriel, for Mor even. He had just managed to get a grip on his jacket before someone was pressing a dagger to his throat from behind.

“You should have known better,” Eris hissed at him, “Than to go after any of my family.”

Then the blade opened his throat.

At least Feyre wouldn’t be in pain any longer.

They made the bargain again the next loop around. Rhys even followed through on stopping the guards from taking her to the Autumn Court wing after she cleaned out the lentils. He ensured hot food was given to her every evening, and sent fresh blankets and clothes to her when he could spare them. Regardless, he could sense her despair growing. Feel it down their bargain that the boredom and the fear and the whole damn situation was getting to her.

He wished there was something he could do for her, but it wasn’t like he could take her for walks around the mountain. It was safer for her to be out of sight of Amarantha, and therefore out of her mind. She was stuck, alone, unless he were to keep her company. But she didn’t wish to be near him, not after he’d made that bargain with her again, put those Illyrian tattoos on her skin. He doubted she’d want to talk with Nuala or Cerridwen either, or he might have sent the wraiths to her cell just to keep her company.

He would have to come up with some way to get her out of the cell. To get her a way to safely walk around and be around other people, exercise and take in something other than misery. He had plenty of time, at the very least. Time was the one thing he wasn’t short on.

She was nearly despondent by the time the second trial rolled around, but at last they had made it. Rhys had been desperate the last few weeks, practically pulling out his own hair to ensure nothing went wrong, that he would finally see what it was Amarantha had planned for Feyre. And then he knew - a riddle. A pathetically easy riddle, and all Feyre had to do was pull a lever.

Even like this she’d be able to complete the trial. She wouldn’t have to run or fight anything, wouldn’t have to avoid a monster trying to kill her. Rhys was relieved that Feyre would get through this trial easily.

The first had been physical. This second would be mental. The third… who knew. Rhys was sure Amarantha would come up with something. Probably something to do with her heart. A challenge on humanity. A challenge for her soul.

But that day was still a month away, and there was no point worrying about it when Rhys was sure he would have the timeline reset at least a few more times before he ever made it there.

As Feyre was led onto the platform that would descend into the chamber below - where poor little Lucien was already chained up - Rhys scanned the crowd around them. The crowd was jeering, and Rhys took note of all the faces that were a little too enthusiastic. When Feyre succeeded and freed them, they would be the first on his list.

After Amarantha, of course.

Amarantha would always come first. For his men, slaughtered in the first war. For himself, for suffering under her tortures for nearly six decades at this point, having lived the final year of her curse over and over enough times. For Jurian, even, trapped as a ring and forced to witness it. And for Feyre, who had suffered far more than even she knew as a direct consequence of Amarantha’s choices and power.

“Well, Feyre, your second trial has come. Have you solved my riddle yet?” Amarantha waited for an answer they both knew wouldn’t come. “Too bad,” she said, pouting in mockery. “But I’m feeling generous tonight. How about a little practice?”

Rhys watched the Attor and other surrounding faeries laugh, adding them to his mental list of targets as well.

“Begin,” Amarantha said, and the floor began to descend. Rhys didn’t bother to watch, he already knew what Feyre’s reaction would be when she noticed Lucien’s predicament.

He watched Eris instead, especially with little Lucien down in the pit with Feyre. Eris had already killed him once - an embarrassing feat that Rhys was glad no one would ever be able to remember except for him - and looked like he was getting far too much glee at the thought of Feyre and Lucien dying a horrible death.

A mask, Rhys guessed. If Eris had been willing to kill him over one of his rival brothers, surely he’d be upset over his favorite brother dying. But it wouldn’t do to let Beron or Amarantha know.

Down in the chamber, Feyre cried out, finally noticing her friend next to her. Rhys glanced at her for merely a moment, then returned his stare to Amarantha. She was smiling, a cruel, slight thing. Delighting in Feyre’s pain and fear.

He imagined forcing her to trade places with Feyre. Chaining her up in Lucien’s place so that she had to wait. Watching. Feeling the burning heat of the metal spikes above her as they grew closer and closer.

Down in the chamber he heard Feyre pull a lever. Around him, fairies gasped. Amarantha's smile grew.

Rhys looked back down at Feyre. She had pulled the wrong lever. He was stunned, frozen for several seconds before he dove into her mind to find out why.

Her panic thoughts took him for a moment. She knew she was going to die. She knew Lucien was going to die. And she blamed herself because…

Because she couldn’t read.

Rhys’ heart dropped. He’d known she hadn’t had the best education growing up, but he had never once assumed that she could not read. He hadn’t helped her with this riddle because he had thought it would be easy for her. He thought she would get it in an instant.

And instead she had panicked. The words had blurred together into one jumbled mess. Lucien’s distress from across the cavern had distracted her, had made her even more nervous than she had already been.

The spikes were barely above her head. Rhys could already smell burning hair.

Rhys did the only thing he could think to do. He seized a hold of her mind, but before he could end it, before he could restart the loop without Feyre’s pain - the same burning pain she had just suffered the previous loop as well - the Attor pounced on him.

“No interfering,” it hissed, dragging him down to his knees and forcing him to watch. He hadn’t realized Amarantha suspected him so much. He could feel his magic being restricted even more than normal, so that he was unable to even look away or block her pain.

Rhysand watched, horrified, as those burning spikes descended through Feyre and Lucien.

And when he woke up beside Amarantha mere moments later, loop already reset, he swore he could still hear her screams.

#feysand timeloop #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)#feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand #feysand fanfiction #acotar fic #bela writes

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octobers-veryown · 1 year ago

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Here's a small masterlist with all my content. It will be updated constantly with every new addition. Enjoy xx

ELUCIEN

Elain and Lucien - Postcards from the Courts of Prythian

Elain and Lucien - Modern AU for Elucienweek2023

Elain and Lucien - Travel Prompt for Elucienweek2023

Elain and Lucien - Sunshine Prompt for Elucienweek2023

Modern!Elucien x Dancing With Our Hands Tied

Elucien x The Tortured Poets Department

Elain and Elucien - Fated (Elucienweek2024)

Elain and Elucien - Golden (Elucienweek2024)

Elain and Lucien - Adventures Lunathion's Version (Elucienweek2024)

Elain and Lucien - High Society (Elucienweek2024)

Elain and Lucien - Masks (Elucienweek2024)

Elain and Lucien - Fearless (Elucienweek2024)

Elain and Lucien - Tension and Healing (Elucienweek2024)

Elain and Lucien - Sink Beneath The Weaves by Separatist-Apologist

Elucien Bookmarks - acotar gift exchange 2024

AZRIS

Azris - Inspired by Howl by iftheshoef1tz

Azris - How Soon Is Now? inspired by what hath night to do with sleep by iftheshoef1tz

ModernAU!Azris

AZRIS WEEK 2024, DAY 4: CONTACT

AZRIS WEEK 2025, DAY 1: CREATURE FEATURE

MISC 🖤

Alex Galaxy Stern - Ninth House

Kaz and Inej - Six of Crows

Gwynriel - for "My Whole Life is Ruined" by SeparatistApologist

LUCIEN VANSERRA - I AM A ROLLING STONE for LucienWeek2023

LUCIEN VANSERRA - DAY 1: GENTLEMAN for LucienWeek2024

LUCIEN VANSERRA - DAY 3: DAYLIGHT for LucienWeek2024

LUCIEN VANSERRA - DAY 6: REPUTATION for LucienWeek2024

ZOYA NAZYALENSKY: ALL HAIL THE DRAGON QUEEN

NESSIAN X GASOLINE

ERIS VANSERRA, FUTURE HIGHLORD

FEYSAND TIMELOOP

EMORIE - "HOT TO GO" FOR SEPARATIST-APOLOGIST

FEYSAND - "I KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE" FOR SEPARATIST-APOLOGIST

FEYSAND - "THREE HUNDRED TAKE OUT COFFEES LATER" FOR SEPARATIST-APOLOGIST

Archeron Sisters

ARINA - For Separatist Apologist

Erina - Violence Against Nature for Separatist-Apologist

Gwynriel - What Died Didn't Stay Dead for Separatist Apologist

REYLO

Medieval Reylo

Modern Reylo AU

GWYNRIEL /I told the stars about you

Gwyn for Gwynweek2025

PLAYLISTS

Elucien - Your heart beating through the stone

DRAMIONE - I've got nothing left to lose besides you

AZRIEL SHADOWSINGER

POV: You're training with Cassian

Azris - "We were born sick", you heard them say it

DayNight - You remind me that I'm alive.

Nesta Archeron - I'm not a Woman, I am a God

Nessian - The Ultimate Playlist

Bryce and Hunt - Crescent City

Darlington and Alex - Ninth House

Kaz Brekker - The boy with the broken halo

Six of Crows - This motherfucking clique

Music Albums Inspired Moodboards

BRAT

hopeless fountain kingdom

Hurry up, we're dreaming

THE FAME MONSTER

#octobers-veryown masterlist #acotar edits #elucien #nessian #gwynriel #quinlar #a court of thorns and roses #crescent city #six of crows #ninth house #Tumblr masterlists #acotar moodboard #octobers-veryown #bookish playlists #bookish moodboards #Eris vanserra #Azris

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amnevitahwritesstuff · 11 months ago

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⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Five: The Mermaid (Loop 26)

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Part of the @feysand-hivemind

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Teen

Triggers: Murder, (Temporary) Character Death

Length: 583 words

Surprise! Bet you didn't think you'd see me as a part of this project (except you probably did because I haven't been nearly that subtle these past few months)! Anyway, please enjoy this (very short!) silly little palette cleanser of a chapter before I hand you back off for our regularly scheduled angst.

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on AO3 or below the cut

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

“What the-?”

Arielle blinked her eyes open in confusion at the waves and ripples that had disturbed her slumber. She had just settled down for the night, in her bed of waterweed and algae, when-

There, towards the little shore of her pond, she spied a pair of feet wading through the water followed by the sound of drunken laughter. Were they…? Oh Cauldron, they were!

The mermaid grimaced in disgust.

Did the high fae not teach their children any manners? Honestly!

Clearly some people still needed a reminder not to encroach upon the homes of others.

While river mermaids were somewhat different from their sea dwelling cousins (primarily in that they were lazier and more prone to napping in the sun rather than luring sailors to their deaths) they more than made up for their lack of blood thirstiness with pettiness and a zero tolerance policy regarding home invaders.

Especially if said invaders were trying to get frisky right on her front doorstep.

“Excuse me!” She said tersely as she swam towards the intruders. “Don’t you know this is private property-”

And that was right about when one of them decided to step on her hair.

Arielle shrieked, jerking back in pain and shock and knocking the perpetrator clear off their feet. She felt them crash into the water with a cacophonous splash while their companion seemed stunned into stillness at discovering that this pond was, in fact, home to something other than a few frogs.

“First you invade my pond without permission and then you attack me in my own home?!” The mermaid screeched furiously as she grabbed ahold of the figure trying to scramble back to their feet and pulled them back underwater.

They toppled into the water and while they were still disorientated, the mermaid wrapped her fingers around the figure’s skinny little neck and squeezed. Their hair floated prettily around them like gold thread as the fae thrashed instinctively before their neck…snapped.

Arielle blinked.

Surely fae were sturdier than that? She’d pulled several down into her pond in the past for one reason or another and they always managed to fight her off easily enough. So why did this fae have such a breakable little neck?

Wait…no. Not fae.

Human.

The mermaid stared down at the intruder, puzzled, noticing rounded ears and tasting the whiff of mortality that hung around the creature like a cloud.

What was a human doing in her pond?

They were Arielle’s last thoughts before a different set of hands grabbed ahold of her and tore her out of the water.

She thrashed.

Until she came face to face with the High Lord of Spring himself.

And he was furious.

“Do you realize what you’ve done?!!”

“Do you realize how rude it is to invade someone’s home?!” The mermaid couldn’t help but snap. High Lord or no, it was terribly rude to gallivant through her pond without so much as a by-the-by.

“She was our only chance of breaking the curse! You’ve ruined us!”

For a moment it felt like the High Lord was speaking in riddles. Curse? What curse? But then…

“…Oh. Well that’s not good.”

The High Lord didn’t answer, only exploded in a flurry of fur and claws and Arielle’s pond soon ran red with her own blood.

In the shadows of the trees, Rhysand banged his head against a tree and moaned in agony and frustration.

“How the fuck did I not know there was mermaid in there?!”

#time won't fly (it's like I'm paralyzed by it)#feysand timeloop #feysand hivemind #my fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #amnevitahwritesstuff

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climbthemountain2020 · 4 months ago

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time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) - Chapter 12/Loop 46

All My Days, I'll Know Your Face

Chapter Summary: When the Feyre from this loop isn't what Rhys is expecting, things pan out a little differently. Warnings: canon-typical violence, NSFW

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Word Count: 11.5k

Notes: Surprise it’s me again! @feysand-hivemind for life, honestly.

Thanks to @popjunkie42 @witch-and-her-witcher for beta reading this literally last June lol.

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3 or under the cut.

Rhys started awake, the sharp inhale of breath cold in his lungs. It was dark. It was always dark here.

The black gossamer curtains surrounding the bed made everything hazy and macabre, but there was nothing quite as nightmarish as the female by his side. She looked nearly docile in sleep, blood red hair mussed and her perpetual grimace smoothed out into placidity while she slept.

Rhysand rose from the bed, quietly shuffling over to the edge and placing his feet on the floor. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, grimacing at the skin sticky from sweat that wasn’t his alone.

He wanted to kill her. Every day, he wanted to kill her.

As the rest of his mind caught up to him, he felt the memories rushing back in.

Feyre.

They pulsed in slowly, filling his mind as they did every time the loop had failed.

What had it been this time? The details got blurred, sometimes, the specifics growing fuzzy. How many mornings had he relieved this exact waking nightmare? How many more times would he have to?

If he actively sought her out early, the loop would fail. If he tried to speed things up or skip entirely over certain events, the loop would fail. For some reason, those seemed to be backfiring the most spectacularly. He was getting his footing, though, slowly but surely. Certain things, he now knew, would lead to a near immediate failure – Tamlin finding Feyre on Calanmai, Rhys trying to intervene before Tamlin showed up, if she broke a bone other than her arm in the first trial – it was all no good. He was figuring out now, bit by bit, what worked and what stalled them out. The small steps forward were the only things getting him through this repetitive hell.

He ran a hand through his hair as a soft murmuring behind him started up and made him flinch.

Fuck this.

He winnowed out, not bothering to say goodbye. It wouldn’t matter – he did this more often than not, silently creeping out from the cage of her rooms before she awoke. If she cared, she never commented on it. As far as she knew, Rhys just wasn’t particularly affectionate, which was exactly what he’d hoped to convey.

It had taken everything he’d had at the beginning to hide his disgust with her, but the mask he’d slid into place forty-nine years ago had been cold and cruel and complacent and exactly what he’d needed. He was able to serve his way into her good graces, despite his unending disgust for himself, while the expectations for his servitude hinged solely on loyalty to her court and servicing her in bed. As much as it had pained him at the start, he’d all but numbed to it now, feeling more gracious than anything that she hadn’t demanded more from him.

He stepped through the weighted darkness into his personal rooms, just as empty as they’d been for the last forty-nine years. He’d added a few personal touches, silk sheets, some paintings he liked, but otherwise it was just another cell for him. Still naked, he walked immediately into the bathroom, filling the tub with an errant wave of his hand and refusing to look in the mirror as he waited. Waiting, waiting, waiting . He’d been waiting for decades, simply biding his time.

He’d been content to do it, too, until he’d started dreaming of his painter.

The dreams had begun long ago, but the first time he’d met her had been something entirely different. She was so perfect, her face in his mind at all times.

His mate, his darling Feyre.

He thought of her smell, pears and lilac and the sweet breeze of night air across his wings as he flew across the starry skies of Velaris. He thought about what the Suriel had told him, pictured their child, a son… It was so close and clear an image in his mind that he could almost see it as a memory – a little boy, chubby wrists and blonde hair and violet eyes and freckles across the bridge of his perfect little nose. He’d rock him to sleep in the old chairs on the back patio of the townhouse. He and Cassian and Azriel would teach him how to stretch his wings, what exercises to do to build the muscles so he could fly as far and as wide as he wanted. Until then, he’d take him out himself, small, excited body wiggling in his father’s safe arms as he flew him over the city just as Rhys’s mother had once done for him.

The dreams kept him sane– the hope kept him holding on.

Being with Amarantha intimately had become impossibly more insufferable, everything feeling like a betrayal as he held tightly to that limp and unanswered bond in his chest.

The dreams always got more vivid when she returned to Prythian. But this loop was going to be different–he was going to be different, too. He had a new plan, and that plan was Calanmai.

He’d gone through it before, both with successes and failures, but this time, he was going to let the picts run their course with Feyre until the last minute. Perhaps, if she was more afraid of the picts than she was of him, she’d be more receptive to speaking with him. If it worked, he could find a way to avoid taunting Tamlin when Feyre was in the manor, even avoid it altogether if he could use his body to distract Amarantha long enough. Maybe, then, when they met again Under the Mountain, she wouldn’t have only memories of fear. If she came into it viewing him as a friend, as a partner , or even as someone simply working towards the same goals, he could avoid so much of the anguish and horror of their early days. His goal this time would be that tentative allyship, and she could arrive Under the Mountain and see how powerful they could truly be together.

When Calanmai arrived, Rhys winnowed into the edges of the Spring woods, the acrid smell of bonfire smoke hitting him immediately. The air was warm and heavy on his skin, and he absently pushed his hair off his brow. After the length of time he’d been alive, Rhys found very few things made him nervous, but he’d quickly discovered Feyre was always an exception to this rule. His heart pounded in his chest, the nerves lighting sparks down his flesh like pinpricks.

It didn’t matter how many Fire Nights he attended within these hellacious loops, being so close to her, feeling the humming of the primal magic down to his very bones, it all made it feel brand new each time. Though he knew he was still on Amarantha’s leash, the possibilities of the night felt endless, precious.

He skirted around the woods for a time, knowing that at any moment, he would watch Feyre walk up the hillside coming from the bonfires towards the woods. She’d look for a better view of the cave, and inadvertently garner the attention of the picts. Even with all the variations, if they made it to Calanmai, it almost always began this way. Rhys found a tree to lean against as he waited, his calm demeanor belying the maelstrom of emotions rushing through his mind and causing him to force his breathing back into an even pace.

Any moment, and she’d be here.

And suddenly, there she was, cresting the hillside as she always did. His heart soared into his throat, the rush of emotion at her presence nearly overwhelming him. His body went to surge forward before his mind could catch up.

Stop. She needs to deal with the picts first. Stick to the plan.

He slunk back to the woods, finding his tree and letting his eyes find Feyre. But… but this time, she wasn’t going towards the cave.

Had something already changed?

She was walking – no, stalking – with purpose. She avoided the cave entirely, choosing instead to patrol around the far edges of the crowd and cut towards the woods. Towards him.

His breath caught in his throat, catching him entirely off guard as he croaked involuntarily, the sound echoing embarrassingly through the woods around him. She was coming straight for him.

What should he do? Run?

Rhys was doing something he never did – he was panicking, but he couldn’t think, couldn’t form a plan or a word or a thought when she was barreling straight towards him, her hair gleaming in the firelight. What was he to do if she stumbled upon him first? Pretend they’d just run into each other and stumble off like a stranger? He could see his plans for an allyship flying away on a stiff breeze.

Just as he was about to winnow out, preservation and nerves overtaking his need to see her, touch her, hold her, lecherous laughter cut off her single-minded stride. Rhys had been saved by the picts arriving just then, avoiding disaster at the last possible moment. Something about the shift must have moved them, too.

Rhys paused, tucking himself behind a large oak to watch from the shadows.

Az would have a field day with the display he’d just put on.

The thought almost made him laugh before the familiar grief tore through him.

Focus .

“Human woman. We’ve not seen one of you for a while.”

This was how it always began, the line giving him more nightmares than he’d have liked to admit. He knew his cue, knew the role he would have to play when it was at last his time to step in.

But this time, Feyre didn’t even pause. She threw a hand up at them, growling.

“Fuck off, thanks,” she bit out, not even once breaking her pace as she continued on straight into the precious safety of his hiding place. There wasn’t time to flee. Her stormy blue eyes met his violet ones, and his chest clenched painfully.

She stopped just short of him, their bodies barely inches apart, her breath mixing with his in the air between them.

She smiled up at him, and he wondered if the world hadn’t changed entirely.

What in the Cauldron’s name was happening?

“There you are,” she said, grinning broadly. “I’ve been looking for you.” Rhys felt as though all the air had been punched from his lungs, and he couldn’t help the incredulous laughter that blasted out from his throat, near hysterical. He thought he might have felt tears burning at the backs of his eyes as her face reflected joy at the sound. “Get rid of the picts for me?”

He nodded, putting an arm around her shoulder and nearly shivering at the contact as she turned around, facing the picts who had now closed in, angry at her blatant rejection. They beheld him then, the dark magic swirling threateningly around them both and rising above his head like vipers ready to strike. The three lesser faeries paled, their dark eyes wide. “Thank you for finding her for me.” He relished the terror in their eyes. “Enjoy the Rite.” There was enough of a bite beneath his last words that the faeries stiffened.

Without further comment, they scuttled back to the bonfires.

In the brief moment of reprieve, he’d found his footing, slipping easily back into his carefully curated persona. The words took off from his lips before he could stop them as he leaned down into her ear to whisper, his lips glancing the outer shell.

“Hello, darling.” He swore he saw her shiver.

She stepped away from him then, turning in the moonlight, and his breath caught. She was beautiful, so stunning. He felt that even though he’d only just seen her, it was like seeing her for the first time all over again. The impulse to creep into her mind to hear those first, unfiltered thoughts of hers about him nearly crippled him. He wouldn’t intrude upon her privacy that way, though the versions of him a few loops back might not have hesitated. Now though, he would never disrespect his mate in such a way.

He thought his knees might give out at the closeness of her, the floral scent of her strong on the breeze, but he placed a perfectly practiced smirk on his face instead, lifting a brow and forcing nonchalance on his face. He’d used that smirk so often during the past five decades he was almost certain muscle memory had him doing it in his sleep. He normally felt nothing but a responding emptiness when he did it beneath the mountain.

“Hello, Rhys.” Her smirk matched his as his heart did stop momentarily.

My name. How could she know?

He couldn’t move, let alone form words, his jaw slack and eyes wide. She took a step closer, closing the gap between them and reaching up to cup his jaw. Her hands were so soft, so gentle, just as he’d remembered.

“Tell me, love, do you know me?” she whispered.

She remembered. She knew him.

Something like a sob broke free from his chest unbidden as he collected her into his arms, her huff of breath turning into a laugh into the crook of his neck. He’d never felt anything as good as her arms closing around him in response, never heard anything as lovely as when she mumbled I’ve missed you into his mind effortlessly as she took in a deep, audible breath of him. His chest nearly cracked open, heart pounding with something so far beyond relief he didn’t even have a word for it. Her hands raked through his hair, her laughs becoming wet with the salted tears he could smell and the relief of the bond thrumming brightly in his chest.

She knew him. She knew him.

He stepped back but didn’t let her go, leaning against the tree with her still clutched tightly to him.

“Can I take you somewhere?” The words were out before he knew what his plan was. He hadn’t anticipated any of this–didn’t know what he could possibly say or do from here. He just knew he wanted her alone. She pulled back, blue eyes meeting violet again as she nodded emphatically, and they were gone.

They reappeared on a grassy hill on the other side of the woods, the trees at their backs and the fires so far in the distance that they could barely see their flickers on the horizon. This was as far as he could reasonably go with his magic twined the way it was, but the impulse to take her home all the way to Velaris, shove her safely within the wards, and leave her there, furious but out of harm’s way, was overwhelming.

“How do you know me?” He was breathless. She smiled at him coyly, a new version of Feyre he hadn’t gotten a chance to know yet.

“I know many versions of you, Rhys.” Her voice was like honey, a slow, smooth melody that could both rile him up and put him straight to sleep. There was no awkwardness, no nerves or hesitation.

What loop had she come from? She didn’t seem like any Feyres he’d met yet.

“What do you remember?” he asked softly, as her hand snaked up his neck to wind through his hair gently, her wide eyes taking in every detail of his face as though she were memorizing it. As though she might be saying both hello and goodbye.

“Nothing that you do.”

“Will you ever stop speaking in riddles?” And she tilted her head back at that and laughed, really laughed, and he felt as though his heart might have burst forth from his chest at the sight and sound. She was always breathtaking, but the image of her filled with joy and mirth, here, in front of him, touching him like someone she knew, someone she loved, was threatening to undo him entirely.

“Forgive me, love. Everything is a riddle to me now. I’ve been…” she paused, as if to choose her words. “I’ve been stuck, for months now, maybe years? Every time it begins the same, and I’m stuck in that blasted cabin in the woods with my sisters and no magic. No matter what I change, the second you or I die, it begins again. I remember everything, but you never do.”

Rhys couldn’t believe it. This Feyre was experiencing the same thing as him. She knew what he was going through, could understand the desperation, the agony.

“Feyre…my Feyre.” He couldn’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to her lips which she hungrily returned, a whimper set free into his mouth from hers. His heart was beating frantically and giddy in his chest, the grazing of their tongues so freeing and gratifying that he felt he might materialize his wings and take flight against his better judgment if he thought on it for too long.

They parted, but remained with their brows pressed together.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, Rhys.”

He laughed, but it came out in a punch, the sound frayed at the edges like his nerves, raw and exposed and suddenly so visible.

She knew. She understood.

“Oh, but I do, Feyre darling.” She tore herself away to look at him. “The loops are happening to me, too. Most times, you still hate me when one of us dies. You’ve never known me before.”

The shock in her eyes only lasted a moment. Of course this Feyre, his Feyre, understood.

“So you understand then? I needed to see you. I’ve fought every possible outcome just to hold you again,” she whispered.

His knees threatened to collapse, and he could feel the hot tears on his cheekbones.

“I understand completely. You consume my every thought, waking and dreaming, Feyre. You’re everything.”

“My last loop let us live out an entire life together before dying millenia from now. We were old. We grew old side by side. I thought we’d beaten it; I thought we’d won.” He could feel the anguish fading in and out from her side of the bond, and the exchange of emotion nearly took his breath away. “When I woke up again in the cabin, I wished that I could just die. I couldn’t do it anymore. We’d had children–an entire lifetime together, and none of it was real.” She began to cry as he held her close.

Children .

Flashes of that child he’d imagined ran through his mind, the excitement and joy at the thought impossible to snuff out, despite her grief in front of him. Not just the one child, but more. An entire lifetime.

“I haven’t gotten that far yet. Could you show me what it was like? Give me something to look forward to?” She nodded again, holding him close. As he pressed gently into her mind, she opened it wide for him with no preamble, as though she’d done so millions of times.

Abruptly, he was swimming through hundreds of lifetimes, thousands of variations of him, of them, all swirling wildly through his mind. At first, they were just snippets of her and him, dancing under Starfall many different times, their mating ceremonies, so much intimacy between the two of them that his world spun to behold it all with the emotion swimming from her side of the bond.

She remembered days of cooking with him, flour covering them both and every surface as they touched and kissed and smiled against each other. There were images of a laughing Cassian and an amused but stoic Azriel, a dancing Mor and a scowling but proud Amren, the images turning his streaks of tears into outright sobs as she showed him the bright skies of Velaris that he missed so dearly. She showed just the briefest of glimpses of him holding a baby blanket with the tiniest wings peeking out, the shock causing him to intake a sharp breath.

Their son .

Black hair and Feyre’s beautiful eyes, so different from what he’d imagined, but the loveliest thing he’d ever beheld.

The images faded, and he realized with surprise that they’d fallen to the grass, him leaning against a tree with Feyre straddling his lap, her head bowed and pressed lovingly to his chest, as though she’d spent every night of her life sleeping there.

He supposed, in another life, she had.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Her voice was a quiet song in the wind.

She looked up at him, eyes glinting in the starlight, and it felt like home.

“Kiss me.” The hunger flared back to life as their lips met, her hips pushing down to meet his as his hands found their way through her long, beautiful hair. It felt like muscle memory to him, the ways she wanted to be touched, the ways they enjoyed each other, as though her memories of a lifetime were becoming blurred with his own. He was suddenly treated to another onslaught of images, the two of them touching in the dark, on the sand of a beach, on a grassy mountaintop, in a bed of the moonstone palace, hands grasping at silken sheets. He watched as she stroked his wings in her mind, the feeling echoing on phantom limbs of his own. He shuddered at the thought of a time where it would be calm enough, safe enough, for them to spend their days and nights falling comfortably into each other with a familiarity so solid. He could feel them swimming together with his memory of them at the starlight pool, all the visions blurring together and becoming one as her hips pressed against his own.

He grazed his fingertips up and down her sides, feeling her shiver as she whined quietly into the hollow of his throat, barely pausing to pepper hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of his neck as he groaned. He could feel her heart beating against him in time with the far-distant drums of Calanmai thrumming lightly through the earth beneath them, seeming to urge them on in time.

He slid his hands up her thighs, warm to the touch and riddled with goosebumps as he pushed up her dress, fingers teasing along the outer edges of her underwear. She surged lightly forward into his hands, allowing his broad palms to slip back and grip her ass while she pushed against him. One by one, her deft fingers undid the buttons of his tunic while he watched her intently, his eyes unwilling to leave her for even a moment. His touch danced along the seams of her inner thighs, feeling the heat there as she bucked involuntarily against him and pushed his shirt down off his shoulders. The cool night air kissed his skin and he surged towards the warmth of her again, removing the straps of her dress from her shoulder with his sharp teeth as she gasped into his hair.

They moved together as though their bodies knew the dance already, and in a way, he supposed, they did. She found the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged just the way he liked, his head tilting back as she kissed him deeper while he slid his fingers past the gusset of her underwear, feeling the wetness pooling inside as he smiled against her mouth. She huffed a half-indignant breath at him, but pushed down onto his fingers so unexpectedly that he was the one gasping for air while she grinned against his lips.

“All this for me, Feyre darling?” She hummed and he felt the vibrations to his toes.

He tore the garment apart in a single swift motion, tossing it to the side in the dewy grass and returning his hands to her hips while she kissed his neck.

“Please,” she whispered, notching herself against him. He wouldn’t make her ask twice, and as she sunk down onto him, that golden tether he’d only recently become accustomed to snapped so violently that he felt a physical yanking on his ribs.

Feyre tossed her head back, pulling him closer to her as she bottomed out.

“Gods, I’ll never tire of that.” Her acknowledgement of it, the steady, strong thrumming of it between them, and the tight, hot vise of her around him was nearly enough to send his mind spinning. He was gone then, over the edge and untamable, the bond a golden band of flashing, solid steel between them. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her hips as she swiveled them over him. It was the best he’d ever felt, the best he ever would, he had no doubt. He would never tire of this, never have enough. She completed him – his mate, his other half – and he could only think of how much he wanted her and her alone.

“Then take me, love”

And Rhys did.

+++

“It’s strange,” she whispered into his shoulder, still perched on his lap, body entirely relaxed into his.

“Hmmm?” His response was a contented hum into the soft floral notes of her hair as his hand traced patterns up and down her spine, reveling in this moment of rare bliss, of joy.

“There’s no one in this universe who could more entirely understand what each of us is going through. And still, neither of us has the same experience.” Rhys noted how isolated Feyre sounded in that moment, the voice in all his memories that she’d had when she had given up. He was intimately familiar with that tone, the way it often mirrored in his own thoughts.Though Rhys had heard the lilt of amusement she’d forced into her voice anyway. He held her a bit tighter, the emotions of comfort and home leaking through the bond so warmly and kindly it felt like a blanket over his very soul.

“Once you were killed by a cookie. Repeatedly. You just kept doing it.”

Feyre deadpanned. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. I wondered if those would ever end.”

She laughed. “You’ve had some fairly ridiculous circumstances in mine, as well. Some loops have been so short, others so long I believe we’ve finally won. The long ones are the best, because we’re more likely to get close, but it’s also harder at the end.” Her voice quieted.

“I like the ones where we fight on the same side. The ones where we win small victories hand in hand.”

“Me too,” she agreed quietly. “I’ve fallen in love with so many versions of you, Rhys. Nothing has been able to change that.”

The emotion is Rhys’s throat hung like a hand wrapped around it, threatening to choke him. He’d woken up this morning in Amarantha’s bed, feeling every bit the whore, the tool, the weapon he’d had to make himself into during these dark, horrid years. And now, not even a full day later, Feyre was here, in front of him, looking at him like he’d hung the moon. This perfect, beautiful, strong, lovely female–woman–who said she loved every version of him. He felt the tears stinging the backs of his eyes again and fought to clear his throat.

“How have things been in Spring this time around?”

“Well, I found a few loops back that a little more than half the time things go better when Tamlin never believes that there’s hope for us. I try to make a habit of implying right away, though the loops don’t seem to like us discussing it outright. Or rather, if I say too soon or too explicitly that I know about her or the blight, the loop tends to end rather swiftly.” This was news to Rhys. He hadn’t even considered that the restrictions Amarantha had placed would include Feyre as a human.

“So this time, he knows?”

She laughed. “Oh yes, I think I have implied heavily enough that they’re aware I have more knowledge than I should. It’s always a balancing act to get them to understand I know about her without outright saying it. Sometimes I give too much away and it tips the scales so that Tamlin does something stupid and the whole loop gets scrapped.”

“How can you possibly keep track of all this in your head?”

She shrugged. “It’s not like I can take a notebook with me.”

“No, it isn’t. I hope we find our solution this time so we can stop having to work quite so hard.”

She smiled and nudged him with her elbow. “What? Already exhausted from courting me?”

“Never, darling.” And his smile felt genuine again for the first time in a long time.

“What will you do until you arrive Under the Mountain?”

“Train. Bide my time.” She shrugged. “I’ve done my research in many other loops, and I’ve beaten the wyrm enough times now to know all of the possible ways that I can. Mostly I just enjoy the scenery and food in Spring until it’s time to go. Sometimes we miss Calanmai–those are always the loops that are hard to get through.”

He tugged her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple out of something that felt strangely like habit already. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. He’d come here tonight with the goal of becoming allies–perhaps he could still work that angle. “What if I come back? Perhaps I will be able to tell Tamlin and Lucien the truth, and we can come up with a plan? Work together instead of actively against him?”

She pushed up, her hair falling beautifully around bare, freckled shoulders as her eyes met his. “It could work.”

“In mine, I’ve come before and Lucien glamours you to hide you. I always appear as the villain, but what if we approached it differently? I come as an ally, and you admit you know me to back it up. Even if there are some things we cannot tell them, perhaps it will be enough to convince them we’re fighting for the same goals.” Feyre was quiet for a moment, appearing to think, then nodding.

“That might actually…work? It isn’t something we’ve tried before.”

“Of course, you’ll need to be the one. Only you could reason with such a brute, Feyre.” She smacked his chest and rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

“Hey, if we fail, we’ll just start from scratch, right?” There was a humor in her eyes that did something to a deeply primal part of him, and he leaned in to take her lips in his again.

When they were done, the fires were already settling for the night as he winnowed them back to the edge of the woods near the Spring manor. He could feel the drag on his magic, but he refused to let her return alone.

Rhys sketched a brief bow, pressing a kiss to her hand as she scoffed and pulled him closer, winding her arms around his neck tightly and kissing him again. She tasted sweet. She tasted like hope.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks, love.”

“Be safe, Rhys.” One more kiss pressed sweetly to the corner of his mouth, and she was bounding back through the wrought-iron manor gates. He watched her go, golden hair swishing and catching the moonlight behind her.

They would do it this time. They would .

And then he was gone.

+++

Rhys was nervous as he winnowed out, the destination clear in his mind but his anxiety spiking with the thought of being close to her again since Calanmai weeks ago.

The interim had been hard, harder than Rhys was anticipating, but he’d made it through. He’d glamoured the bond thoroughly that night as he bathed upon his return Under the Mountain, feeling as though he were committing a sin by washing the scent of her from his body. But still, every time Amarantha had touched him since, he’d wanted to physically recoil at the wrongness of it all, the bond humming and feeling like a lovely and constant reminder of Feyre in his chest, contrasting horribly with Amarantha’s sharp nails and horrific voice.

The future Feyre had shown him was all that kept him going.

My mate. Us. Our son. Our family. Our home.

Tonight, as they’d planned, he would arrive in Spring on orders from Amarantha to go and taunt Tamlin about his dwindling time. Though Rhys had known it was coming, he still couldn’t quite believe his luck at the perfect excuse–a sanctioned reason to see her again.

He touched down on the gravel drive of the manor, straightening his lapels and striding forward with great, confident steps, not at all mirroring the slamming of his heart against his ribs.

Feyre. Feyre. Feyre.

A mantra, a chant, a hymn.

He threw open the doors and was met with no resistance – he hadn’t expected any. Like a moth to a flame, he could sense her, hear the light and fast pitter-patter of her human heart through the walls. He reached out.

Hello, darling.

Her response was instantaneous, and he grinned wickedly.

Hello, love. I worried you’d forgotten me.

He could hear the responding smile in her voice, and he nearly sighed at the comfort her familiar and soothing timbre pushed through his veins. She took to speaking mind-to-mind with him like a habit, and the thought of it both excited and calmed him.

Where are you?

The dining room, to the left of the entry. Lucien is hiding me. See you soon.

He redirected his route, pivoting sharpy, suddenly feeling the immediate need to have her back in his arms as he shoved open the great oak doors.

“High Lord,” Rhys crooned, hoping to edge his way beneath Tamlin’s skin a bit for old time’s sake.

“What do you want, Rhysand?” The distant grinding of teeth told him it had been a success.

“Rhysand? Come now, Tamlin. I don’t see you for forty-nine years, and you start calling me Rhysand? Only my prisoners and my enemies call me that.” He let the predatory grin find its way back across his face, showing his fangs.

“A fox mask. Appropriate for you, Lucien.” Actually, he’d always rather liked Lucien, but he couldn’t help getting a good ribbing in there, too. It was always too easy.

“Go to hell, Rhys.”

“Always a pleasure dealing with the rabble.”

His eyes immediately fell to the third plate and a thrill rattled through him.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” And she did, springing from behind Lucien as he lurched instinctually for her, a mischievous grin spread across her face as she bounded towards him.

Rhys had endured many terrors Under the Mountain, in his life in general, but he’d never been more compelled to believe them all worth it than he was watching the abject horror and confusion spreading across Tamlin’s face as Feyre threw herself into Rhys’s arms. He twirled her around once for good measure as he looked into Tamlin’s eyes over her shoulder.

“It’s so good to see you again, dear,” he said, voice low. She giggled, pulling back and smiling broadly.

“You two know each other?” Lucien asked incredulously.

“You could say that,” Rhys said, shifting Feyre in front of him and holding her back to his chest.

“We met on Calanmai,” she all but chirped, Rhys really riding the high of the appalled shock on Lucien and Tamlin’s faces.

“You met on Calanmai?” Tamlin’s eyes were ablaze when he growled out the words, and before Rhys could stop himself, that primal, possessive part of him bristled and he snarled.

“You will not speak to her in that tone.” His arms were around Feyre, holding her tightly to him, and he could feel her shiver beneath him.

I liked that.

His mind hummed in satisfaction at her admission.

Did you now?

He lightly pinched her side as he decided to file that information away for later.

But it was Lucien’s voice that rang out first.

“I…I don’t believe it.” All eyes shot to him. “He’s your mate ?” He nearly spit the word, eyes wide with astonishment. Rhys had always wondered what that mechanical eye could see. He guessed now he knew.

Tamlin shot to his feet immediately, a roar gathering in his chest before a single commanding look from Rhys, shadows rising in aggression behind him, backed him down. Feyre just turned wordlessly, rising up on tip toes and pressing the gentlest kiss to the corner of his mouth. He almost couldn’t contain his sigh at the action.

“In this world and every other.” He could have melted at her words, at the sweet love in her eyes as he beheld her.

“I don’t believe it.” Tamlin rose and stepped forward, testing Rhys’s last bit of patience.

“Can we show you?”

Bless her , he thought, her voice as sweet as ever.

Show us how ?” Rhys still bristled at the demand in Tamlin’s voice as he spoke to her.

Can you show them parts of what you’ve seen?

Her voice was sweet as sugar in his mind as he nodded, reaching those mental talons into Lucien and Tamlin’s minds, intentionally bumping around a bit to make sure they knew he was there. Pleased as he watched them both grimace, he began to project his and Feyre’s shared memories.

He chose carefully what he showed, selfish about the memories of his painter, his mate. Instead, he showed them the first time he’d woken again after dying, immediately dying again only to understand he was waking up each time reset in Amarantha’s bed. This loop in particular, where he ran into a very different Feyre than he remembered on fire night, and the discussions they’d had. He watched as Feyre gave him memories to show them of her own loops, time and time again where they tried everything and failed. He didn’t want to share any of it, but if this was to work, he needed their understanding. If it didn’t, he supposed, they wouldn’t remember any of this anyway.

When it was finished, the two appeared rattled, but Feyre simply pulled his arms tighter around her.

“I’ve been trying to tell you both since I arrived, but as with...the blight …there are certain things that magic beyond my understanding doesn’t like me to discuss.”

“How many times have you met us?” Lucien asked, appearing to be working through his thoughts while Tamlin sat back down and quietly seethed into his wine glass.

“Enough to know a good bit about what will happen if we go Under the Mountain without a plan.” Lucien nodded, seeming to understand, and Rhys was bolstered by the thought that going into this with them all on the same side might very well be enough to sway the odds in their favor.

“Can you not just tell Tamlin you love him?” But Feyre shook her head adamantly.

“The curse knows when it isn’t real. I’ve tried before, and if I don’t truly love him when I say it, nothing changes.” Lucien sat heavily at the table, gesturing for the two to sit down in the remaining chairs where they settled in one together. Tamlin appeared to be having a crisis as he finally spoke.

“What sort of outcomes have been most ideal, Feyre? And how have you reached them?”

“Well, often I get the closest to freeing us by getting through all three tasks. There doesn’t seem to be much of a workaround where we’re able to avoid it. We have to make Amarantha believe I love you the entire time, or things fall apart.”

“Have you tried where I simply acquiesce? Would it set everyone free?”

Rhys hadn’t thought to ask it, but it made sense. Would Tamlin be willing to lay himself down in such a way?

“We have. But she just keeps everyone Under the Mountain anyway. Nobody wins unless I die.” The words were ice in his veins.

“Unless you die ?” Rhys turned her abruptly in his arms.

“I need to die upon completing the third task. I answer the riddle and Tamlin kills me, it releases you all, you hold me through the bond, and then every High Lord contributes magic to save me. It’s the only way I’ve ever made it out from Under the Mountain.” He couldn’t quite make his brain catch up to his mouth as he processed the information.

“No. Absolutely not. It’ll reset the loop. Are you mad?”

“Rhys, this is the only way we’ve gotten close.” He felt like an animal pacing a cage.

“But it was wrong. ” He could feel the hysteria rising. “We got old together, but it still reset. It was still wrong , Feyre.”

“If you know the answer to the riddle, why not answer it straight away?” Lucien asked, as though trying to think of a way around.

But Feyre shook her head. “If I answer it before I’m dying, something always kills me permanently and the loop resets.”

Rhys scrubbed a hand roughly over his face.

“What if I simply, somewhat , give in to her? Just as a distraction?” Tamlin’s suggestion turned all their heads towards him. “I don’t agree fully to her terms, but I play her game. Allow her to think she’s swaying me just the smallest amount so she’s not paying as close attention to Rhysand and then he can focus on keeping Feyre safe. I pretend to still be saving myself for you in front of everyone, but let her think I am still interested enough to come to her at night.”

They all thought in silence for a moment.

“Why would you do that?”

His sigh was deep and he looked every bit his age then. “If it gives us the best chance at getting everyone out, I would.” Rhys could feel the graciousness pouring through the bond from Feyre.”I don’t like the way I looked in your memories.” His voice was quiet.

Feyre stepped forward, a hand still on Rhys. “Tamlin…”

He held up a hand. “My only goals are getting everyone their freedom back, and seeing Amarantha dead. I will not be another villain in this story.”

“We will need to glamour the bond. If she has even the slightest idea…” He didn’t even want to imagine what she’d do, how she’d react. The thought turned his stomach, and that wasn’t an easy feat.

“I won’t go back to the cabin this loop – all it does is waste time. My sisters are fine, and they’ll stay safer if I remain here.” She turned to Tamlin. “Is there a place I can hide within the manor that they’ve no chance of finding me when they come to collect you both?”

“There’s a hideaway in the cellars.”

Rhys knew about it. Knew it was where Tamlin used to hide from his father and brothers. He chose to keep his mouth shut, but Tamlin’s eyes still flicked to his briefly.

“It will keep you out of harm’s way until it’s safe to come back out, then you can wait a few days and join us beneath the mountain. We’ll leave you the maps.” Feyre nodded, slipping her warm hand back into Rhys’s, the gesture disarming him momentarily. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to these casual displays of affection, not sure they’d ever become commonplace for him, not sure if that was even a bad thing at all. He loved the way her little movements made his heart surge in his chest.

She smiled back at him like she’d heard, her broad grin lighting up her entire face.

You’re being very loud.

He huffed a small laugh, but simply pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“So we’ll plan to move forward as if nothing has changed. She’ll send for you next week at the curse’s end, I’ll send as much of a warning as I can, and Feyre will hide.” Lucien and Tamlin nodded, and Rhys felt Feyre squeeze him closer as Lucien spoke.

“If we play our cards right, we may all survive this.”

“There’s one final thing we must discuss.” Feyre spoke with conviction. “We need a plan for Clare Beddor.”

+++

It was time.

The past week had flown in a flurry of slapdash plans and forced confidence in them. Rhysand had played his part, beautifully he might add, especially considering that Feyre was all that consumed his mind.

When he’d returned Under the Mountain, he’d reported back to Amarantha that he’d seen evidence of a human girl having been in Spring, but that she’d been long gone when he arrived. He’d taken it upon himself to force the answer out of Lucien: a farm girl in a town south of the wall named Clare. To Amarantha’s great thrill, he’d also taken the liberty of bringing her charred corpse to throw at Amarantha’s dais while he displayed a broad and feline grin.

“You couldn’t have saved some fun for me, Rhysand?” Her flirtatious pout made him more nauseated than the charred remains, but he smiled anyway, flashing his fangs in the gleaming low light.

“Apologies, I got a bit…carried away.” He looked at the body and forced a sparkle into his eye as she nodded smugly, acting as though they were in on some sort of inside joke together. Then she waved him away and commanded the attor to hang the remains on the wall of the cavernous throne room.

Another problem solved, and with only days to go before Tamlin would fail at his end of the curse and answer to Amarantha forever.

What had actually happened was that Rhys had painstakingly winnowed to the human lands immediately upon leaving Spring. He’d interrupted the Beddors during their dinner, much to their surprise and horror, glamoured them all into running to the continent as he shoved sacks of coins into their hands. He told them their new last name was Linnear and that they were never to return here, use their true names, or think of him ever again.

He’d taken a quick trip to the mortuary, stolen a corpse of as similar description as he could, and burned it beyond recognition before flying back to the caves in small bursts, the horrid smell of burnt flesh keeping him alert and aware of the dangers were he to fail at pulling this off.

With Amarantha satisfied, it was simply a waiting game until Feyre arrived Under the Mountain, his nerves on end every time he thought of how things might go. He tried to talk himself down, tried to pulse a sense of calm through his heart at the near-crippling worry.

Feyre had trained. Feyre had done this before. Feyre was smart, and brave, and kind, and funny, and his , and she was going to get them out of this alive. Once Tamlin arrived, the countdown was on, though neither of them even spared the other a passing glance past the posturing as Amarantha showed him his “lovely human girl” attached to the walls of the throne room while Tamlin did his best to look sick. Perhaps he was sick; it was a disgustingly marred and charred corpse.

When Feyre, his darling Feyre, finally arrived, it was nearly impossible to stop his heart from slamming through his ribcage. Her chin jutted out stubbornly, confidently, as though she were a queen addressing her people. She’d never been more beautiful to him, never felt more suited to be his mate.

Good to see you again, darling.

“I’ve come to claim the one I love.”

He watched her fight the smirk while she dove in with Amarantha, meeting her snide tone as though she’d done it a thousand times before, which, he guessed, she had. She was careful to not be too over the top, tried to dumb down her confidence so that she still seemed human. Rhys watched the intricacies of her behavior in awe – she was truly a sight to behold.

Technically, I’m not lying.

She loved him – at least, some version of him, or an amalgamation of such. It was enough to solidify that he’d do anything to keep her safe here. Everyone already saw him as the villain. What were a few more months of that soul-rending behavior going to cost him if it meant leaving this godsforsaken place with the woman he could spend the rest of his life with?

The agreement was swift on Feyre’s part, nodding and clarifying the terms of the bargain, knowing what she needed to do and how she needed to spin it to get the most favorable outcome. Rhys once again let that dangerous hope begin to bloom in his chest, sparking strong and bright with the confidence he felt flowing freely through their bond, dampened beneath the dark and fuzzy coat of his glamour as she was led away to the dungeons.

They could pull this off. They could leave here.

Though Rhys had to hold his tongue through hours of Amarantha’s definition of entertainment, it had been worth it to see the fledgling pieces of their plan begin to unfold. Rhys had to, begrudgingly, admit he was impressed with Tamlin; he’d done an almost imperceptible job of acting like he was fighting some sort of attraction to Amarantha. Rhys nearly smiled to see it as Amarantha’s snakelike eyes lit up at the feigned interest while she fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

Perfect .

The attention would be off them just long enough for Rhys to procure every bit of safety that he could for Feyre. As he left the throne room, abandoning Tamlin to whatever the next step of his plan was, he slunk through the darkened halls to the dungeons where he knew she’d be, delving quickly but efficiently into the minds of everyone he encountered along the way to make sure he made it there unseen. He traveled the last bit through the shadows, winnowing directly into her cell and finding her curled on the makeshift bed.

She wasted no time launching herself into his arms as though she’d been counting the seconds. His heart melted a bit to think perhaps she had been.

“I missed you.” The words sounded tight in her throat, and he held her closer.

“I missed you, too. Come, you’re staying in my room.” She went to protest, but he was already winnowing them to the outside of the cell door, approaching the guards and gripping their minds, molding them like putty before they even detected his presence as Feyre shivered beside him.

He grinned like a cat as they winnowed away again into the dark.

+++

Under the soft, satin sheets, he wound his body around hers. The peace was tentative and fragile, but it was all they could ask for in the current circumstances. It had been two weeks since she’d arrived Under the Mountain, but they’d made the most of it, Tamlin abiding by his end of the deal and Rhys all but forgotten and able to keep Feyre safe in his bed at night. Without fail, each morning, she’d arrive back in her cell, no one else the wiser. The first trial would be tomorrow, but they were as ready as they could be.

“I know I can do this. I can beat the wyrm. I’ve done it so many times, it’s almost second nature now.” She tried to laugh with him as he tugged her closer with the arm around her waist.

“Hmm, I know you can. I just hate the idea of watching you in danger. I know you can do it, I just wish you didn’t have to.” She turned, rustling the sheets to look back and up at him, her blue eyes twinkling in the low light. She’d told him of all her experiences with the tasks, and they always made him cringe.

“Soon, we’ll be free of this. We’ll beat her, we’ll beat the curse, we’ll be done with these abhorrent loops, and back in Velaris with our family.” The determination in her voice, the courage, still never failed to nearly knock him over.

“Go over it with me again.”

And she sighed, but she did. The path through the maze that she’d done so often now she could run it in her sleep. The exact path to both flee and find the lair, how she’d stack the bones and make a ladder. She knew that she’d need to sprint while luring it back, using broken bones to swing around the corners, and she even knew when to anticipate it so that she could coax it back on her own. In one of her loops, it had nearly caught her out, only Lucien screaming out at the last minute had saved her, and he’d paid dearly for it.

“I know how to read now, I know the riddle, and I know about Tamlin’s heart. We just need to hold on to each other and be patient, and we will make it out of here.” She pushed up slightly, pushing a kiss to his lips that he ached to deepen, but he held himself back. They both needed their sleep.

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together, Rhys. For real this time.”

“I can’t wait to bring you home. I can’t wait to meet our son.” He breathed in and out behind her, the soft smell of pear and lilac soothing him into sleep as he held her close.

+++

Feyre and Rhys had awoken long before dawn, fleeting touches and hurried kisses exchanged as he fed her as much as he could get away with. He winnowed her back to her cell, glamouring her to look as though she’d been there the entire time and covering their mixed scent, the scent of the bond, and begrudgingly went back to their room.

It would be hours before the trials began, and he was fidgety. The exhaustion cut into him like a knife – to be fair, he and Feyre hadn’t been doing much sleeping. The black shadows of the room seemed to twist and turn with the blurriness of his eyes, the rhythmic crackling of the dying fire’s embers lulling him to sleep against his will. He thought he might lay down for a while, just resting his eyes a bit, before he needed to report to the throne room to watch Feyre bring down the wyrm. He wouldn’t bet on her this time; he feared it would be too obvious with Amarantha, and Rhys wouldn’t risk her finding out about the bond.

Gods only knew what she’d do if she did.

He shrugged off his shirt and sank back into the sheets that still smelled of Feyre. His beautiful Feyre. And before he knew it, he was out cold.

+++

Rhys woke up to darkness, but it wasn’t the familiar darkness of his bed. The sharp smell of patchouli and nutmeg met his nose and turned his stomach within him.

When had he come to Amarantha?

“Rhysand, did you truly think me such a fool?”

And the floor dropped from beneath him as the blindfold was ripped from his eyes.

He tugged his arms, but it was no use as he found they’d been restrained. Her voice was sickly sweet, but he was all too familiar with the vitriol behind that saccharine tone.

“Think I wouldn’t smell her on you? Think I wouldn’t notice your distance with me?” She rounded on him and took his jaw forcibly in her skeletal hand, forcing him to look forward. “Did you think I wouldn’t find your mate under my mountain?” Her eyes were glowing with rage and betrayal and embarrassment, and all Rhys could summon was terror. If she knew, Feyre’s death was imminent. There was no way she’d be leaving here alive.

He refused to speak, wouldn’t give in to her games. If they’d been caught out, then let her kill him. What difference did it make? He’d wake up right here again, not even ten feet away, as though none of it had happened. Something fractured in him, though, even as he thought it, because it would be the end for him and this Feyre.

It was the closest he’d come to joy, to relief, to a future since this nightmare had begun.

Feyre had loved him too, had craved and needed and wanted him with her just as badly. For once, even in a loop with her, he hadn’t been alone. For the first time in almost fifty years, he hadn’t felt the aching despair of loneliness. His heart cleaved in two at the thought. He loved her, this Feyre, and he’d be losing her again. He had no doubt in his mind this one would hurt more than the rest.

“It’s just fine, High Lord of Night ,” she said mockingly, “if you don’t want to talk. We’re past talking now. But you’re going to be a good boy, and open up.” She grabbed his jaw and wrenched it open, ruby nails prying into flesh and bone as she forcibly tipped a small, blue vial into his waiting mouth. The taste was strong, sharp cranberries and cloves and the smell of moss, and she held his nose until he swallowed it.

Had it been poison? Would it at least be quick? He hoped it would be quick for Feyre, too.

She ripped the bindings from his body so that he could freely move, but his body wouldn’t listen to his mind. His control was no longer his own, and his body slumped in defeat.

They’d been so close.

“Now come along, the first trial awaits.” Her eyes flashed maniacally as his body moved forward without his permission. Alarmed as he was, he couldn’t fight it, couldn’t stop his feet from approaching, one in front of the other as he walked behind her like a beaten animal, a pet on a leash through the halls of the mountain until they reached the massive doors of the throne room.

The attor awaited, along with several other of her ghastly guards. Two other figures, burlap sacks over their heads, quivered huddled up by the walls of hewn stone. He knew he was fucked, but he couldn’t even begin to contemplate how bad it was going to be.

Amarantha valued nothing above her power and pride, and to have bested her in both under her very nose, to have embarrassed her so thoroughly, there would be no reprieve. When Amarantha came back around, she pressed a gag into his mouth, grinning excitedly all the while.

“No more charming words from the mouth of the viper, Rhysand. Your tricks have reached their final resting place.” He just closed his eyes, defeat beating wildly through his chest. A twirl of her fingers changed his clothes from the deep darkness of Night to the swirling greens and golds of Spring, and suddenly, as the constricting bag came over his eyes, he knew what she intended to do to him and Feyre.

Feyre. My Feyre.

The only thought that rang through his mind as he heard the heavy doors swing open and the bustle and jeering of the crowd within. Feyre would be expecting the wyrm, she’d prepared for the wyrm, but Rhys knew this was the third task. Amarantha had already had it planned, and would sub him out for Tamlin instead. She would make Feyre kill him, but he knew Feyre wouldn’t walk from here alive either.

The anguish tore him apart, his stomach a writhing mass of nerves as he felt the urge to fall to his knees and cry. He’d lost her so many times now, but this time was different. This time was so much worse.

This was his Feyre. They’d fallen in love. He’d felt hope. She’d shown him a future, their future together. Their child.

If he focused hard enough, he could summon her scent, the deep inhales he took of her hair as they awoke in the mornings. He could feel the warm thrum of her skin beneath his fingers as they explored, moseying along the hills and valleys of her beautiful body as he worshiped her. He could see the bright blue sky of day that he missed so much, the sun shining on the Sidra, if he looked into her eyes long enough. This was his Feyre, his light, his love, his mate. It was the first time he had loved her.

Now, she was going to die.

He could feel the sting of tears beneath the burlap, roughly scratching at his skin as he was shoved forward and down to his knees, the jostling of the fae next to him bumping his shoulder violently.

The sounds of the crowd were changing as Feyre was undoubtedly led in. He tried desperately to warn her. Against all odds, he pushed at the walls of his own mind and into hers as he had so many times before, but they didn’t budge. He tried yanking helplessly on the golden cord wound tightly around his heart, but everything was rendered fuzzy and useless. They were entirely muted in the wake of whatever toxin Amarantha had forced down his throat. He knew Feyre would be looking for him. Would she think he’d willingly abandoned her until she learned the much more painful truth?

“One trial awaits you today. I wonder if it will be worse to fail now, at the start, or to fail all the way at the end—when you are so close. Any words to say before you die?”

“I love you.” Rhys heard the words, knew they were spoken to Tamlin but intended for him. They swam through his veins, warming him like a blanket on a cold night. It might be some of the last words he ever heard, but they were the ones he would choose if given the chance. “No matter what she says about it, no matter if it’s only with my insignificant human heart. Even when they burn my body, I’ll love you.”

He heard it in the way she spoke the words. She’d figured it out when the tasks were wrong. She knew how this would end, too.

“You’ll be lucky, my darling, if we even have enough left of you to burn,” Amarantha purred. Rhys had never wanted someone dead more.

“Get it over with,” Feyre growled.

“Your task, Feyre, is to stab each of these unfortunate souls in the heart. They’re innocent — not that it should matter to you, since it wasn’t a concern the day you killed Tamlin’s poor sentinel. And it wasn’t a concern for dear Jurian when he butchered my sister. But if it’s a problem …well, you can always refuse. Of course, I’ll take your life in exchange, but a bargain’s a bargain, is it not? If you ask me, though, given your history with murdering our kind, I do believe I’m offering you a gift.”

Rhys could almost see the silence, could taste the hesitation as Feyre tried to figure out a loophole – a way around it.

“Well?” Amarantha demanded.

A rustling, then, with a violent flash of light, the bag was ripped from his head. He was glad in that moment, beholding the horror apparent on her face, that he couldn’t feel the bond – it might have broken the very last pieces of him. He sent her the most apologetic look as he could muster through the tears cutting hot tracks down his cheeks. Their eyes locked together, a million words passing through them silently, communicating wordlessly in a language older and stronger than any corrupt magic that Amarantha could summon.

He’d failed them – hadn’t been careful enough, convincing enough. He’d ruined their chances of a future. Their chance to meet their son.

“Did you think, sweet Feyre, you’d be able to hide from me? Think you could take my plaything and make him bow to you and suffer no consequences?” Amarantha’s words were cutting, but Feyre didn’t look at her. Rhys met Feyre’s eyes and held them as tears welled there, the panicked rising and falling of her chest unmissable.

“Love. The answer to the riddle is love. Let him go.” Still, she did not look away from him. Amarantha’s laugh was caustic and cold.

“Oh, no, foolish girl. That was our deal before he betrayed me. I can’t trust your answers now that I know he’s been going behind my back to get to you.” He could see the defeat washing over her, the despair, the horrifying acceptance.

“Did you truly think you’d get away with this?” Amarantha leaned forward on her throne, but neither of them were looking at her anymore.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He willed it towards her with everything in himself, despite the muted, dull gold of the lifeless bond.

“Answer me, Feyre. Did you think you would leave here with him? Live a life together? How precious.” The crowd laughed with her, but Rhys couldn’t find it within himself to care. He couldn’t care about anything but the glow of her cerulean eyes, the hand that had come to caress his jaw. He didn’t fight the urge to lean into it as he closed his eyes.

“ ANSWER ME .” But she wouldn’t.

In a last act of defiance that both Rhys and Feyre knew would be their final contribution, she reached to pull Rhys’s gag away, bending forward to press a feather-soft kiss to his lips as her warm hands caressed the sides of his face. It was chaste, quick, but he felt as though he could see eternity.

“I love you.” Her words were whispered, sweet and quiet, and yet they broke open the yawning chasm of grief within him. “Every version, every time.” He could almost speak, the toxin already burning out of his blood, but the words were still clamped inside. He shut his eyes and nodded, hoping he could convey every last bit of affection he held in his heart for this lovely human woman who had bewitched him entirely.

He closed his eyes and waited for the knife to pierce his chest. He wasn’t afraid of the pain; he’d felt worse, but he was scared of what would happen to Feyre after. He didn’t care about himself, but he’d do anything to spare her from this. With one last press of her lips to his brow as a rattling sob escaped his chest, she whispered quietly enough that only he would hear it.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll be seeing you soon.” His eyes snapped open, but it was already too late, the knife slid into her chest without preamble, the scream frozen on his lips. Horror flushed his veins as she fell to the ground, her heart pumping the last of her precious blood out, out, out onto the stone floor. The crowd was yelling and people were moving, but Rhysand saw none of it, only her.

She’d said she’d loved him in all the loops, and he was beginning to understand her anguish. Would he have to lose every version of her that he fell in love with? Was he doomed to this for the rest of eternity for the sins he’d committed? Was that what he deserved?

Without a moment of hesitation, he pulled the dagger from her chest, cradling it in his hands as her still-warm blood coated them. He could move of his own accord now, too late, but what was the point?

He heard Amarantha’s distant screams as he wordlessly raised it and pulled it across his own throat.

#feysand #feysand timeloop #feysand hivemind #time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)#acotar fic #feysand fic #feyre and rhysand

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