the-lonelybarricade

[the-lonelybarricade]

always in this twilight

Read on AO3

Chapter 2: Holding Out for a Hero

Prompt: "Get up, this is no place to die."

Summary: Suffering from Amarantha's wrath Under the Mountain, Rhys remembers he has important reasons to stay.

Some violence and description of a wound in this one.

Second story for @climbthemountain2020 and our 13 days of Feysand!!! Love you friend and hope you enjoy. More UTM angst for all!

Read on AO3 or under the cut.

Rhysand was bleeding out in the corner.

The din of the party in Amarantha’s throne room seemed far away. Laughter and screaming muffled, the clinking of glass, the smell of fire and cooking meat: all muted as his blood dripped out onto the marble.

It barely showed up on the deep veins of red.

It would be easy, he thought for just the slip of a moment, to stop fighting it.

Only the gods could divine what had set the Queen of the Mountain off tonight - too little sleep, bad news from her spies, or just too much salt in her soup at dinner. But he had said a flippant word and her sharpened claws had raked across his neck in a flurry of pain.

As quickly as he had fallen, she had made a disgusted motion and strong arms had lifted him and tossed him aside.

Not taken him back to his room, or to a healer. Just far enough away to not disgust, close enough to remain as a plaything.

He needed to do…something. He just couldn’t think of what. His head lolled to the side, the strength in his muscles giving out. The floor spun. The noise of the band became an incessant insect buzz in his brain.

And then - lilacs and pears, just a hint of sweetness under the smell of human - sweat and salt and flesh.

Feyre.

His eyes shot open.

She looked too pale in her lemon-yellow gown, the cast of the fabric making her greenish.

I’ll have to talk to the twins about her coloring, he thought.

The foolish girl had wandered close to him, knuckles white on a goblet of wine.

-Rhys? He - always with a pathway open to her mind - heard her whisper to him in her head, like a child with a secret.

-I can hear you, he answered.

Her little gasp would be heard across the room. It would be amusing, how openly the humans wore their reactions, if it wasn’t going to get her killed.

-You shouldn’t be here.

-Okay. But…can I help?

-I’m surprised you’re not here to finish the job.

She was so close he could hear the sound of the little hairs on her arms standing up on end.

-Maybe I should. Maybe I should force a bargain out of you for my services.

-You always were a quick study, darling.

Eyes from the area of the throne had already seen them. He could sense the interest like little flashes of light in his vision. His breath was getting shallow, harsh rasps rattling in his lungs.

-I’m…having trouble accessing my magic. She might have blocked me from using most of it.

Feyre was silent a long while. They stared ahead, watching the party, pretending he wasn’t bleeding out beside her.

-I don’t think I can help with that. But I could help staunch the bleeding.

-Do not touch me. Don’t take even a step closer.

Feyre froze, surprised at the strength of his command.

-She’s already seen you over here. She wouldn’t want anyone interfering in her work.

Feyre stood statue-still, holding the glass of wine in front of her like an offering. Apparently, she wasn’t in the mood to banter tonight.

Probably for the best. It had a rousing effect, at first, but Rhys found he was lacking the energy to really give it a proper go.

-So I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you die?

Swallowing was difficult. And what was worse, he felt like his muscles were about to give out completely, and he would slump inelegantly to the floor in front of her.

-Amarantha could take pity on me. Or she could forget about me before I’m completely gone.

If he was gone, that meant the protective wards around his city were too. It would mean a new High Lord of Night, and some malicious line of Kier’s being handed the keys to the kingdom -

-Seems a stupid way to go. Especially after all your hard work scheming.

Rhys gurgled a sound. It was supposed to be a laugh.

-You’re right though. If you were gone, maybe I’d finally get a full night’s sleep.

If he was gone, someone else would want her for a plaything. A frozen chill shuddered down his bones.

Reaching for his power, Rhysand willed his fingers into a fist. Felt for the bite of his nails on skin. Something to ground him back to the room.

-You’re not even going to try to put pressure on the wound?

He pulled inside - reached for the power in his blood, so weakened but still a part of him, like his joints and bones. Somewhere, somewhere…

“Rhysand!”

Amarantha’s voice, shrill with laughter, cut across the crowd.

“Is your pet coming to mourn you? To whimper at your feet? How absolutely diabolical.”

With a careless wave of her hand, he felt his power return to him, gasping as his wounds began to shut.

The Queen smiled, not bothering to get up from her throne. “I forget sometimes how good you are at putting the rabble to heel. Just be sure not to annoy me again.”

“Yes, my Queen.” His voice was a graveled rasp in his throat.

She turned away, enraptured by a roast pig that had just been brought out, the two of them in the corner utterly forgotten.

He felt the life twitch back into his fingers, his toes. The wound was sealing shut, the bleeding blanched.

-Do you think we can -?

-Yes, she’s done her worst. Come here.

He was probably in little condition to winnow, but he wasn’t going to spend another minute soaking in his own blood in this cesspool. And the little indignant inhale Feyre gave at the direct order was rather invigorating.

She put her hand upon his shoulder and he closed his eyes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Back in her cell, the putrid smells of rot and fear helped bring him back into his body rather quickly. He found his footing, looking down to see Feyre watching him with wide eyes.

Her curiosity was unnerving and he was far too raw, pulled back from the brink of death, to be so close to her.

“Glad to see me still breathing? Feyre, I didn’t know that you cared.”

The frown pulled at the dark circles under her eyes. “It had nothing to do with you. Excuse me if I’m not happy with watching people casually dying in a crowded room.”

“It’s that soft human heart. It’s going to get you killed. It nearly did tonight.”

“Well so did your fae one!” she shouted, her face growing red. “So I don’t see how one is any better than the other.”

Rhys took a steadying breath. It was good to see the fight in her. Her cheeks were flush, her freckles dark, and her eyes cut through him.

He took a step back.

“Thank you. For helping me.”

He had to get out of here before his mouth started running.

Her eyes went wide. “I didn’t do anything.”

“But you would have.”

Feyre swallowed. “Are you thankful enough to release me from the bargain?”

“I’m afraid not.” He smiled, the room slowly fading into shadow. “Next time, negotiate for it up front, darling.”

[the-lonelybarricade]

mother's home 🌠🌠

[the-lonelybarricade]

LB have you seen the feysand fanart by @ catdrawsl on instagram???

They look so good!! Rhys has the perfect "this is my wife and if you touch her I'll kill you" expression

[the-lonelybarricade]

“Don't forget that Feyre's been told that all of the men with access to the palace are either the High Lord's kin or are eunuchs. I'm sure that won't lead to any misunderstandings.”

oh, no. That would be just terrible. Imagine if they somehow got stuck in a tiny cramped closet, bodies pressed together, all curves and hard planes and a very noticeable, uh, bulge where eunuchs typically lack them…

He must have something in his pocket. Maybe a frog?

[the-lonelybarricade]

What do you headcanon as Rhysand’s drinking preferences?

In my fics I always default to whiskey - in the books SJM always refers to him drinking an "amber liquid" that's stored in a decanter, which I just assume is supposed to be whiskey or brandy or some ambiguous fae equivalent

Either that or wine, which he and the Inner Circle are constantly drinking throughout the books.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Quick, someone stop me before I build a functional card game into the Queen of Thieves lore

[the-lonelybarricade]

Torn between writing Rhys (respectful, gentle, would lay down in a puddle so that his wife can keep her feet dry) or Rhys (enthusiastic war criminal)

[the-lonelybarricade]

Feysand | Ao3 | One-Shot (for now)

After the second trial, the mating bond unexpectedly snaps for Rhys in the dungeons.

Happy Leo Season to my bestie @popjunkie42! I'm so glad we decided to be literally insane this spring and ask the question "What if we literally did something Feysand for every day of the first half of August like lunatics?" I love you, and I can't wait for our next trip to stare longingly into each other's eyes while sharing avocado toast again <3

I listened to him, let him keep me tethered to sanity as I was escorted back to my cell by the guards—who still kept their distance. Rhysand’s words echoed through my mind, holding me together. But when my cell door closed, he went silent, and I dropped to the floor and wept.

I’d cried for hours, nothing but the feel of the cold stone settling beneath my body to ground me, and even that did almost nothing anymore. The tears didn’t stop, not when my face was raw, my teeth chattering, my legs numb. They came in steady streams, cutting hot lines down my face and tracking into the hollow of my throat. I didn’t bother to wipe them away.

What did it matter? What did any of this matter?

My life was forfeit anyway. Amarantha had no idea how close she’d come to winning tonight—she had won. Tamlin had watched, eyes wide open and body unmoving, as Lucien and I were almost killed. Whatever part of me had thought that he just needed motivation—that certainly , if he worried enough for my life, he would come around—was dead in my chest. 

I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. Had anyone ever loved me? Put me first? If I’d been the one captured here, would anyone have ever come?

The cries strangled in my throat, a garbled sound coming out unbidden at the thought. 

Pathetic.

Still, I sunk my face into my hands, letting the grief consume me. I’d come here for him, and I’d die here for it. He couldn’t even be bothered to speak my name. The reasons I’d had for coming here seemed to evaporate, each straying just out of reach as I tried to grasp and hold them close. I thought I’d loved him. I laughed at myself harshly—it sounded threadbare. I didn’t know what love was. I wouldn’t have recognized love if it had taken my hand in its own.

I felt the moment the air changed, Rhysand’s presence so obvious to me even in the smothering dark. I didn’t want to run from it. I wanted to lean into the void—see how far and deep it went. See if it might swallow me whole and save us all the trouble.

“Go away.” I still muttered the words, but there was nothing behind them. They emerged flat and lifeless, falling onto the floor between us. I didn’t look at him.

“Now, now,” came his smug and chiding response, though I thought I sensed the slightest hesitation in his words. Perhaps it was my loss of common sense. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“You’ve just won your second task, Feyre. There’s no need for tears.” 

I scoffed, but the sound felt hollow. Everything felt hollow. I didn’t want to spar with him, didn’t have the energy to send scathing comments his way. What better position was he than I? Sleeping in that monster’s bed each night. For the first time since I saw him in the Spring manor, it wasn’t hate I felt for him, but a splash of appalling pity. Surely, I’d hit rock bottom if I was commiserating with the pampered High Lord of Night.

In another life, I might have been disgusted. But in this one, I was just tired. I simply lay my temple to my knee and closed my eyes, the hot tears spilling down my leg. When he gripped my wrists, I didn’t fight him, didn’t even pull back. And when I felt his breath fan across my face, I let it happen, inhaling slowly. He smelled…warm. It was strange and lovely, jasmine and wine and something that smelled like the days when the winds would rip across the woods of my village.

It took me a moment to realize that he’d licked a tear from my face, a stripe of wet heat across my skin in the frigid cell. I pulled back, not quickly, and looked at him waiting with a smirk playing on his lips. But then, while my gaze settled into his, a piece fitting into a slot, it was as though he’d been punched. Twilight eyes wide and horrified, Rhysand’s hand gripped his chest. It was enough to make me straighten my spine.

“Rhysand…”

But then I felt it, something strange crawling up my chest, up my throat. The emotion choked me, horror and fear and confusion and…adoration? The feelings were strong, so violent that they whirled around inside me and took pieces of me with them. It rushed through my ribs, down my spine, clearing out parts of me and setting them down somewhere else. When my eyes met his, I somehow understood that the feelings weren’t my own. My exhale was sharp, and Rhysand looked stunned enough that the breath might have blown him over. He was still so close to me, the warmth of his body physical against my prickled skin. 

He looked wild, feral, his breath heaving as he scanned every inch of my face. Then, my chest caved inward. The air gasped into me, sawing back out as the pressure on my chest intensified to blinding levels. Had he been sent to kill me? Was this how it ended?

“What is—what’s happening?” But I didn’t get a response. “Are you here to kill me?” Even through the panic, I was struck by how tired my voice sounded. His brows furrowed, his movements twitchy and strange against the elegance he normally held. The twinkling darkness exploded around us as though he couldn’t control it anymore, and a strangled sound ripped out of Rhysand in the dark before it embraced us both, pulling and tugging and ripping the very fabric of me until the air changed around us.

My eyes opened, and I was no longer on the ground. Instead, I could feel fabric brushing against my skin, a murmur of lips against my hair as I came back into myself. It took me a moment to adjust, the low light of scattered sconces bathing this new room in a soft glow. A fire in the hearth. The smell of food in the air. The scratch of embroidery against my cold and dirty skin. Rhysand’s warm arms banded around me. Searing. Good.

Instinct told me to scramble away, that I shouldn’t be so close, but something in me felt so brutally settled, so intimately soothed, in his arms. The pain in my chest had dulled to a steady but quiet thrum, the feelings swirling in my mind back to being my own. I felt a curious sense of loss. Had he lost control of his magic? Had the bargain somehow pushed us together when he’d gotten close?

It didn’t matter, none of it did. 

It felt good to be held.

“Feyre.” My name was a whisper on his tongue speared directly into my veins. I’d never felt such startling clarity in a moment, such a strangely vivid feeling of being outside myself looking in. “Feyre,” he whispered again—a hymnal, a prayer. It was such a departure from our normal nature, but it didn’t feel wrong at all.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer, his arms pulling tighter, my body easing into his. What did it mean that I didn’t want him to let me go? I hated him. I—

It was the first time I’d felt good in as long as I could remember. Oddly, the first time I’d felt safe. The notion was ridiculous.

Suddenly, we were moving, his body cradling mine as he stood, long, graceful legs carrying us across the room. A door opened, candles flickered to life, and the sound of water filled my ears. I wanted to ask why he was filling a bath for me—if he planned to drown me. If he wanted me dead, he could do it within my mind, save himself the wetted sleeves.

At the thought, he seemed to hold me tighter to him, arms strangling like vines around me—like he couldn’t pull me tightly enough. If he was going to end my life, at least I would know this comfort at the end. I thought, in all my days of hunting, I’d never seen a predator soothe their prey before consuming it whole. 

I could feel his lungs expanding beneath my cheek, chest pressed tight to my face. Could hear the pounding of his heart. I tried to sync my beats to his, focus on the warmth of him, the foreign but strangely settled feeling of being cared for. It was wrong, but I wanted the comfort of it. I craved it on some level that felt beyond consciousness, beyond sense. My muscles were coiled tight, something bordering painful still twisted around the bones of me, but it seemed to vibrate with every synced breath the two of us took.

He set me down gently, and my body screamed in protest at the distance. He reacted like he’d heard it, fingers lingering long past what was appropriate, holding on to touch an elbow, a shoulder, as though he couldn’t bear to let entirely go. What had happened to us? This was not my enemy, and somehow, that was more concerning than anything else.

When I lifted my gaze to look upon the male I’d have sworn just hours ago I hated, my breath caught along my throat in a jagged line, tearing out of me like I’d never seen him before. His hair was wild, an onyx halo around him, tufted up in places. Those eyes of indigo were wild, wide, open and without an inkling of the smugness I’d come to expect. In fact, every bit of him looked so honest and broken open, I almost swore I could see inside . 

There was a tug to him, a need to keep him close that I’d never felt before. Not with him, not with Isaac, not with Tamlin. Not with anyone. I felt as though I might scream if he wasn’t close, like if he left my sight for even a moment, the mountain might come crumbling around us.

“The bath. It’s for you.” His words were stunted, stuttered. For the first time since I’d met him, the High Lord seemed unsure. But I couldn’t think over the swell of emotions inside of me. I yearned to feel clean—the hot water and steam and oils so inviting I could nearly cry with the feeling. But the want to be close to him, to stay with him, seemed to override all else. He stepped back, and a whine crawled up my throat. The sound had hardly hit air, but Rhysand had frozen stock still in the doorway, his fae ears probably hearing it like a scream.

“Don’t go.” The words were out before I could stop them. I vacantly thought I might hate myself for it, but I needed him to stay. He had to stay.

He hesitated, eyes squeezed shut, pausing for just the smallest moment before turning back as though some quiet decision had been made. He took a step back towards me, fists clenching and unclenching again, skin white over the knuckles. He spun on his heel to face the door, his fingers tugging wildly through strands of inky black hair then settling in a death grip on the door frame. I could feel him coming undone, and it comforted me, oddly enough. 

“Undress, and get in.” It was a plea, spoken softly through gritted teeth. I moved, shuffling out of the rags on my body and letting them fall to the floor. I was embarrassed by the pile of them at my feet, nothing but horrid strands of cloth telling the story of what I’d seen since I arrived. I’m sure I didn’t look much better. There was a mirror back over the sink, but to see it, I’d have to walk past him. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see myself that badly anyway.

Rhys was so still it felt otherworldly, unnatural. My eyes rested on his back while I leaned down to graze my fingers across the surface of the water, so warm that my skin pebbled in reactivity. I could feel the tightness of his chest, the tense hold of his shoulders. I knew without any explanation how hard he was holding back from looking. He wanted to see me, and I knew it with such a clarity that it felt like a thought of my own.

Who was the last to see me so bared? Tamlin? Something about the thought of him felt twisted, wrong. I had given Tamlin everything, and in return, he’d given me silence. Tamlin had no place here in this room, humid with steam and notes of tea like my father once brought back from the continent, heavy and spiced.

When my legs hit the water, I shuddered, the heat enveloping me. I wanted to wash the sweat and fear and crumbling stone from the dungeons off my skin. I wanted to scrub away the failure, the shortcomings, the humanity of me, until I felt nothing but the ache of raw skin. I sunk in until the lapping surface covered my chest, smoothing hands up and down my arms.

Still, Rhysand waited, preternaturally still, his back to me. I felt suddenly, achingly alone.

“You can turn around.” The words were a whispered permission, a quiet acquiesce. I wasn’t sure where this sudden change of heart had come from, perhaps the idea that we were both idiots caught in a trap here. Neither of us wanted to be here. At least he might survive.

I closed my eyes, laying my head back as my body floated beneath the bubbles. He was close to me, though he moved without sound. His presence was all-encompassing, consuming, that strange sparkling night of him comforting rather than frightening as it pulsed beside me, within me. 

He didn’t speak. There were no quiet remarks, sharp on his tongue—no prodding or poking to rile me up enough to respond. He simply sat by the tub, our thoughts loud and our bodies closer than ever. There was no fae wine to dull the sensations, to pull a curtain across these memories tomorrow. There was just him beside me, close enough to feel his breath.

When he moved, I felt it, the darkness ebbing and thrumming around us, and I cracked open my eyes. He offered out a muslin cloth to me over the water, no tricks on his face, no challenge offered. His fingers were inches from my skin, jaw tight, and eyes fixed so steadfastly on my face that I wondered if he thought he might turn to stone if his gaze strayed. But I wanted it to stray. Some part of me, some loud part, wanted him to see me. Wanted him to want me. I could feel that he did.

So, instead, I held his gaze in mine, turning my head slowly to the side and exposing my neck. It was quiet, more submission than I’d ever showed to him, perhaps to anyone, and the effect was immediate. His sharp intake of breath exploded in my own chest, the world collapsing in his eyes. Then, almost painfully slowly, he dipped the cloth beneath the water and drew it up softly to press against my neck.

His eyes focused on my skin and my eyes focused on him as he moved it softly, purposefully over me. He worked in silence, and I watched, the movements unhurried and reverential, steady and quiet, only our breathing and some unearthly tension coiled tighter than a spring between us. For once, I wasn’t focused on survival. For once, I remembered what it felt like to just exist. 

It was so strange to be cared for, the gentleness and comfort such a contrast not only against the life I’d been living, but from what I’d come to expect from him, too. He washed every exposed part of me, methodically dipping the cloth into the water in between. Only when he finished did his eyes meet mine again.

When I was out in the woods, hunting for food for my family, I would sometimes come home late just to see the night sky. Especially in winter, the sharpness of the stars stole my breath away. I could never explain it, the call that I felt when it was just me and the constellations and the wide open sky. But I felt it now.

Those galaxies in his eyes were blown open as Rhysand reached beneath the water and stayed there, his movements agonizingly slow as he brushed the cloth over my skin. I didn’t flinch, just gave him a nearly imperceptible nod when he hesitated. And then, I closed my eyes. 

The feeling that exploded across my ribs was something like humility, something like awe. There was no doubt in my mind that I was feeling him, either through the bargain or through some other means. And when I heard his voice, not in my ears but in my mind, whisper Feyre like a devotion, I thought nothing had ever sounded so beautiful.

There was nothing sexual about his touch, though it moved gently over my breasts, cleaned across my stomach and between my legs. But I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so close to anyone. The feelings carried as he washed me in silence, the intimacy of it so overwhelming that I wasn’t sure when I’d begun to cry again. I noticed when he wiped a tear, with the tip of his finger this time, from the peak of my nose. Could he feel me too? Was there any way for him to know that, against all odds, these tears were the result of feeling safe? Of feeling true comfort?

It was over too soon, his throat clearing as my head lolled against the porcelain edge of the tub. 

“There are towels. Come out when you’re ready, and I’ll be there.” It was a voice I didn’t recognize on him, soft and low, quiet and lacking the unrelenting snark I’d grown accustomed to. It was both unfamiliar and, at the same time, a voice I felt I’d known all of my life. What had happened between us tonight? What had changed?

The door clicked quietly closed behind him, his footfalls silent as he moved away and a strong ache resounding in my chest as he did. I dipped my hair beneath the water, running my fingers through the knots patiently, though the water was cooling. I stepped out, my body already searching for the presence of his. The towels were soft, lush against my skin as I took my time, the gift of being clean one I’d never take for granted.

I wrapped the towel around me, no replacement clothes as mine still lay in dirty tatters on the floor. Instead, I crept from the bathroom, finding Rhysand sitting with his head in his hands on the side of the bed. It was as though he hadn’t heard me, didn’t notice me there, and for a moment, he looked more human than fae. His shoulders were hunched, curved inwards in a way I’d never seen. For his enormous stature, he looked…almost small. And a part of me ached so desperately to comfort him that I stepped forward.

His spine straightened as the floor creaked, eyes on me like an animal caught in a trap, then flashing to the towel. They were rimmed in red, and if I didn’t know better, I might have thought he’d been crying.

“There’s food. I brought food.” He gestured to the table where a bowl of stew sat. I hadn’t had anything warm in….how long had it even been? I wondered vacantly back to when I’d thought eating the food given to me by a fae would trap me forever. It hadn’t been true, and I was already trapped. Still, a very quiet voice in the back of my consciousness wondered if there was a reason accepting food from Rhysand felt different…right. I moved toward the table, only feet away from him as he ran a hand through wild hair. He grabbed at the pile of clothes folded beside him as though just remembering they existed. This was not the male I knew. 

“And new clothes for you. What I had and could find.” He held them out and I took them, new pants and underthings and a linen shirt that smelled like him.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, and he turned away, scrubbing a hand over his mouth but not answering as I let the towel drop to put on the clothes. They were painfully soft, so gentle against my skin that I nearly cried. The smell of him was so heavy that my eyelids fluttered while I inhaled greedily, sliding into the seat and taking in the bowl and fresh bread in front of me. The first bite was like pure pleasure, the hearty broth warming yet another place inside me that hadn’t seen the sun in months. I relished it as it slid down my throat.

He hadn’t spoken, still stood with his back turned, so I tried a different way.

“Why do I want you so close to me?” Even though my words were quiet, I could tell they’d hit, his back stiffening as he turned. His face worked, jaw tensing and brow furrowed. He looked as though he wanted to say something, words ready and pressed just behind his lips, fighting and failing to break free. Instead, he crossed the space in two strides, pulling the opposite chair to sit in front of me, our knees nearly touching.

“Things will be different now.” As if I hadn’t known that. As if I could ever go back after tonight, after whatever I could feel pulsing between us.

“Tell me why.” It was a demand, but his shoulders dropped.

“I can’t,” he responded. Oddly, I believed him, detecting no lies in his words. I ate another spoonful, then another, my eyes on him. His gaze tracked the movement of my throat as I swallowed. 

“You’re different,” I observed aloud after a moment, though the silence between us was not uncomfortable.

There was a whisper of a smirk on his lips, plush and perfect despite the anguish written into the lines of the rest of his face. With a small shrug of a single shoulder, he let those twilight eyes meet mine again. 

“Everything’s changed.” There was an apology in his eyes, something broken there, fractured. I felt it, too, rattling in my chest like something had clattered loose and was falling, falling, falling. Unable to be put back in place ever again. But he was right, and I could feel it: Everything was changed.

“Rhysand…” I whispered, a question, but something else, too. Something like an understanding.

“Please call me Rhys,” he responded, that quiet voice fluttering through me lightly like the wings of a moth, soft and gentle and so unlike him. And yet…so undeniably Rhysand. 

Rhys.

I finished my soup in silence, then after a few moments, he stood slowly, like he was holding the weight of the entire mountain upon his back.

“I have to bring you back.” I’d never heard a voice filled with such regret, such sorrow. I just nodded, standing and holding my hand out for his. I wanted him to take it, wanted to feel his calloused fingers against mine. The magical air between us felt as flimsy as a cloud, like any sudden movement would break it, and it would be like tonight had never happened at all. But when he took my hand, it was steady, strong. I could feel his heartbeat in his fingers, matching pace with mine. It was an olive branch, a promise, something that neither of us really had the words to explain. But it whispered that tonight had happened, it had been real.

I expected the winnow straight away, but was surprised when he pulled me to his chest again instead. The weight of him was grounding, the warmth and smell and sturdiness of his chest against me and his arms on my back so poignant that it stole the breath from my lungs. The feelings swimming in my chest told me that it wasn’t just me, and when my arms closed behind his back, his body slumped in relief against mine. It felt natural—it felt like home.

“I am so, so sorry, Feyre.” The words landed like blows, one after the other, as his head rested on mine. I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to. “But I promise you, I will do everything I can to get you out of here alive.” I felt the press of his lips against my temple, and for just a moment, I imagined them pressed to my mouth.

No one had promised me help. No one had dared to hope for it, let alone speak it. It was a support, a hand in the dark. It was something like trust.

Before I could respond, we were tumbling through that familiar and comforting dark, the rush of a roaring river and the salty wind of the sea barreling around us before the stagnant, humid cold of the dungeons surrounded us once more. Tears were already prickling my eyes when I stepped back and turned away. I didn’t want to shatter the magic, didn’t want him to see. 

I didn’t have to worry. The second I stepped back, he was gone. The emptiness of my cell was exactly how I remembered, cold and dark and fathomless. Full of nothing but my own suffocating sense of loss. Except, now, there was a spark. Something quiet and softly blooming in my chest that hadn’t been there before. Something like hope.

I stepped back to find my pallet, easing myself down and almost jumping in shock to find a fully stuffed mattress beneath my hands. I looked down and saw only straw. Still, I knew what I felt, my hand passing oddly through the material. I felt blindly around what my eyes told me was coarse hay, only to feel plush down and blankets that I couldn’t see. In looking down, I noticed my clothes too, back to the rags I was so familiar with, riddled with holes and grime and blood and tears. But on my skin, they were still the soft muslin of Rhys’s shirt. I could still smell the spice and the sea.

I laid down on the bed, pulling the invisible blanket, soft as a lamb, over my shoulder and closing my eyes. I nearly jumped when I heard his voice in my mind.

Sleep, Feyre. The guards won’t be bothering you anymore.

My heart thudded with the presence of him, the urge to thank him writhing inside me. I wonder if he could hear me, too.

The pulse of the bargain was bright and strong inside my chest, stirring and swirling with the beats of my heart, echoing strangely as though another pulse joined them, too.

Rhys…

I thought the name, and the light inside me flared.

[the-lonelybarricade]

always in this twilight

Chapter One on AO3

A series of short Feysand ficlets and drabbles as a gift to @climbthemountain2020!!! I love you so much and we should plan projects together always.

We'll be alternating releasing a short fic or fanart everyday through August 13th!

Thank you to @temperedink and @lady-bluebird-luv for the beta reads and ideas!

I've been working on these short stories for a while and I LOVE writing them. It's very freeing, especially when I get stuck on other things. Six chapters will range from canon divergences to different AUs and were inspired by either tumblr prompts or ideas from friends. I'll update tags as I go.

Chapter One: the devil you know

Prompt: Someone’s been kidnapped. When their rescuer shows up, it’s the last person they expected.

Read on AO3 or under the cut!

It wasn’t bad enough that she had been kidnapped.

What made it worse was that Tamlin was right.

Within an hour of Feyre slipping the two sentinels sent to accompany her on a ride through the forest, her horse had spooked and she fell onto her tailbone, hard.

There was no mistaking the intentions of the five fae that had stepped out of the brush as she sat up. They came prepared, with rope and knives.

Now they were debating what to do with her as she worked the rope tied tightly around her wrists up to her elbows, stashed away in a little cave off the main road.

“We’d have her to Hybern by now if it wasn’t for this.” One of them kicked at her, only to be repelled by an invisible shield.

“Would you quit using his name? The forest has ears.”

“If we can get a knife through that thing, we could slit her throat and just bring her body back. I’m sure he’d give us at least half.”

It was hard to feel afraid when she was so frustrated at being caught.

Feyre wasn’t sure how she had conjured the shield, or how long it would last. What she did know was that she had been missing for nearly three hours now and Tamlin was going to tear through these fools with his teeth.

And then she was really going to hear it. The cave, the smell of the coming storm, the faces of these dead men - she might as well enjoy it, because she was never leaving the manor ever again.

Kicking her feet against the scree, Feyre pushed her body further back onto the sharp rock and away from her captors. The stench of sweat and panic was beginning to waft through even her protective shield.

Am I really more worried about going back to the manor than I am being kidnapped by Hybern spies?

Hot tears stung her eyes, even as she bit the flesh on the inside of her cheek to keep them from falling.

I just want to be far away from here.

“There has to be a weakness on this thing somewhere. She can’t hold it forever…”

“Wait, did you hear something?”

Feyre braced herself.

She knew how this went - the snarling teeth, the violence, the golden fur and the searing emerald eyes.

She could almost feel bad for them, if only -

“What the fuck?”

Darkness bloomed in front of her eyes, just as quick as the terror entering her heart.

What the fuck?

There were screams and the scraping of rock and then - silence.

Feyre blinked into the sunlight, the darkness snapping back as quickly as a pulled curtain.

“Are you serious?”

He was standing there - immaculate in black as if he had just come from a ball, a deepening frown etching lines onto his perfect face.

“Hello, darling.”

Rhysand held out a hand bent at the wrist, five full grown fae frozen in sickening contortions under his power. His eyes never left her. Darkness curled around his shoulders like twisting serpents.

“So you’re just sitting in my head all the time? Or are one of your spies following me like shadows?”

Rhysand tilted his head to the side, the frown so deep it looked comical, like he was a child about to burst into a tantrum. “I can’t believe you’re arguing with me when I’m here to rescue you. Wait -” a hand flew to pinch the bridge of his nose, “nevermind. I absolutely can believe you’re angry at me for foiling your kidnapping.”

“Tamlin would have taken care of it.”

“Yes, history has taught me to wait around for Tamlin to act.” With a frustrated sigh he flicked his wrist and the fae disappeared into nothing.

Feyre gaped. “What did you do to them?”

“Nothing good. Now would you like to come to my dungeons with me and see, or should I drop you back off at your manor?”

Feyre frowned, breathing heavy through her nose. She was aware her arms were still bound behind her back and she had conjured an invisible shield she had no idea how to control.

The smallest twitch of a smile appeared in the corner of his mouth. Why did he have to look so perfect when she was always like this, covered in mud and some of her own blood?

“Just take a deep breath and -”

“I truly do not want your help.”

She wondered if he really needed the dramatic hand movements as he smashed through her shield with a blink. With another motion he beckoned her closer, her body floating to him on a cold wave of air.

Suddenly he was so close she could scent him - clean and cold like winter and the sea. So different from everything here that smelled of Spring.

Her eyes flickered to his lips. He smiled.

“You do know,” he asked, his voice going low, “that others do not have a High Lord at their beck and call? Much less two?”

His breath ghosted over her mouth. Feyre struggled against her restraints.

“If I can call you whenever, does that mean I can tell you to go away?”

Rhys continued to hold her in the air, her feet kicking air uselessly. His smile grew wicked. “Would you like help with your restraints? I could just drop you on Tamlin’s doorstep like this.” His face turned sour. “Ugh, no. The thought is too sickening.”

Feyre frowned. “Why don’t you stop bothering me and go back to your dungeons and torture those fae, or whatever you do for fun?”

All at once the sharp tang of magic, which she still wasn’t used to, coated her tongue. The bindings around her arms released and Rhysand’s hand was on her shoulder, as they stepped through a tear in the world.

When they reappeared at the outer gates of the Spring Court manor, Feyre reeled on her feet, the blood rushing back to her head.

Rhysand looked down his nose at her in disgust. “You know, you could have taken them on. All five of them. If you were able to control the power at your disposal.”

She closed her eyes. Let her hands reach out for balance. Felt the stones under her feet.

Home. I’m home. I’m safe now.

So why wasn’t she running for the door?

Feyre opened her eyes, and her mouth - until Rhys put up a defensive hand.

“I know, I know. You’d rather spit in my face than accept the help I’m offering. Just consider that it still stands.” He sighed and straightened his jacket. “Well, off with you then. And next time can you try to slip your sentries in a more…populated location?”

She swallowed, her mouth full of sand and a bit back retort. “You’re not going to tell Tamlin what happened?”

Rhys scoffed. “I barely have the energy after five minutes of fending off your barbed tongue. Tell him whatever you wish.” He smiled, the sharpness of his canines shining in the sunlight. “It will be our little secret.”

“Next time, don’t bother.”

“You know Feyre,” he said, fading into the shadows, “I think that I will.”

[the-lonelybarricade]

[the-lonelybarricade]

What Do You Know About Love? - (8/?)

Summary: When Elain discovers a centuries old love letter, written in secret and never sent, she decides that she's going to be the one to finally deliver it. Even if finding its intended recipient means going on a mission with Lucien Vanserra. Set post ACoSF.

Chapter 8 - A Not Admitting of the Wound

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter・Series Masterlist

-

Elain's first thought upon seeing the Day Court's Great Library was that it should never be shown to Nesta.

If her older sister were to glimpse the floor-to-ceiling shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls, there was a risk they would never see her again. Though Elain didn't suspect that the scholars, scurrying to-and-fro with their maude robes trailing behind, kept much in the way of erotic fiction.

From the outside, Elain had mistaken the lavish, multi-tiered building as another of Helion's palaces. It was certainly grand enough to be a High Lord's residence, with its carved, multicolored columns thicker than tree trunks and great marble statues that left her marveling at how an artist could manage to make stone appear so soft and fluid. Her father had been a carver, and wood was a far more malleable medium, yet his creations never seemed to capture the same amount of motion and texture.

Was it magic? Or simply artistry in its purest form, honed by centuries of dedication to the craft?

She was awestruck before she'd even made it past the fortified wall that surrounded the Great Library. Its entrance was positioned at the top of a hill just off the harbor, which aided the scholars' unending conquest for Knowledge by providing scrolls from every port on the charted maps. It also subjected all who entered to scrutiny. Helion and his scholars considered themselves purveyors of Knowledge, and they did not grant its access to any person fresh off the docks.

A beaked faerie guarded the entrance, his bird-like eyes narrowing on Elain at her approach. "State your business," he said, thrumming his taloned fingers impatiently against a thin piece of wood he clutched in his right hand.

"Oh, um." She was slightly taken aback by how normal the faerie sounded. A human voice, coming out of a bird's beak. "I'm Elain Archeron. Helion Spell-Cleaver permitted me to enter his libraries."

The male grumbled and withdrew a long feather from some inner pocket of his robe—perhaps he plucked it from his very body. When his golden beak split open to reveal a snaking black tongue, Elain thought for a dreadful moment he was about to attempt to eat her the way she'd always heard about in the children's rhymes. But then he merely slicked his tongue along the tip of the feather, coating it in dark saliva, and she realized with fascination that he was using it as ink to scrawl a note upon the parchment clipped to the wood.

After he finished scribbling what appeared to be a furious letter, the parchment disappeared in a puff of sandalwood-scented smoke.

"And what knowledge do you seek, Lady?" He asked, looking up from the board.

"I'm— uh…" Did she feed this male the same lie she had given Helion? That she was illiterate and simply there to admire the architecture? Pinned beneath the scholar's shrewd eyes, she had the forboding sense he would be able to discern any lie spoken at these gates. With a swallow, she said, "I'm trying to learn more about the history of celebrations in the Day Court. How holidays are celebrated now compared to how they were celebrated three hundred years ago."

"Much the same," the scholar replied blandly.

"Oh, there must have been changes over time, surely," Elain protested. "Even things that may seem mundane—the guests who attend them, the drinks that are served, things like that. Do you think I'd be able to find that information here?"

The scholar looked offended. "Of course," he said, his beak clacking in irritation. "We keep an extensive record of all court events, including the ones of the more intimate variety." He coughed. "Documenting such relations allows us to track lineages and validate claims of ancestry."

Elain's brows rose. A record of everyone who'd ever publicly coupled during a Haelia celebration would be a perfect place to start.

"Do you allow… anyone to access those records?"

"Only those with explicit permission from the High Lord."

That might prove difficult to attain, given the lie she'd told Helion. Elain tried not to squirm beneath the scholar's assessment, certain her doubt was written all over her face. Was she about to be turned away?

Just as she was preparing to gather her pride and leave, a piece of parchment flitted out of thin air. She gasped in surprise, watching as it glided back and forth in wide, indolent sweeps, before landing atop the scholar's wooden board.

He frowned. "The High Lord has verified your claim. You're permitted to enter once the entry fee is paid."

"The… entry fee?" Elain repeated.

It hadn't occurred to her to bring any coin. Helion's palace was only a short walk; she supposed she could fetch her pouch if she needed to, though she'd been very strategic in leaving the bedroom while Lucien was in a meeting. She wasn't thrilled at the added chance of running into him—they'd barely exchanged more than a stiff, yet cordial 'good morning' and 'good night' the last two days. If he knew where she was going, he would volunteer his help. And Elain didn't trust herself to reject it.

The scholar pointed to a stone placard mounted above the entrance gate, which was stamped in symbols she didn't recognize.

"What does it say?" she asked, feeling embarrassed by her ignorance. "I only know the common tongue."

"The price of receiving Knowledge is to first provide Knowledge," said the scholar. "It's an equal exchange; we take and we give."

"So," Elain said, piecing his meaning together, "You want me to give you… Knowledge?"

"Knowledge which has not already been submitted to the archives."

"But how do I know what's already in your archives?"

"I will know," the scholar said, tapping the tip of his feather pen to his temple. "I have been recording every piece of Knowledge submitted at this gate since this library's inception—those which have been written on stone and paper and those which have been spoken. I am the Knowledge Keeper."

The gravity of that information sucked the air from her lungs. How long ago was this library built? It predated any of the current High Lords, which meant that this being was older than any faerie she knew. With the exception of Amren, perhaps.

"What if I…" Elain shrugged, feeling her courage shrivel like a neglected orchid. What did she possibly stand to offer a being like him, who had seen and learned and experienced more than her 24 years could ever fathom? "What if I don't know anything that hasn't already been submitted?"

The Knowledge Keeper threw his head back and chittered. It sent Elain back to the evenings she used to clutch at Mother's skirts during her dinner parties, listening as she giggled over things Elain was too young to understand.

It was humiliating how that feeling never faded, even as a grown woman. How she was always surrounded by people who knew more, who knew better, who knew a world that she was still navigating in leading strings.

The faerie regarded her, still huffing with amusement. "Then you would be a fascinating anomaly. I would record that as your submission of Knowledge, if it were true."

Elain's face heated as she searched for some facet of her life that felt important enough to be recorded in history. "I was once human, but I was changed by the Cauldron into fae."

"This is common Knowledge," said the scholar. "It has already been submitted to our archives."

"It made me a Seer," she tried. "I forsee events before they unfold."

The Knowledge Keeper considered this. "Our record of Seers is incomplete, but we have documented their existence and abilities. Is there a future you've seen that bears memorializing?"

No, she longed to say. They're all nonsense. A box, a song, a glowing cord. It was like dipping her fingers into water and trying to guess the shape of the ice it had melted from. What good is knowing the answer to a riddle if she was never given the question?

"I saw Hybern's twin ravens before they attacked a library in the Night Court."

"This information is known."

"What?"

"Is there anything else?"

"I killed the King of Hybern," she said, grinding her teeth as she reminded herself to stay calm, stay measured. "I stabbed him through the throat with the Shadowsinger's dagger."

"Alrady entered," the scholar said with a sigh. As if her failure to supply an acceptable piece of Knowledge was starting to bore him.

Beginning to feel frustration dig its sharp edges, Elain volunteered, "I almost kissed that Shadowsingers on the winter Solstice."

"This is known."

"How?" Elain demanded. As far as she was aware, only Lucien and Azriel knew what happened that evening, and she thought they would both know far more profound information they could share with a scholar.

"The High Lord of the Night Court consults our records regularly," said the Knowledge Keeper, his voice laced with humor.

Rhysand? He knew about her rejected kiss with Azriel? And what's more, used it as leverage to gain entry to the library?

Elain crossed her arms, feeling spiteful. "Well. Has the High lord of the Night Court told you that he occupies his evenings knitting booties for his son?"

"Fascinating," said the Knowledge Keeper, before swiping his rather ostentatious quill across his tongue and scribbling a note across a fresh piece of parchment. "This fact has not been entered into our archives."

A sense of guilt crept in, realizing the enormity of what she'd just traded. It was a harmless fact, sure, but it would be submitted into the records of this library for the rest of history.

That makes us even, she thought, projecting it outward as if Rhy could snatch the thought through what she imagined was an ocean of others, in constant ebb and flow, awaiting one of those mental talons to cast forward like a net.

If Rhys heard her, which she suspected he didn't, there was no response. It was likely for the better. With centuries of daily records stored in the Great Library's archives, it was highly probable that no one but the scholar would ever uncover the trivial fact she'd submitted.

"May you find the Knowledge you seek," the scholar said, bowing his head to Elain.

The large, stone gates groaned as they slid across the stone floor, parting open for her. After all this time, Elain would think she'd become accustomed to the peculiarities of magic, but as she walked through the tall, narrow entrance, she was surprised to find there was no pulley system or operators on the other side.

It was as if the stones themselves had heard her submission, assessed its worthiness, and deemed her entry.

She paused before she made it to the other side, turning to consider the Knowledge Keeper where he stared forward towards the harbor, vigilant in his role of guarding the entryway.

"How do you know I was telling the truth?" She called to him. "You could be documenting false information."

The Knowledge Keeper didn't turn to acknowledge her. Perhaps he was offended by the question—or the implication that she might have fed him an untruth.

As she started to continue through the passageway, she heard him say, his voice amused, "The gates are spelled. They only part for those who have spoken true, my Lady."

How did the gates know? She would only wear herself out trying to make sense of it.

And when the passage fed out into a garden beyond her wildest imagination, the thought escaped her entirely. At its center was a long reflection pool with parallel paths on either side, each framed by swaying palms and bougainvillea trees that sprouted from circles cut into the stone walkways, creating archways of pink flowers

Scholars draped in robes clustered around the courtyard, some carting piles of books and scrolls, while others looked to be holding lectures in the open space, scribbling notes while they talked animatedly amongst each other.

It was a sight to behold. Elain could have spent the entire day in that courtyard, sat upon one of the many stone benches while she listened to the soothing trickle of water and felt the breeze dance in her hair.

But since she was here on a mission, she followed the path alongside the reflection pool to the great staircase at its end, admiring the statues as she went. With each sculpture she passed, she noted that they all bore a startling resemblance to Helion. Were they all statues of High Lords past? A family of tree, of sorts?

She stopped at the final pair of statues where the paths on either side of the pool converged. A crowned male stood proudly upon his pedestal, his sword raised to the sky, parried on the other side by an identical statue.

Was this the High Lord who founded the Great Library all those centuries ago? She studied his strong features, feeling the set of his mouth tug at something familiar. She only met Helion just the one time, hadn't she? It was so strange to gaze upon the face of his ancestor and feel as if she recognized him. Not just in passing, but in her gut.

Perhaps it was some strange manifestation of her seer magic? It was frustrating, like feeling an itch beneath her skin that she couldn't quite reach, couldn't satisfy. With a huff, she shook off the thought and strode up the stairs through to the pillared arches that comprised the entrance.

What she found on the other side was shelves upon shelves stacked with books and scrolls, arranged in every direction like a great labyrinth of knowledge. From the outside, the building looked as if it contained only two or three floors at most. But now, she could see the staircase in the center that led up as well as down. When she leaned over the railing, curious how far it went, she saw a spiral of stairs that led to level after level, descending into a dark center that seeped the warmth from the air the longer she stared into its depths.

It suddenly made sense why the Great Library was built on a hill. And it occurred to her that this was just one (albeit the largest) of thousands of libraries within the Day Court.

This is a good thing, she reasoned, even as she felt the beginning of overwhelm creep up on her. If there was any information about the Haelia ball the letter's author had attended, it would be here.

She just needed to find out where.

-

After being directed five levels below by a disgruntled scholar who clearly had not appreciated the interruption, Elain was beginning to think she'd been misdirected. He'd probably just rattled off a section at random to get rid of her.

The back of the floor had a room with a much lower ceiling. Elain was shorter than her sisters, and yet even she needed to drop her head as she wandered into the dimly lit alcove.

The air plummeted in temperature, leeching out of her as if strained by the stones themselves. There was a different gravity to them than the sand-colored stone that comprised the rest of the building. This stone was darker, older she sensed, in the way that the age of an artifact collected its own presence. As if the simple act of glancing toward the ancient stone could redirect her gaze to a time long passed, before humans and the High Fae walked this earth, before any record this library had ever existed.

Elain shivered, but her curiosity drew her further into the crevice, fascinated by this small room that the library must have been built around. This was its origin, the spring from which all water flowed.

And all it contained was a slab of stone, which was being used as a table by a male not like any faeire she'd seen before. It was as if someone had taken a human man and stretched him unnaturally tall, like a shadow elongated in the sun. His hunched posture gave the impression there was some greater force dragging him down into the earth, and his loose, puckered skin seemed to yield to that same pull, hanging from his bones like folded cloth.

The sight of him was so shocking she needed to turn away at first, feigning interest in a detail on the wall as she gathered her composure. The fae adhered to different customs, but open-mouthed gawking was rude no matter which realm she was in.

Once she was ready, Elain turned back to him with a rehearsed smile, relieved to see he hadn't taken any notice of her. He was too busy murmuring something to himself, indistinguishable to Elain. Another language, she would guess, the cadence and syllables sharp yet rhythmic, like staccato beats or a metronome.

Counting, she thought, creeping closer to see that he was drawing marks across the parchment in a language she couldn't recognize.

Elain wanted to ask what he was doing, but she feared breaking his concentration. He was completely absorbed in his task, not looking or blinking, only muttering under his breath as his quill continued its furious movements.

"You must not disturb him, my lady."

Elain turned to find another scholar, this one seemingly younger than the male at the gates, but still swallowed in the same maude robes.

"Who is he?"

"He's human," said the scholar. "Or, at least, he once was."

Elain's throat felt dry. "What do you mean by was? Is he Made, like—" like me, she almost said, as if this scholar would know who she was. As if she held that sort of significance. "Like Feyre Cursebreaker?"

"No, Lady. We call him the Timekeeper. He was a human who was cursed with immortality a very long time ago—a time which predates our records. We do not know much, because he cannot speak, but our understanding is that he was once cursed to inscribe every passing second."

“Is he in pain?”

“None he can speak of. His pen does not pause.”

“Who did this to him?”

The Scholar shrugged. “We have checked our earliest dated scripts, but history has forgotten. It's possible even he no longer remembers. Some of our scholars believe it was the Mother herself who cursed him, as retribution for coveting sacred Knowledge."

Another scholar slipped past them, folding their tall, limber body beneath the low-ceiling to perch beside the Timekeeper. Elain watched her study the marks on the Timekeeper's parchment, then delicately unfold the scroll in her hands to replcate the markings. Once she was finished, she rolled the scroll back up, and glided out of the cavern.

"We use his Timekeeping as a dating system," the Scholar explained. "He's been counting how many seconds have passed since the moment he was cursed. As you can imagine, eventually the numbers grew to such length that the time required to inscribe them surpassed one second. Now, we find it takes him up to a week to complete each number. Any of the scrolls submitted or completed this week will be sorted under this number, once he finishes it."

"How will you know once it's completed?"

"It's the only time he'll set down his pen," the Scholar said. "Then he'll begin a new page, and start again."

"He never eats?"

"Nor sleeps."

Elain felt a terrible sorrow for the old creature. "That must be horrible."

"As I said, he does not appear to suffer. The curse keeps him alive without the usual necessities."

"And no one's ever tried to help him?" She demanded. "Isn't the High Lord renown for being just that, a breaker of spells?"

"Spells are not the same as curses. And this one is ancient; older than the High Lord and more complex than even we scholars have been able to understand. Attempts to interrupt the Timekeeper's task have never turned out well for either party. He becomes very distressed—violent, even—if prevented from recording." The scholar turned to her, eyes sympathetic. "I can see that you pity him, Lady. You have a large heart. But it is for his sake as much as yours that I warn you again: do not disturb him."

-

Elain didn't find anything helpful in the library.

Well, she supposed that wasn't strictly true. The problem, moreso, was that she found far too many things helpful. The scholar, eager to lead her away from the troubling Timekeeper, had been all too happy to direct her to the Great Libary's historical records of the Halieia celebrations over the last three centuries.

Records so detailed, in fact, that there was an entire floor dedicated to every book, scroll, and jotted note relating to the Halieia celebration. It was a large festival that began on the Summer Solstice and was celebrated for 24 consecutive days. Elain's head hurt to imagine the logistics involved in planning such an affair.

There were thousands of records—shelves upon shelves stacked floor to ceiling, organized by date, which would have been a blessing if she could narrow her search beyond just vaguely three centuries or more ago. The ball in the letter could have been a millennium ago for all she knew, which was more books than she could skim through in her lifetime.

Her human lifetime. Which, she wasn't anymore. She was immortal, so she supposed it would be possible to read this many books, though she might end up shriveled in some corner, her own pathetic version of the Timekeeper.

Unfortunately, she needed to recruit help.

-

"Elain." Lucien shut his book the moment she entered the room, lifting from his sprawl across the chaise lounge. "You're back."

"Estute obversation."

"Still cross with me, then," he said with a sigh, slumping back to the cushion with a notable plop. "If it's observations you're after, perhaps try seeking a faerie with more than one eye. Doubles your chances."

That one eye—the russet one, which always grew wary in her presence—was watching her beneath lowered lashes. Meanwhile, the mechanism of his golden eye spun and clicked in a way that Elain equated to refocusing, the way one needed to adjust a spyglass.

It was mostly to satisfy her curiosity that she said, "Feyre told me you can still see out of the false eye."

"Been asking about me?" He turned to her, grin like a thistle. It told her everything she needed to know—that he was cross, too, and for whatever reason, he wanted to dig himself deeper beneath her skin. "My felicitations, Lady. That almost sounded like a question. Progress is progress. Who knows, by the time we leave this court, you might actually start asking me things directly."

Elain crossed her arms. So much for coming to him to ask for help. "Are you done?"

He clapped his hands. "Look at that, you've done it!"

If she thought she could extend a peace offering, she was deluding herself.

"You're an ass," she said, turning around. "I don't know why I bothered coming here—"

Lucien sat up again. "Wait."

Elain glared toward the drapes that functioned as the door to their suite. He would deserve it if she walked through them. This was the first time they'd properly spoken to each other since the incident, and he hadn't even bothered to show remorse.

And yet, there was still that infuriating voice that begged her to wait. To hear him out. To stay.

No one ever stayed.

That thought creaked through her like weight shifting onto an old floorboard. An ache that only surfaced when it was disturbed. It throbbed from somewhere so deep in her chest, she couldn't decide if it belonged to herself or to Lucien.

She turned toward him, unsurprised to find he was watching her, both eyes now so very guarded.

With a sigh, Lucien said, "To answer your non-question, yes. I can see things out of the false eye, but not in the same way I could before. It's more like… sensing things. If I covered my right eye—" he raised his palm of the right side of his face to illustrate, drawing her focus to his golden eye and those brutal gouge scars that stretched from brow to jaw. "I wouldn't be able to tell you the color of your hair, or whether you were flashing me that practiced little smile. But I could tell you that the person before me is radiant. Someone kind and well-intentioned. I could tell you that she is thrumming with power unlike any I've sensed before. And I could tell you that she was once mortal, because I can see her human heart still beating in her chest."

Elain pressed her palm to her heart, wondering if he was being truthful. "You can… truly see all of that?"

Lucien lowered his palm and shrugged. "Most days I prefer the real eye. Your aura is radiant, Lady, but your smile is like the sun."

"Difficult to look at too closely?"

He laughed. "How's warm, but distant? Captivating, yet lonely?"

"I think I'd prefer if you just told me it hurts your eyes," she said tightly.

"Not my eyes," Lucien said. He didn't elaborate further. "But you've clearly not come here to discuss my woes, and as I said, you are clearly still cross with me. So what brings Elain Archeron to our shared suite at this fine hour? Did you imbibe too generously with the scholars and need to retire so soon?"

She hadn't told him about the scholars, or her plan to visit the library. Elain narrowed her eyes. Was he having her watched?

"Why would I retire here if I was drunk?" She challenged. "The Schoalrs would likely nurse me back to sobriety with far more care. They'd probably know some combinations of herbs I could stick under my tongue to cure a hangover and wouldn't, oh I don't know—"

Lucien arched a brow. "If you think they wouldn't suggest the powdered eggs, you mistake who taught me that information."

"The scholars?" She demanded. "You're lying to me."

He waved off her accusation. "Don't let their passions for order and knowledge fool you. They know how to loosen those robes from time to time. If you bring a nice enough bottle of brandy, you may even see what's beneath the robes."

The corner of his lips twitched, giving him away. Elain let out a furious groan. "You are lying to me! Why do I even let myself believe a word that comes out of your mouth?"

"I think it's very endearing," Lucien admitted, an impish smile spreading over his face. "And if it makes you feel better, Feyre was twice the gullible human you are."

"I'm not human."

"You might as well be." He said it so matter-of-factly. It didn't sound like an insult, at least. "For how little you've let yourself learn about Prythian, and how tightly you cling to the perceptions of your human life. It's not a bad thing, Elain. To be human. But it's not a bad thing to be fae, either."

"I never said it was," she protested.

He snorted. "You say it the same way you say everything you actually mean. In your subtle ways of communicating. It's not a bad thing to be fae." He made a gesture to the braids styled back from his face. "But you'll wear your hair over your ears to hide the points. It's not a bad thing to be fae, but you'll push away your magic. It's not a bad thing to be fae, but you avoid your mating bond at all—"

"Stop it," she said, throwing out her hands out as if she could physically guard against his words. "Stop… whatever you're trying to do. Whatever point you're trying to prove—it's unkind."

"How is it unkind?" he challenged.

"Because." Her eyes stung with tears. "I didn't want to be fae! I never asked for this life. This," she gestured towards her ears, hidden behind her hair exactly as he accused, "was a violation."

Lucien was silent for a moment, considering her outburst and looking as though he was choosing his next words very carefully.

She decided to beat him to it. "How long did it take you?"

He looked bemused. "Take me to what?"

"To look at your scars in the mirror without resentment. To accept them as a part of you, instead of something that was done to you."

His metal eye was so loud in the aftermath, the click, click, click marking the passage of each second.

"51 years," he said finally. "One year, perhaps, if you only count the time my face was uncovered. I'm sure you've heard that the residents of the Spring Court were once cursed to wear masks over their faces. It was done in mockery of this," he motioned toward the scarred side of his face. "And so for all that time, while the wound healed under my mask, it festered somewhere deeper, and I blamed myself for what happened to the Court. Then, when the curse was broken and the masks came off…" he shrugged. "I hadn't seen my bare face since before it was scarred. It took some getting used to, and I'd estimate it was about another year before I no longer winced at my reflection."

His confession hung heavy between them. Elain didn't know what to say. She wanted to double back into the saftey of her anger, but how could she after what he'd shared? She was stranded, not wanting to spurn him in his vulnerability but not quite ready to bridge the gap, either.

It was Lucien who moved first, lifting himself off the settee with an effort that suggested his weight had doubled since he'd fallen upon it.

"You're right," he said, coming up to Elain. "What I said was unkind. I apologize. For my transgression just now, as well as two days ago."

"You were only trying to help," Elain begrudged, feeling herself soften. "I know that. And I'll only forgive you if you promise that from now on, you'll warn me about things. And understand that if you ever put a bug in my mouth without telling me again, I'll ask my sisters to gut you."

Lucien grinned, as if encouraged by her threat. "Too squeamish to do it yourself?"

"I think you'd get too much satisfaction from it," Elain answered, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. "So, now that you've apologized… how do you feel about joining me in the Great Library to read a bunch of dusty old books?"

"I couldn't think of a more enjoyable use of my time."

[the-lonelybarricade]

Ok but you’ve piqued my curiosity with that last WBOCM post. You seem to suggest that Feyre will have no idea who Rhys is other than that “weird purple-eyed fairy” which is hilarious and makes the eventual reveal even funnier when she realizes she’s been sassing the High Lord for months and confiding all her escape plans to him. I bet Rhys tries to formally invite her to his bedchamber for dinner and, ahem, “recreational activities” 😏🤭 and Feyre has no clue why these two high-ranking wraith attendants are primping her up it’s just a late-night meeting with Rhys and why are you holding those suspiciously lacy undergarments?

Don't forget that Feyre's been told that all of the men with access to the palace are either the High Lord's kin or are eunuchs. I'm sure that won't lead to any misunderstandings

[the-lonelybarricade]

trying to find back to your arms

[the-lonelybarricade]

apothecary diaries Feysand!? You are brilliant! Rhys will try to seduce her into bed the moment he sets his sights on her and she’s going to resist him at every opportunity 😈 I give it a year before Nyxie comes along, lol.

Rhysand's to-do list:

Feyre

Feyre's to-do list:

Get the weird purple-eyed guy to stop following her around

[the-lonelybarricade]

Tensegrity

‘Poor little Omega… is something wrong? You seem a little flushed.’

—

For Day 4 of @acotar-omegaverse-week : Knots & Ties

so incredibly thrilled to share this amazing artwork I commissioned from the beautiful and talented @witchlingsandwyverns inspired by my fic Tensegrity I wrote for last year's Acotar Omegaverse Week!!! She did such an amazing job bringing my darling loves to life having a little playtime while things are heating up 😏 so go give her a big smooch for me <3

[the-lonelybarricade]

Just got a new knight! I sure hope his unwavering loyalty, mindless devotion, and tendency to kneel before me to kiss the palm of my hand before he commits atrocities in my name doesn't awaken anything in me.

[the-lonelybarricade]

7. Who do you feel most like yourself around?

Oh i forgot we were still doing this. Probably my 13 year old. Or @the-lonelybarricade