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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

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The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: DID YOU MISS US? @separatist-apologist and I return to humbly offer you 11k more words of Rhys being dumb

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter

Chapter 4/10: Summer Falling Through Our Fingers

Rhysand could handle Wyverns and dragons and enraged High Lord beasts. But Eris Vanserra—that was an opponent he was not equipped to take on. Not today.

Especially not once Eris’s attention skipped dismissively over Rhysand in favor of assessing Feyre. Rhys raised his sword, surprised he still possessed the strength to do so.

“Not another step,” he warned.

Light glinted off the silver blade, causing him to marvel, momentarily, that it was hardly past mid afternoon. He’d imagined they’d been in that manor for centuries, that when they emerged, bloodied and covered in ash, the world would have aged with them. Yet the only thing that had changed was the slight position of the sun and the crown that stood proudly atop Eris’s half-braided hair.

It, too, caught in the sunlight as Eris stepped towards Rhys. As the High Lord examined the stained metal, the corner of his lips quirked—though at Rhysand’s warning, or the evidence of Beron’s slaughter, it was difficult to tell. The male reached forward, swiping a ring-adorned finger across the flat side of the blade.

“Planning on killing another High Lord so soon?”

His voice was crisp and unfeeling as the autumn wind that brushed by, trailing its cool touch along Rhysand’s cheek. The High Lord offered him an abrasive smirk—very much unlike the wind, which at least was soothing against Rhysand’s burns.

“I’d save that stamina for summer,” Eris added, withdrawing his hand to peer at the blood now smeared against his fingertip. “You’re going to need it.”

Then, with that unhelpful assessment, Eris stepped forward to wipe his father’s blood away on the shoulder of Rhysand’s tunic. The exhaustion from the battle must have slowed Rhysand’s reflexes, because by the time he recoiled from the touch and thrust his sword towards the male, the space Eris had occupied was vacant. Rhys turned to see him standing next to Feyre, amber eyes nothing short of goading.

“Eris,” Feyre said, with far more patience than she ever reserved for Rhys. “We’ve done your dirty work. It’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“Straight to business, are you? Not a moment to rest, enjoy the fruits of your labor?”

“We’re not staying,” Rhys interrupted, not trusting that Feyre wouldn’t agree, if just to get under his skin.

They both ignored him. Feyre hardly looked his way, her cool blue eyes fixed on the crowned Lord. Rhys stiffened as the male’s dark gaze swept over Feyre’s injuries. He watched how Eris carefully wrapped his hands around her elbow—how Feyre let him.

“In terms of my assistance, why don’t I get one of my healers to treat these wounds?”

Before Rhys could say no, Eris was trailing his fingers up Feyre’s forearm, tracing the edges of a bloody gash that began mending itself. Magic cloyed the air, thick and sweet and insufferable. Rhysand clenched his jaw, reminding himself that it was a good thing Feyre was getting healed, even if it was coming from him. But, from the way Eris was staring into Feyre’s eyes, some silent conversation passing between them, Rhysand could guess what Eris wanted in return.

The coppery blood in the back of his mouth suddenly tasted all the more bitter. Rhys leaned over to spit it out, purposefully interrupting their moment with his retching.

He’d had enough of being left out of their secrets.

Rhys wiped his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve, indifferent to the way Eris’s lips twisted with disgust. Ferye, at least, was looking at him again. Those big blue eyes were filled with reproach, practically screaming don’t you dare open your mouth.

“The deal was you take us to Night,” Rhys said, repaying the way she had ignored him earlier.

“Oh, that’s right,” Eris crooned, like he’d forgotten. “You intend to take on the Night Court’s cruel, dark ruler. And tell me brave human warrior—” there was nothing but mockery in his voice, and Rhys caught the way Feyre hid her smile— “Do you think you’d be a worthy opponent, in your state?”

Eris gestured to his ruined clothes. Stained and torn and burnt from battle. Rhys could feel the open air against the blisters on his back, where the beast’s breath had burned through the gaps in his armor when he’d thrown himself in front of Feyre.

“I think that you made a bargain,” Rhys answered through gritted teeth. “And that the magic of these lands dictate you uphold it. You offered magical assistance to the Night Court—”

Rhys cut himself off when the Autumn Lord seized him by the collar of his tunic. Rhysand bellowed—closer to a fae snarl than he’d ever admit—as Eris lifted him, easily, with one hand. His other sought Feyre’s, who again let a faerie Lord touch her. Let him hold her hand.

Then the world vanished to shadow—so dark that for a moment, Rhys believed the dragon had returned to reduce them all to ash. But then the rushing smoke cleared, revealing that the three of them now stood in a familiar hollow before a large, circular wooden door. Rhys recognized it as the one they had walked through just a day before, the entrance—and now, he supposed, the exit—to the Autumn Court.

“Consider yourselves magically assisted,” Eris crooned, releasing Rhysand roughly. “Have fun in Summer.”

Magic twisted in the air again, their bargain truly unraveled by simply whisking them back to precisely where they’d agreed to the damn thing in the first place.

“You didn’t take us to the Night Court,” Rhys argued, his anger so sharp that he again tasted its bitter copper in the back of his throat. “This wasn’t the deal.”

“The borders of the other courts are closed,” Eris said with a shrug. There was a note to his voice, a certain flatness, that piqued Rhysand’s interest. Sorrow, he almost thought. But from what he knew of Eris, it was likely just irritation. “When you killed Tamlin, you opened the borders to Autumn. Now that you’ve killed Beron—”

“We can make passage to Summer,” Feyre filled in. Rhys had the infuriating sense that she’d already known.

“That means this is as far as my assistance can take you. And if you say thank you for your generosity, High Lord, I’ll consider healing you as a gesture of my kindness.”

Feyre sighed. “Thank you for your generosity, High Lord,” she said dryly. Hardly any trace of the woman who had held a dagger to his throat for being condescending.

“I want that one to say it,” Eris said smugly, tipping his chin towards Rhys.

He choked on a laugh. “I’d sooner throw myself at the mercy of another dragon.”

Eris clicked his tongue. “Ungrateful creatures, you humans,” he said, as if he wasn’t wearing a crown won off their blood and sweat. Eris turned to Feyre. “Sorry, pretty one. Hope you enjoy the salt water against those nasty burns.”

“Rhysand,” Feyre snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. That familiar contempt returned solely for his benefit, it seemed. “Can’t you swallow your pride for one second?”

How could he? How could she? To grovel to a faerie noble, the very breed that had ravaged and enslaved their people. They were the reason many of their kingdoms had collapsed, why their villages were left to rot in squalor. And after they had both risked their lives—had nearly died—in the interest of giving Eris Vanserra his throne, he was the one demanding gratitude?

How could she stand it? Why was Rhys the one who couldn’t swallow his pride?

He wanted to spit in Eris’s face, to drive his sword through his chest and let some other miserable creature be kinged. But his eyes flickered to Feyre, from her burning stare, to the abrasions in her leathers that exposed red, angry skin.

At least Rhys could prove that he was a better male than Eris.

“Thank you for your generosity, High Lord,” he said, chewing on every word.

Eris’s smile became a smug, vicious thing. “Now bow.”

“Eris,” Feyre cut in, but the High Lord simply pointed towards the ground, raising his brows at Rhysand in challenge.

Swallowing so much more than his pride, Rhysand forced himself to bow at the waist.

“Lower,” Eris hummed, far too pleased with his humiliation.

Rhsyand could have drowned in his resentment.

“That’s enough.”

Rhys tilted his head to see Feyre was scowling now, her arms crossed disapprovingly. Eris raised his brows, clearly amused to see she had come to Rhysand’s defense.

“Very well,” he said, before snapping his fingers.

Just like that, the remaining wounds decorating Feyre’s skin began mending. Rhys could feel the pain of his own burns ebbing, and his body did not protest when he straightened to his full height.

“Enjoy the Summer Court,” Eris said dismissively. With a wave of his hand, the wooden door pushed open, revealing the dark mouth of the tunnels they’d come through. “I hear the Adriatic sea is lovely this time of year.”

What time of year, Rhysand wanted to demand. Just how it was perpetually autumn in this court, he assumed the same for Summer. He wouldn’t give Eris the satisfaction of asking, when he would find out soon enough.

“Wait,” Eris called, as they stepped into the dark.

Rhysand kept walking, possessing no interest in whatever else the male had to say. Feyre, of course, paused at the entrance, pulling Rhys to a stop through the infernal chains that bound them together. He turned reluctantly towards the Autumn Court.

Eris nearly blended in where he stood at the front of the woods, gold and auburn leaves rising like a cape above his shoulders. He was twisting a ring on his finger, an odd look across his face. He said, his voice uncharacteristically soft, “If you see Azriel, send him my regards.”

Feyre nodded, like that meant something to her, then shut the door to Autumn.

For a moment, neither of them moved, letting their eyes adjust to the darkness. He hated that it immediately evoked the memory of waking in this very cavern to Feyre’s head in his lap, and how quickly it turned to the fantasy of Feyre on her knees before him. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about—particularly not after she had been so friendly with Eris.

He wished, desperately, that he could get away from her for just a moment to clear his head. It was her proximity that was influencing his thoughts. Her beauty wasn’t profound, it was simply inescapable. And if navigating through the enclosed tunnels with her was making it hard to breathe, well. It was simply because he was tired of sharing breath with her. His body, rejecting Feyre like a toxin.

Rhys didn’t know what to say to fill the silence, so he said nothing at all. Maybe before Eris, he would have said something kind. Like he was thankful that they didn’t die. But that moment where their eyes met outside the palace, that brief exaltation where they had realized they’d survived together. That they’d kept each other alive, worked as a team—that illusion was shattered that moment Eris Vanserra arrived, and Rhysand was reminded that the only team Feyre would ever be on was her own.

The chain reminded him of that, too. The only light source in the tunnel, taunt and glimmering between them as he strode through the dark.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” She asked.

“And I assume you do?”

Silence. Then, “You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Rhys said shortly, but Feyre had stopped. And the stupid chain forced him to stop, too.

“Bruised pride?” Feyre asked, tilting her head. “That’s surprisingly fragile, for a man who’s killed two High Lords.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might be tired?” He snapped. “Since knowing you, I’ve nearly died in every possible way I can imagine. And all I have to show for it is an ugly tattoo and a vile captor that won’t allow me a shred of peace.”

Feyre went quiet in the wake of his outburst. There wasn’t enough light to read her expression, but he nearly considered apologizing anyway. Until he remembered her hiding a smile at Eris’s joke, laughing at his expense.

“It’s this way,” he said, tugging her forward on the chain as he followed the smell of ocean brine.

He wondered what awaited them in Summer. Presumably, another beastly High Lord and a Court in ruin. He found the idea so wearisome that he paused when they came to a smoothly carved door, its surface gleaming with various colors that rippled and changed each time the glowing chain moved. Pearl, he thought, placing a hand against its cool surface in awe.

“Do you want to stop for the night?” He asked Feyre, finally breaking the silence. “We have no idea what’s waiting for us beyond this door.”

She brushed past him in answer, throwing the door open without a glance in his direction. He supposed a cold shoulder was preferable to another knife at his throat. Rhysand followed behind her, grimacing at the invasion of heat and sunlight. The air was so thick, so hot, that he had to duck his head into his elbow to smother a cough. It was like drowning on land, and the only reprieve was the cool breeze that swept off the glittering turquoise sea before them.

They were standing on a small island, only just larger than the mouth of the cave. The edge was close enough that Feyre could have pushed him off it, and likely only refrained from doing so because the chain would have taken her with. It was a long drop, Rhys noticed, peering over the edge to stare into the deep, crystal water. Before them was a suspended bridge, stretching across the sea to a large mountain-island, where he could see a sprawl of colorful buildings spread around and below a palace of tan-stone, with spires and turrets that climbed towards the sky.

The bridge had no other anchor points besides where it mounted to either island and its wood—though appearing in good condition—sloped in the center. He grabbed hold of one of the cables and shook it, hard, to observe the way it shuddered across the bridge.

“Hope you’re not afraid of heights,” he said.

Feyre offered him an icy glare, which irritated him enough that Rhys gestured towards the rickety bridge.

“Ladies first.”

The bridge bounced and swayed beneath her weight, but held. In other circumstances, he would have insisted they take it one at a time to ensure it didn’t collapse. But soon that golden chain materialized, tugging him right after Feyre. She jumped when Rhys stepped onto the first wrung, scrambling for the cable as the bridge jostled beneath her.

“You’re okay,” he found himself murmuring, taking careful, steady steps. “This bridge has been here a long time, I imagine it will take more than two humans to bring it down.”

Feyre stayed where she was, clutching tightly to the rope like she worried the boards would drop beneath her. He wasn’t certain why he was compelled to offer her comfort, when he was certain she would take none from him, but when he came up behind her, he found himself touching her hand, gently.

“Take it,” he said. “We’ll go together.”

He expected her to resist, like she always did. But surprisingly, Feyre let him pry her hand from the rope, quickly replacing her death grip around his fingers. His other hand found her hip, guiding her slowly forward almost as though they were dancing. To forget himself and the rattling chains and the creaking wood, he let himself imagine, very briefly, what it might have been like to dance with Feyre at a ball. His father might even have approved of her, before the Archerons had lost their fortune. Rhysand almost smiled at the idea of returning to the mortal lands to tell his father that he had managed to shackle himself to a woman. Though the temptation to smile eased when a thought crept, unwelcome, through the back of his mind: if he returned home.

You will not survive this.

The dragon’s warning prodded at him, like an arrowhead under his skin. Stabbing when he moved, reminding him that they were crossing this bridge to find a new monster.

Or, more likely, it would find them.

Rhysand was watching the water. Absently at first, letting his mind wander as he and Feyre ambled across the bridge. But then as his thoughts curbed towards the threat, he began examining their surroundings more intently, sweeping over the smooth surface to study the half-moon bay. It was curious to him that he didn’t spy a single ship in the harbor. Perhaps the city had been abandoned, though at this distance the buildings didn’t appear in ruins.

Feyre stiffened. “Rhysand.”

At first, he thought it was only the swaying bridge that caused panic to rattle through her voice. He nearly whispered more comforts to her, until he spied the ripples in the water—far enough away that he didn’t see the great, dark body that was causing them until it was headed, quickly, in their direction.

His heart leapt into his throat. “Fuck,” he said, trying to move Feyre faster. She stumbled forward, her lack of confidence slowing down their precious seconds. A fin raised from the water, nearly the size of a ship’s sail.

Swearing again, Rhysand swept Feyre into his arms. She screamed in protest, but he was no longer listening. He just ran, trusting his feet not to slip through the gaps in the aging wooden planks as he pulled Feyre tightly against his chest, trying not to drop her in the bob and sway of their motions. The island was fast approaching, but so was the beast.

“Rhysand, I swear to the Mother if you drop me—”

Her voice was so shrill in his ear, he flinched.

“I’ll spare myself a thousand headaches?” He joked, because humor was easier to manage than the fear crippling his chest for every wooden panel that still stood between them and the harbor. “You’re too pretty to be fish food, Feyre.” His words, like his breath, came out ragged. “You deserve a noble death, like poison or a beheading or—”

“For Cauldron-fucking-sake Rhys. For once in your life, shut up and run.”

But it was too late for running, The beast’s massive body surged out of the water, a tidal wave of blue scales rising up, up, up. There was no time to feel disgusted by its dead, beady eyes like swallowings pits of darkness, or its snarling open mouth, exposing teeth as large as a child.

It snagged on the bridge behind them, creating a downward slope towards the island. It would be a far, painful jump, but Rhysand took it anyway, gritting his teeth against Feyre’s screams as they plummeted towards the unforgiving earth. Wood and rope splintered behind them as the bridge collapsed towards the center, ripped away by the creature like they were merely cobwebs.

Rhysand and Feyre hit the sandy ground hard, tumbling from the momentum. He tried to curl his body around her, shouldering the brunt of the impact as they rolled to a stop across the mossy rock. Droplets of water rained down as the beast fell back into the sea. He wanted to get up, pull them away from the cliff’s edge in case it decided they were close enough to try again. But the wind had been punched out of him and his body was stiff, denying any movement until he remembered how to breathe again. Feyre was sprawled over him, gasping against his chest. She held tightly to both of his biceps, effectively pinning him to the ground, though he had no complaints.

“Still considering a bath in the water?” She asked, raising her head just enough to expose her eyes, wide and glowing brighter than the ocean below.

Rhys gave a hoarse, breathless laugh. “Do you still consider it a preferable option to sharing a tub with me?”

“Yes,” she said, but the shake in her voice gave the truth away.

“Well,” said a deep, male voice. “That was impressive.”

Footsteps sounded over their heads. Rhysand tipped his head back to see a pair of amused turquoise eyes staring down at them, the brown skin around them crinkled with silent laughter. The next thing Rhys noticed was the pointed ears, peeking out through long locks of coral-white hair. A faerie, with his dark lips spread into a smile.

“Tarquin,” Feyre breathed, pushing up against Rhysand’s chest. Rhys groaned—not just from the weight, but from the surprising affection in her voice. He’d had enough of Feyre’s fae companions.

“Cursebreaker,” the male greeted. “Causing trouble as usual.”

“Don’t tell me,” Rhys mocked. “That was your High Lord, and you need us to kill him.”

The male raised a white brow. “I’m the High Lord. If you’re here to kill me, you’re welcome to try.”

Despite his words, he reached out a board hand to help Feyre rise to her feet. Rhys tried not to feel bitter about the way he’d been so readily forgotten in the dirt. It wasn’t like Tarquin had just saved her from a massive beast—again.

“We’re trying to get to the Night Court,” Feyre said, remembering that Rhys existed long enough to spare a glance towards him while he delicately stood up.

“Ah. That’s been made difficult, with recent events.” Tarquin frowned towards the water, eyes unreadable. “As I’m sure you well know, the borders to the other courts are closed. And that creature prevents us from sailing to new harbors.”

“Can’t you just kill it?”

Tarquin and Feyre both cut their glances towards Rhysand. Their judgment was silent, but still felt as if they’d verbally lashed at him. Rhys clenched his jaw, saying defensively, “As the High Lord, that seems like something you should be equipped to handle.”

“We don’t need to kill it,” Tarquin said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The creature is aggrieved. We need only tame it.” The male eyed their battle worn clothes, and Rhysand didn’t miss the way Tarquin’s gaze lingered on his tattoo, which now disappeared beneath the rolled up sleeves of his tunic. He wasn’t looking forward to removing the garment and seeing just how far the marks had spread.

“We can discuss this in greater detail later, perhaps after you’ve each had a bath and a meal?”

“That would be lovely,” Feyre said, falling easily into step beside Tarquin as they began walking down the cliff, towards the paved city below.

Rhysand followed behind, silently. He was trying—and failing—not to marvel at the grandeur of the city as they passed, especially when it meant not having to stare at Feyre’s silhouette as she chatted amicably with Tarquin. How her lips curled in just the barest hint of a smile. He never felt so invaluable as when he was reminded that Feyre was capable of being nice, just not to her prisoner. Rhys was just a tool to her, a means of saving her sisters and nothing more. And the fact that she treated faeries better than him—

Yes, it was better to stare out into the city, than simmer in his loathing. The city, at least, was beautiful. Welcoming. It was not at all abandoned, if the shops and markets they passed were any indication. They were run by faeries that looked like Tarquin and Eris—High Fae, Feyre had called them—but there were others, too, with scales and gills and long, spindly webbed fingers. Their heads all turned towards Feyre, then Rhysand, likely finding it odd to see two humans in their court. Had they, too, felt the pulse of power when the High Lords of Autumn and Spring were killed? From the eyes that wandered towards Rhysand’s exposed tattoo, he would wager as much.

The court seemed to be in a healthier state than Autumn and Spring, but Rhys could still see the markings of suffering. Beggars in the streets, faeries with sallow faces and hungry gleams in their eyes. The looks they offered him… they were more than just idle curiosity, and less hostile than he would have expected the fae to regard a human. He swore they looked to him with hope.

“The loss of our oceans has been a great burden on my people,” Tarquin was saying—to Feyre, though he did glance over his shoulder towards Rhysand, as though expecting that would be meaningful to him. Like he should care, if faeries were struggling. “We rely on them for fishing and trading. And now have been left to ration what few fish we can yield from the safety of the shallow waters.”

“And yet you choose to keep the beast alive,” Rhys said, far more concerned with the labor of ascending the steep hill to the palace. With every step, he was reminded of the fall he’d sustained when the beast attacked them on the bridge. As the adrenaline of the moment, and the battle before it, drained from his body, he was left feeling sore and bruised and so, so exhausted.

Tarquin sighed. “The beast is not the cause,” he said, with exaggerated patience. Like Rhys was a child asking after things he could not begin to understand. “It is merely the symptom of a much larger issue.”

“So you all keep saying,” Rhys muttered, thinking it would be nice if someone in Prythian decided to be forthcoming for a change.

The three of them paused before the large Palace steps, where Tarquin immediately waved forward a pair of females that approached them with wide smiles and cautious eyes.

“I’ll leave you to the aid of my servants,” Tarquin said. “Please, take the evening to eat, bathe, and rest. We can meet for breakfast tomorrow to discuss getting you to the Night Court.”

Rhys bit his tongue from demanding what would be asked in return. Part of him was resigned, knowing whatever waited for them was unavoidable. And right now, a meal and a bath were too tempting to pass up. So he followed Feyre and the servants up the palace steps, not missing the way she assessed him, like she couldn’t believe he was obeying without protest.

And, well, that just wouldn’t do.

“Looking forward to another night of bed sharing?” He asked, offering her the same wicked smile he once used on women he actually did want to bed.

“Would it be possible,” Feyre said, speaking to the servants and not to him, “to get a room with two beds? Preferably with drapes, so I can try to forget I need to share a room with a—”

“With a what, darling?” Rhys cut off, before she could say something insulting. “Afraid you wouldn’t be able to control yourself around a roguishly handsome warrior?”

“—a prick,” she finished flatly, eliciting a soft laugh from one of the servants. “I’ll need to be careful. I might forget I need him alive and will try to smother him in the night.”

Rhysand thought it wouldn’t be so terrible to be smothered by Feyre in the night, so long as it was between her legs. Not that he would voice that thought. But for just a moment, to make her slightly more tolerable, Rhysand let himself imagine a world where Feyre did wake him up in that way. How much better they would get along, if he could prove that he could do more than irritate her with his mouth.

He looked over to her, thinking again about her mouth and the ways he would find it less irritating, too. But Feyre was looking away, her arms crossed furiously over her chest, and the anger blooming on her cheeks was effective in curbing his desire. She had meant it when she said she’d kill him in his sleep. She loathed him, a feeling he should very well reciprocate regardless of her lovely features.

He, too, withdrew his gaze, trying his best to forget about her as the servants led them down flight after flight of stone stairs. Rhysand did think it odd that the High Lord would keep guest rooms so deep within the palace, but the fae were strange and he hadn’t truly questioned it until he felt the shift in the air. Denser, cooler. It drifted up from the dim corridor at the bottom of the stairwell, beaconing them with the sound of dripping water.

Soon they emerged into a private cavern, its stone walls decorated with ripples of light that bounced off the surface of a large, seemingly glowing pool of water. The servants nodded graciously to the pool, then disappeared to offer them privacy.

“Looks like we get to bathe together after all,” he mused, though the teasing was half-hearted. He didn’t care so much about winding Feyre up as he did about getting off the sweat and blood that had caked to his skin.

Feyre had gone quiet, studying the pool through narrowed eyes. “We go one at a time,” she suggested.

Rhys didn’t have the energy to argue with her. “I won’t bother sitting and averting my eyes like your obedient pet.” He was already turning away to clip off his armor, letting it drop to the wet stone with a deliberate thunk. The sound echoed off the walls, a small chorus of his defiance. “It will be faster if we go in together.”

Maybe she didn’t have the energy to argue, either. Her clothes didn’t have the same weight as his armor, but they still slapped to the stone just as pointedly. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m taking my knife and if you so much as turn in my direction, it’s going through your gut.”

His gut seemed a better alternative than other places she might have threatened him, especially if he would be naked. Letting his silence speak for him, Rhys pulled his shirt overhead, sighing when it caught on the chain.

Rhysand knew he would likely regret it later, but in that moment he was tired and frustrated and singularly focused on getting clean so he could take a long, well-earned nap. Deciding that mattered more to him than preserving his clothing, Rhysand slid the Illyrian dagger from where it was sheathed at his hip and cut it through the sleeve of his tunic, freeing it from the magic binds. He never imagined he would feel envious of a burnt, torn piece of fabric, yet there he was watching it crumble to the cavern floor, wishing it could be him. Free of Feyre’s burden.

His trousers came next, crumpling in a heap that he also felt he could relate too. He didn’t turn to see if Feyre had finished disrobing before he walked to the water's edge and lowered himself into the crystalline pool.

The water felt—incredible. Cool enough to offer relief from the heat of Summer, without being uncomfortable. He glanced down, watching the blood and ash lift from his skin, diffusing into the water like he had never been touched by the dragon’s breath. Though the tattoo he could now see crawled from his fingertips all the way to the midway point of his bicep was proof otherwise. That, he couldn’t rub off. But he could at least rid himself of the dirt. Holding his breath, he dunked under the water, rubbing his hands through his hair in an effort to scrape away the battle grime. When he broke through the surface, greedily sucking in air, he already felt significantly better. If only he had soap to—

Rhys jolted forward as something thwacked into the back of his head, and dropped into the water with a condescending plop.

“Seriously?” He said, peering down to see the brick of soap Feyre had thrown.

“Did that hit you?” Feyre asked, feigning innocence. “I wasn’t looking.”

Liar, but what else was new? He hoped she at least got a nice view of his ass when she turned to throw it at him.

Rhysand dived beneath the surface to retrieve the soap. He peeled his eyes open, squinting against the burning saltwater to locate it. Fortunately, the water was clear, marbled in light that made it easy to find the slippery brick against the stone floor. He turned after retrieving it, just enough to catch a glimpse of slender ivory legs and the backs of Feyre’s soft thighs. Rhysand quickly screwed his eyes shut, afraid of what kind of a man it would make it if he looked any further. Still, the sight of her bare legs were scalded like a brand behind his eyelids, and all he could envision were the places he would put his hands if he were ever knelt before her.

A ridiculous notion.

“Took you long enough,” Feyre said once he broke through the surface.

Ridiculous, indeed. Why would he ever be on his knees for someone so insufferable?

Teeth clenched, Rhysand did his best to ignore her, allowing himself to focus on the pleasant task of lathering the soap over his body, feeling it break through the grease and ash that the water alone hadn’t quite been able to.

After another long moment, Feyre spoke again. “I’m sorry that Eris made you bow.”

“Are you?” Rhys watched the light glint over the soap in his hand, a myriad of colors that shifted as he moved. “I recall you thinking it was rather amusing. Something about swallowing my fragile pride.”

“Eris wouldn’t have helped us if you didn’t,” she said. “Getting healed was more important than your pride, but I am sorry he embarrassed you. He has a talent for getting under people’s skin.”

Embarrassment. Was that what had bothered him?

Rhys flexed his hands, frowning in thought. “What got under your skin, then?”

“There isn’t a single part of this that isn’t already under my skin, Rhysand. Do you think I’ve been enjoying myself through any of this?” There was pain in her voice, enough to lessen some of his anger. “I’m sorry that it had to be you. No one else in their right minds would have been willing to come with me. No one else would have made it this far. You were the only choice I had, Rhys.”

“And if the next monster kills me,” he mused. “Would you even stop to bury my body before going back to the village to find some other man to chain yourself to?”

Would you weep? Would you even care?

Feyre released a long breath. He had the sense she’d been holding it in since the day they crossed the Wall.

“If you died,” she said, “there would be no one after you. We are on a path there is no turning back on, no restarting. And if you die…” the chain around his wrist glowed to life with a soft tug. “I probably won’t be far behind.”

“How reassuring,” he muttered. Though, in an odd way, it was nice to know that he was not so easily replaced.

Rhysand had always been cautioned his adventures would be the death of him. So much, in fact, that his continued survival had felt exhilarating, like he was proving the naysayers wrong with every beast he slew and brought back to the village to be hailed for his bravery. He had known his luck would run out eventually, if his father didn’t coerce him into marriage first. And Rhysand had always thought he would prefer to die a hero than a miserable married man. He supposed, if death was what waited for them, then he would have gotten his wish. And it was comforting to think that he wouldn’t be facing it alone.

They fell back into silence. Which was likely for the better, given how quickly they dissolved into fighting. But there was something too intimate about being naked in a pool besides Feyre, left to only the soft swish of water and the breaths that bounced off the cavern walls.

“Rhys?”

She hadn’t called him that very often. Usually only when she was panicked, and Rhysand was simply too long to shriek at him. Now her voice was soft. Contemplative.

“Yes, Feyre darling?”

There was a pause where he liked to imagine her scowling at the pet name. Then she asked, voice a little sharper from the jibe, “What were you planning to do in Prythian, if you hadn’t agreed to this bargain?”

“I thought…” He hesitated, uncertain how the truth would be perceived. Feyre was human, but she was clearly friendly with some of the fae. “I wanted to see what had happened to the fae beyond the Wall. Find out why they had suddenly gone quiet. I thought that they might be vulnerable, and if they were…”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Feyre’s smooth shoulder and the wet, long hair sticking to her back. His mouth felt dry.

“If they were vulnerable, then I could use my blade to cut them down. Free our people once and for all.”

He didn’t know why he should care at all about what Feyre Archeron thought. When she didn’t speak, he worried all the same. Did she think he was a monster, some bloodthirsty conqueror—

“Is what we’ve been doing not in pursuit of that goal?” She asked. “Isn’t cutting down beasts and High Lords precisely what you’ve come to do?”

Rhysand thought of that devastated village in the Spring Court. How a faerie had handed him a weapon to destroy her people and when he asked if she was worried he would use it on her, she had called it a mercy.

“I feel more as though we’re liberating these lands.”

“Is it not possible that our oppressors and their oppressors are the same?” She asked, a certain wisdom in her voice that made her seem so much older. “Is it not possible to liberate both our peoples?”

“We have not met one faerie in Prythian that wasn’t acting in their own best interest,” Rhysand argued. “They have been more than happy to stand back and watch us put our lives on the line for them. When they are the ones who are supposedly faster and stronger. Why should we be responsible for liberating them, when no one even cares if we live or die, Feyre?”

“I care,” She said, surprising him. He snuck another glance over his shoulder, surprised to see that she had turned around completely. Their eyes met. “I care if you live or die, Rhysand.”

Rhys didn’t know what compelled him, but he turned, tempting Feyre’s wrath. It turned out she had been bluffing about the knife. Her eyes widened and she quickly moved to cover her breasts—which he had been trying very hard not to look at.

He admired the flush climbing her cheeks, made all the more endearing now that he could see the splotches started beneath her collarbone.

“You only care because if I die, you won’t be able to save your sisters.”

It was a challenge, one he was begging her to rise to. He wanted to hear her admit that she valued him as a companion, if only because he was successful at not getting them killed.

Feyre fingers tightened where they gripped opposite arms. He wouldn’t tell her, but when she crossed her arms like that, it only pushed the swell of her breast higher, making them more pronounced. Rhys regretted that he was standing before her naked, so that there was nothing to hide the way his body reacted to the sight.

Her eyes trailed down, taking notice of the growing appendage between his legs. Rhysand was trying to contain himself, but her attention only caused his cock to stiffen further. Somehow, covering the erection felt more perverse, like he would be touching himself in front of her.

Not that it mattered. Feyre quickly averted her eyes, the flush spreading further along her chest and cheeks. “Exactly,” she snapped.

It was so unconvincing, so clearly spiteful, that he couldn’t resist smirking.

Rhysand ventured forward, purring, “And if I die, you’ll never know how it feels to ride my—”

He was cut off by a face full of water that had him choking.

“Pig,” Feyre snarled, before storming to the edge of the pool and staunchly declaring their bathing time had concluded.

Her wet skin gleamed beneath the soft lighting of the cavern, and Rhysand watched her longer than he should have, admiring the curve of her hips and supple backside, the sleek legs he had seen underwater. She looked delicate like this, delicate in a way that made his chest ache. Rhysand forced himself to tear his eyes back towards the water, well aware his snooping had done nothing to discourage the blood rushing between his legs. Pig seemed aptly put.

The servants returned shortly with warmed towels and new clothes. Rather than the tunics and leathers they had brought with them from the mortal realm, these fabrics were soft and loose, fashioned from a single navy panel that they folded and tied around Rhysands chest, then looped once over his shoulder to create an open, billowing sleeve. The trousers were similarly fashioned, a two panel fabric that they tied once around his abdomen, tucked between his legs—where he’d earned himself a stern look for being at attention—and tied again around his stomach so that they fit surprisingly close to his legs.

Feyre had been dressed similarly in a light blue fabric a similar color to her eyes, though the upper portion had been tied in a halter around her neck, leaving her shoulders bare. He studied the freckles they left exposed and wondered, briefly, if the faeries would be upset that a human woman dared to look so suited to their clothing. They would likely be crawling with envy when they laid eyes on her. Envy, or something else. Something that made Rhys curl his hands at his side and turn away.

They were led back up the stairs, to the main floor of the palace, where they walked through the shell-flecked hallways and passed by countless windows overlooking the bay and churning sea beyond. The sun had gone down, and in the moonlight the water had grown darker, all the more foreboding. There was no sign of the beast they’d encountered, but just the sight of the ocean had been enough to remind Rhysand of what waited for them in the morning.

His stomach twisted and his eyes flitted to Feyre, walking ahead, her golden-brown hair swishing over her back as she walked. She had proved, twice now, that she was capable of holding her own. But that creature had been large enough to swallow them both whole. Tame it, Tarquin had said. It was laughable.

Eventually they stopped before a suite with two connecting rooms. The beds in each were pushed against a shared wall, allowing Feyre and Rhysand the luxury of sleeping separately for the night. And with the magic of their chain, he was even allowed to shut the door. He could have wept at that small gift of privacy.

He couldn’t stray far, of course, couldn’t even walk to the other end of the room. But he could sit at the small table and eat the meal left there in peace. No glaring, no snide comments. No big blue eyes and pretty lips pulled into a smirk.

Rhys couldn’t stop thinking about her fucking lips. It was a welcome distraction from the sea monster, he supposed. And maybe that’s why when he went to bed, he allowed himself to sneak a hand between his legs and think about them again. How they might look wrapped around his— Rhysand groaned, knowing he was wretched for letting himself imagine it, while also knowing that they may not have the luxury of separate bedrooms again. He was on edge. He needed to relieve himself. And maybe if he got it out of his system, it would finally put an end to the intrusive fantasies.

So Rhys went to bed that night, pleasuring himself to thoughts of Feyre Archeron.

“Did you sleep well?” Tarquin asked at breakfast the next morning.

Across the table, Feyre stabbed a strawberry too aggressively with her fork. She had been grumpy since the moment they woke, not that she would tell Rhysand what was wrong. She would hardly even look him in the eyes.

“Best night’s sleep in days,” Rhysand answered, when it was apparent Feyre would be giving everyone the cold shoulder this morning.

“Good,” Tarquin said, in a way that told Rhys he’d only asked out of courtesy. He looked to Feyre, to see if she noticed too, but she was staring blankly at her plate. “Since you’re feeling better rested, perhaps we can discuss what you’ll need to do to open the Winter border.”

“Maybe you could start by telling us why it’s closed in the first place,” Rhys said. Then he gestured towards the large window, overlooking the mouth of the sparkling green and cobalt bay. “Or how you ended up with that thing in your water.”

Tarquin glanced towards Feyre, lips pursed. “There is a great deal of history that has led us here,” he said. “I can give you the abridged version.”

That sounded preferable to Rhysand, who was excited at the prospect of finally getting some answers.

“Like most great tales of woe, it began with love,” Tarquin said. “The kind that poisons. When one of our Lords was scorned by his lover, he sought a terrible curse as revenge. A spell so powerful that it required a seal maintained by each of the High Lords. They were given to us disguised as a gift, powerful magical artifacts, and we accepted them unaware of the consequences. Once a seal was placed within each of the Courts, the magical borders between our lands closed.”

Rhysand leaned forward, propping his arms beneath his chin as he marveled over this information.“So the High Lords going mad, that was a consequence of these… seals?”

Tarquin nodded. “They were given to us in different forms. Tamlin’s was a golden rose, of which he brewed into a tea to consume each morning. Beron’s, a horned ruby crown he wore upon his head. I imagine they both merged with the seals and were driven mad by the power. When I received mine, I had it locked in a tomb beneath the water. I believe that decision saved me from a similar fate. Though its magic has caused restlessness in the creatures that lurk in our ocean’s depths.”

That foreboding feeling returned to Rhysand as he gazed out towards that ocean now, thinking of what other creatures might have awakened. “It’s not about killing the High Lords, then,” Rhys said, sounding his thoughts allowed. “It’s about… destroying the seals?”

“Precisely,” Tarquin said. “To get to Winter, you will need to destroy the seal that was given to me.”

Rhysand frowned. He made it sound easy. “And all this time, it’s never occurred to you to destroy the seal?”

The High Lord jerked his chin towards Rhysand’s arm, to the dark tattoo that marred his golden brown skin. “Destroying it requires the magic of the previous seals.”

“I’m…” Rhys stared at the black whorls in newfound horror. “I’m absorbing the magic?”

“It’s the only way it can be undone,” Tarquin said with a shrug, expressing none of the concern—of the dread—cutting through Rhys. Feyre continued staring at her plate, though her expression at least was pinched, her fingers gripping the silverware so hard he could see the whites of her knuckles. The High Lord added, “Every magic has its price. Every lock, its key.”

A key. That’s all he was to these people. A pawn in a game so much larger than helping Feyre save her sisters.

“And when the final seal is destroyed?” Rhys demanded. “What happens to me?”

Feyre jerked her head up at that. To us, he supposed he should have said. But had Feyre known all of this, kept it all a secret because helping the fae was in her best interest? She needed someone to pave the way to Night, afterall.

“The curse will be broken,” Tarquin said, holding his eyes steadily. “And you will be Pyrthian’s savior.”

Savior.

Cursebreaker.

That’s what they’d called Feyre, and just as he was starting to feel the pieces cement together, they slipped out of place. Had whoever bound her sisters put her up to this? Was she made to find someone to break Prythians curse in exchange for their freedom? There was something they weren’t telling him and it made Rhys want to scream.

He set his jaw. “What’s the seal for Summer Court then? Where do we find it?”

Tarquin offered him a wry smile. “It’s a book. And you’ll need to wait until low tide to retrieve it.”

“This feels too easy.”

Feyre raised a brow, which disappeared beneath the small lock of hair that fell over her forehead. The rest of it was braided off her face, ready for battle with her bow and quiver strapped to her back. They had changed out of the loose, airy clothes of the Summer Court, which Rhys thought was a shame. It had been nice to see Feyre look so unrestrained in her unbound hair and flowing clothes. Now she wore leathers, just as he did, though he’d kept the one-shouldered tunic and accepted a shoulder strap and leather cuffs for his exposed arm.

“Would you prefer another dragon?” she asked.

Rhys took a step forward into the squelching mud and winced. “Yes.”

He didn’t care about the mud, though. Not in the sense of getting dirty. But it would be hard to run through, and he was well aware that while the water had receded to open a path towards the stone tomb, the creature from the bridge could still swallow them with a single brave leap from where the water lapped against the shoreline several paces away.

And that was only one of the creatures that the seal had awoken.

They passed rocks crusted in barnacles and seaweed, small creatures scuttling across their surface. Crabs, he told himself to soothe his thundering heart. Hardly a dangerous foe.

“Can you feel it?”

Feyre whispered the words, like she feared she would wake the sleeping artifact. Rhys could feel it. That same foreboding feeling he had sensed every time he stared out towards the ocean, concentrated now, like a clawed hand running down his spine. He could understand why it had woken all manner of beast. If this had been put in his home, he likely would have gone on a rampage, too.

“No wonder it drove the other High Lords mad,” Rhys muttered. He didn’t want to think too carefully about what it would do to him.

In his periphery, Feyre shivered, and he resisted the urge to reach for her. He doubted it would be well received. Besides, it would be a difficult maneuver considering they were knee-deep in muck. They continued forward towards the stone entrance, his apprehension growing for every step they faced unobstructed.

“It’s too easy,” he said again once they stepped into the open doorway.

Feyre was frowning, her narrowed eyes flitting over the slick stone, searching for any hidden threat. Tarquin had warned them before they left that the seal very well could have melded to a creature, or the stone of the tomb itself.

Its magic has a mind of its own, he’d said.

“Stay on guard.”

She’d said it quietly, but it still bounced off the chamber walls, announcing their presence to whatever lived inside. They stared down the stairs that led into an eerie darkness that neither were quite ready to face.

Feyre added, “Whatever’s waiting for us, we need to handle it quickly. If the tide comes in while we’re down there…”

She didn’t finish, but she didn’t need to. The water was still leaking through the cracks in the stone, wetting their hair as it dripped from the ceiling. It said enough. If the tide came in, they would drown.

Feyre took a shaky breath, then stepped forward. There was so much black, putrid mud covering the stones that Rhysand hadn’t noticed the creeping tendril until Feyre shouted. He drew his sword at the same moment she reached for her bow, but it had already yanked her into the darkness. Her scream echoed off the walls as she slid and bounced over the wet stone and Rhys skidded after her, at first in his urgency to help, but then simply because he was being dragged by their chain. He tumbled forward, gasping as he fell against the unforgiving steps, down, down, down until his momentum was broken by knee-deep water. He fell with a splash onto the flat, slime-covered depths of the tomb. The icy water sliced against his skin, already seeping through his leathers, and his vision spun as he picked himself up, Feyre nowhere to be seen. Great.

The golden chain glimmered before him, its soft glow cutting through the gloom. He followed it carefully through the damp tunnel.

“Feyre?” He called.

It had gone quiet. All he could hear was the stone dripping against the water. Even the echo of his voice, of each wet step as he waded through the water, no longer carried. That deep, creeping feeling at his spine was stronger now, growing heavier as he approached a heavy iron door at the end of the hall. The chain disappeared behind it.

It was a trap, almost certainly.

Rhys sloshed forward until he reached the frigid metal. Behind it, the power coiled, serpentine in the way it hissed. It occurred to him that the seals were likely made to resist being destroyed, to protect the curse so that it may never be broken. But it, or some creature under its compulsion, had taken Feyre. And that prevented him from fleeing, whether he wanted to or not.

He was shivering as he placed his blue-tipped fingers to the door, and he worried suddenly that if they stayed down here too much longer, they would freeze to death long before they’d drown. The iron door hummed beneath his tattooed hand and he cried out as something pulsed through him, causing the dark lines over his skin to pulse with crackling energy. Magic. Rhysand ground his teeth, bracing his hand on the door to keep from falling to his knees as it ransacked him.

There was a click and a groan, then the lead door rolled into the wall. Water spilled out from the chamber on the other side, splashing against his thighs as he stumbled back.

Faelight bobbed in the chamber ahead, illuminating a round dias that held up a pedestal with a lead, filth-covered box atop it. And clinging to the shadows in the back of the chamber was a writhing, tentacled beast with several of its black appendages curled around Feyre. One covered her mouth, muffling the sounds of struggling. Several of her arrows protruded from its limbs—ones Rhys guessed she’d shoved through its rubbery skin with her bare hands before it restrained her wrists and ankles. Her face was twisted in disgust and blood was dripping from a cut above her brow, though there was none of the panic he’d seen her eyes when they’d been under that descending ceiling in the Autumn Court.

A good sign, even if the humming box before them made his adrenaline spike. His tattooed arm was tingling, rising to the magic that called him forward.

But first—Feyre. He ventured a step forward, sword drawn, but paused when she shook her head. It was the slightest motion, barely perceptible, but her eyes were wide and locked on his, saying, tame the beast.

It was shrinking back, hissing at Rhys though it appeared mostly focused on restraining Feyre. Its dead eyes were locked on her, stretching and pulling all while stroking its tentacles over her body, almost reminiscent of a lover. Rhysand was merely a threat to the prize it had won, and he had the sense that if he stayed on this side of the chamber, it would leave him alone.

Tame the beast. Destroy the seal.

The water was flooding back in now, too. Almost to Rhysand’s waist. And now there was the threat of not just the returning tide, but any creature it would bring with it. He would have preferred to move the box, carry it out and destroy the seal where they would be safe from the tide, but he couldn’t leave without Feyre. So instead he took a shaky breath while above, water trickled through the stones.

The metal was biting to the touch. He hissed, feeling that cold pulse of power surge up his arm, the marking constricting like the tentacles of the beast just ahead, wrapping tighter and tighter around his skin. He swore it cut off his circulation, and could feel his fingers going numb against the unforgiving iron.

Saviour, the magic within the box whispered. It’s voice was layered, several people whispering into his mind, serpentine and foreign and strange. Could Feyre hear it, too? Champion. Liberator.

Tell us, expiator. What do you fear most?

“What?”

Rhys cried out, knees buckling from the pain that shot down his arm. The metal gripped him, keeping him upright as he bowed over the pedestal, gasping.

He glanced up, eyes finding Feyre’s. Answer, those eyes begged, before scrunching in pain as the creature pulled harder at her limbs, snaking one of its disgusting tendrils over her abdomen.

Unlock the seal, the box cooed in its ancient, cruel voice. Reveal your greatest weakness. What do you fear?

“Death,” he said.

Wrong.

Rhysand snarled at the second dose of pain that shocked through his bones. The water was at his chest. He was beginning to worry if they would even have enough time to swim to the surface. From the anxiety whirling in his gut, death seemed like a suitable answer. His fingers tightened against the metal, thinking. What did men fear, besides death? It was the only threat he’d encountered that rattled him.

He looked back to Feyre, like she might have the answer, but she was hardly paying attention, caught in her own battle of kicking out against the beast's hold, screaming against the limb curled around her mouth.

His heart rate increased, hammering in his throat. Death did scare him. And not just the threat of his own. Ever since the plague had taken his mother and sister, it had been a shadow over his shoulder. His greatest adversary, one he had made peace with one day surrendering to.

It was better to die a hero than to…

“Marriage,” he said, already knowing it was a stupid answer.

The third lash was the most punishing thus far. His groan bounced off the walls, its sound challenged only by the rushing water.

Do you truly not know? The box asked. Or does it frighten you so greatly that you cannot even confront it now?

A memory flickered through his mind. The plague doctors, pushing him out of his mother’s bedroom. Denying him a final goodbye. He remembered the way the grief had collapsed his chest, how he’d run to scream his anguish to the forest so that his mother didn’t need to hear his sorrow in her final moments. He’d fought and killed his first beast that day, a small feral creature with hatred in its eyes. Naga, they’d called it. He remembered watching its chest heave, bloody beneath his sword, thinking he had balanced the good taken from the world by killing something evil in exchange. And yet, he felt nothing. Was almost disappointed it hadn’t killed him, too.

Why do you resist a relationship with your father? Asked a quiet voice in the back of his mind. Why do you resist a wife? Why is it safer to be a hero, to risk dying?

Rhysand barred his teeth. “I am afraid of the things I love—the people I love—being taken from me.”

The cycle continues, it said. And then the box clicked open.

Rhysand sagged back as the metal released its grip. The muscles in his arms felt worn and weak, like he’d been sustaining an overbearing weight and had finally let it drop.

It wasn’t over yet.

Rhysand flipped open the lid, peering to the book inside. It pulsed with that same terrible magic, and the beast snarled, thrashing its limbs wildly as the power emanated through the chamber. The beast slammed Feyre against the stone with a force that made Rhys feel sick. Watching her body crumble was enough to drive him forward, quickly raising his sword over his head to drive it down over the book, slicing through leather and paper.

The stone pedestal shuddered, rippling the water in the chamber as a great energy pulsed from the ruined book, throwing Rhysand backward into the rising liquid. He inhaled a mouthful of saltwater when he tried to scream, clutching his tattooed arm as a sharp heat coiled through the shifting markings, traveling up his shoulder and over his chest.

More concerning was the rumbling tomb, cracking beneath the tremors and filling rapidly with more and more water. The creature was still holding Feyre in its grip, though it had calmed with the seal now destroyed. Or rather, absorbed.

Rhys tried not to think about that too carefully as he broke back through the surface and stumbled towards Feyre. She had managed to loosen a hand and was using it now to pry the other tentacles away. Rhys sliced through the one still around her mouth, and with that the creature hissed, retreating its limbs to cower in the corner. Rhysand wouldn’t kill it so long as it let them leave.

He hauled a gagging Feyre to her feet, keeping one arm around her waist while he pushed them urgently towards the flooding door, practically swimming against its current.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Rhys was saying as they fought the onslaught.

Feyre’s grip tightened around his shoulder, using it to push him forward with surprising leverage. Then they were through, and the water became easier to navigate once they slammed the iron door shut, disrupting the current. In the hall, Rhysand could see the tomb was indeed cracking. Water burst in not just from the doorway above, but through the walls surrounding them, through the floor beneath.

“Fuck,” he said again.

“How insightful,” Feyre snapped. She strode forward, making towards the stairs at the other end of the hall.

Rhysand grabbed her by the shoulders, yanking her back into his chest.

“Rhys!” She snarled, thrashing her shoulders.

But ahead of them, the crack in the stone was growing, splinting the length of the wall. His heartbeat roared in his ear, saying run, run, run.

“Get back in the chamber,” he said, turning back to the iron door.

What was he thinking? With the rushing water, it would take a superhuman strength to open. He was just a man, and still he pushed uselessly at the metal, willing it to open with the magic of his seals.

But he was just a man.

And there was nothing—nothing—he could do against the tomb’s wall caving in, flooding the hall with water. There was only a moment to take a deep breath before they were pushed beneath the current, pinned to the iron doors.

Rhys screwed his eyes shut. This would be the end, then. Not quite as heroic as he had hoped. But at least he quelled the beasts in Adriata’s harbors so that Tarquin’s people could fish again. Even if they were faeries, it was something.

He turned his head to Feyre, forcing his eyes open to see the way her hair floated up around her. She was ethereal, even with her furious eyes and the lips that were already turning blue.

At least his final vision would be something beautiful.

Rhysand reached out, finding Feyre’s hand to thread their fingers together.

And at least neither of them would die alone.

The current stopped just as Rhysand’s vision blurred, the burning in his throat already unbearable. The faelight was just bright enough that he could see a figure swim through the burst in the wall. A man with rich umber skin made darker in the shadows, and unmistakable white locks of hair that floated gracefully behind him. Tarquin.

The High Lord swam towards them, white brows bunched in concern. Rhysand felt his lungs give way, taking a gasping breath of water just as Tarquin’s hands closed around his tunic.

Everything went dark. Just for a moment. The water slipped away, replaced with rushing wind, and then they were deposited onto a sandy bank. Rhys immediately turned over to cough up water. He dug his fists into the shore while he gagged, turning over and over in his mind that they had survived. But Holy Gods, just barely.

His eyes were still burning as he turned to Feyre. She looked haggard. Soaked to the bone and covered in filth, but otherwise okay. Even if the creature’s slime had left an oily sheen over her leathers, her face.

“Thank you for saving us,” she croaked to Tarquin.

Rhys closed his hands into fists. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”

“No,” Tarquin said. He pressed a heartfelt hand to his chest and bowed his head. “It is I who should be thanking both of you. Because of you, my people will be able to use these waters again. Tell me what you need for preparation in Winter, I shall see it done.”

It was then Rhysand realized, a bit reluctantly, that he liked Tarquin.

He glanced back over to Feyre, offering her a wry smile. “Should we start with another bath?”

#TOSOTA #The Other Side Of The Apocalypse #Lonelyapology fic #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Rhysand x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand

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