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the-lonelybarricade · 3 years

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A Court of Faded Dreams: Chapter 16

Chapter title: A Sound of Thunder

Fic Summary: In her grief after Rhys sacrifices himself to restore the Cauldron, Feyre accidentally sends herself back in time. Back in her human body, in her early days in the Spring Court, Feyre must be careful how she alters the timeline as she tries to save Rhys and Prythian from Under the Mountain.

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The sounds of the teeming crowd were thunderous against the passageway.

Equipped with her fighting leathers, her head held high, Feyre couldn’t help but feeling she truly was a champion, striding toward the glory of battle. She let her mantra of names drive her forward, her steps unfaltering. She was High Lady of the Night Court, Feyre Cursebreaker, and she would show this infernal court that she would prevail.

Rhysand, Mor, Cassian, Azriel, Amren, Elain, Nesta, Lucien—my friends, my family, the dreamers of the world. For them I will endure. For them I will not be afraid. I am Feyre Cursebreaker and I will not falter. I will not break.

The dissonance of laughter, shouting, and unearthly howls worsened when they stepped into the massive arena.

Cursebreaker, High Lady, mate, salvation—I could call you many things, Feyre, but none of them quite do you justice, Rhys’s voice purred. He must have overheard her mantra while she’d been walking through the hall. Historians will need to paint this image before me, for no words could accurately describe your tenacious spirit. You look as if you could face the Gods and win.

It may have been enough to bring her to her knees had the guards not been holding her up. After two days of silence, hearing his voice was like snaring a rabbit after days without food—a sweet, guilty relief.

Romantic analogy, he teased, but there was an unspoken apology in his voice, in the loving caress against her mind. Yet, now was not the time to speak about their disagreement, not when they were both too keyed up about the trial.

Remind me to write you more poetry when we leave this Hellhole, Rhys continued. I suspect having a huntress as a muse could produce some rather inspiring works.

Feyre tried not to smile, stepping carefully on the slick, muddy floor as she was led before the crowd.

Your lips are red as the blood of a freshly skinned doe. Your eyes as blue as a bird shot down with an arrow—

Your prose is truly stimulating, Rhys, but shouldn’t we be focusing on my impending doom? She cut in.

Brilliant, Feyre. I was about to work in a comparison to disembowelment, but your travails against the Middenguard Wyrm might prove more inspirational. What rhymes with Wyrm, by chance?

Feyre was hauled towards a wooden platform erected above the riotous crowd. Atop it sat Amarana and Tamlin and before them was an exposed labyrinth of tunnels and trenches—her fighting arena. She was thrown to her knees before the platform, the half-frozen mud splattering from the impact.

Rhys was still chattering in her mind. Firm, term, squirm, discern…

Feyre rose back to her feet. She knew Rhys was trying to keep her nerves at bay, knowing this trial could still very well kill her. For all the lightheartedness of his words, she could sense his apprehension.

Around the platform stood a group of six males, secluded from the main crowd. Feyre tracked her eyes over their cold, beautiful faces, smoothing the recognition in her eyes—Helion, Kalias, Tarquin, Beron, Thesan, and Rhys, who bore a feline smile through his corona of darkness. But anyone who knew him well could see how the facade of amused indifference didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Choosing to rhyme ‘Wyrm’ seems like the work of a lesser poet, Feyre hummed to him, because maybe he needed the distraction too. It would be much more impressive for you to rhyme ‘Middenguard’.

Amarantha raised a hand and the roaring crowd silenced. “Well, Feyre,” the Faerie Queen said, resting a hand on Tamlin’s knee. “Your first task is here. Let us see how deep that human affection of yours runs.”

And what if I do? Rhys purred, continuing this dance of not quite acknowledging their anxieties. It was a routine they both performed well. If I come back to you with a brilliant poem rhyming ‘Middenguard’, what will you give me? A Champion’s kiss?

Defeating a Middenguard Wyrm is certainly much easier than writing verse about one. It would be a shame for that to go unrewarded.

I’m pleased you recognize my plight, Feyre darling.

“I took the liberty of learning a few things about you,” Amarantha drawled. “It was only fair, you know.”

Feyre braced herself, knowing any moment she’d be pushed into those trenches. If she was ready, perhaps she could land on her feet and take off before the Wrym gave chase.

“I think you’ll like this task,” Amarantha went on. She waved a hand and the Attor stepped forward to part the crowd, clearing the way to the lip of a trench. “Go ahead. Look.”

Feyre stalked towards the trenches and tentatively peered down the twenty foot drop, pretending she didn’t know full well it was a trap. Still, she took the moment to study the path she should take starting directly below. Feyre tracked the route that would put the most distance between herself and the Wyrm initially, to give her enough time to disguise her scent.

Hands slammed into her back, and Feyre watched the floor of the trench rush towards her before she was jerked up by the bone-hard grip of the Attor, its wings beating powerfully against the drag of her weight. Laughter echoed across the chamber as she dangled from the Attor’s claws, but Feyre didn’t let it deter her. She had a better vantage point, now, and she could see to the pit of bones where she’d laid her trap—there. She studied the necessary turns at each junction, trying to commit it to memory—left, left, left, right, right, left, right…

The Attor swooped down into the trench and dropped Feyre on her feet. She landed gracefully, a lioness poised to pounce. And before Amarantha could begin rattling on uselessly with her taunts, Feyre lept into a sprint, flying through the muddy passageway.

After a moment’s surprise, Amarantha tipped her head back and cackled. The crowd began howling in laughter at her lead. “Humans are such cowards. Why do you run, Feyre, when you’ve yet to learn what you’re facing? Such disappointing behavior from a supposed huntress. You were meant to catch my prey, not run with your tail between your legs.”

Feyre was hardly listening as she skidded around the first left where the passageway split into two, nearly careening into the wall of the trench. She took only a moment to regain her footing, scooping a handful of mud from the wall as she did so. Feyre began spreading the foul sludge along her arms as she took off once more.

“Release it,” Amarantha hissed, seemingly provoked by Feyre’s lack of acknowledgement and unfaltering maneuvers. She certainly hadn’t expected her little toy to be dropped into the arena with a plan.

Behind her, Feyre heard a grate groan open, then a slithering, swift-moving noise. She increased her pace, throwing herself through the next diverging left path. The crowd had quieted to a murmur, silent enough for Feyre to hear the guttural rumble of the worm. It wasn’t yet close enough for her to feel the vibrations in the ground and Feyre took that as an encouraging sign. She tore at the wall as she ran, rubbing more mud onto her fighting leathers, along her torso. Feyre veered left again at the next fork.

Three lefts then two rights then another left… Feyre reminded herself as she heaved a handful of mud onto her head mid-stride, ignoring as the slop dripped down her face.

“What’s it doing?” a faerie from the crowd sneered above.

Feyre could feel the vibrations of the Wrym as it gained on her, though she couldn’t yet smell the stench of its breath and that was promising. She was running through a long, straight section of the trench and she hoped she’d put enough distance between them to make it across.

Feyre soared past the opening she’d wasted precious time forcing herself through last time she’d been in these trenches. She came to the end of the passageway and took the path to the right, pausing only long enough to rub her another glob of mud over her neck and clothes. Feyre heard what sounded like the Wrym entering the long stretch of passageway she’d just hurled out of. Hoping she’d disguised herself enough, she bolted towards the next fork and promptly skidded to the right.

“She’s become invisible to the Wrym,” Rhysand observed in the elegant timbre as the vibrations rattling through the trench diminished.

Feyre realized he was giving her a subtle hint while answering the male’s question—the Wrym must have taken the left passageway.

Good, she’d bought herself more time. Left then right—then she’d be at the entrance to the pit. She launched further into the labyrinth, following the long and weaving path. Feyre ventured a glance at the crowd long enough to ascertain the Wrym was off her trail, their eyes turned far in the opposite direction.

She weaved left at the next branch, pausing long enough to rub more mud onto herself for good measure. Then she was hurtling towards the last turn and vaulting gracefully into the pit, where she plunged into ankle-deep mud. Feyre might be invisible, but there was still a chance for the Wrym to circle around and happen upon her through the dark tunnel.

The Wyrm is on the other side of the trenches, Rhys informed her from his vantage above. You have time, Feyre. I’ll let you know if it starts heading towards you.

She wouldn’t let the relief show on her face. She had to act ignorant to the Wyrm’s movements, which meant she needed to maintain a hurried pace.

Faeries were peering into the gaping mouth of the pit above her, their faces dark and leering. Feyre paid no mind to them as she quickly scanned her surroundings. She let a sly, predator's smile break over her face.

There was a dark chuckle in her mind. You look absolutely terrifying right now, Feyre darling.

She could only imagine—her white teeth probably stark against the dark mud caked to her face. That only encouraged her smile to broaden.

Quickly, Feyre picked through the mud, scavenging for the largest bones she could find. She promptly snapped them in half against her thigh, ignoring the sting from the impact, and tossed them into a pile. More and more bones, venturing into the darkness of the tunnel to find some of them, until they formed an impressive heap of ivory in the center of the pit. Her legs were sore and burning from where she’d heaved the bones upon them, but she gritted her teeth against the pain.

Feyre swiftly got to work in building her trap. She selected four of the larger bones from the top of the pile and slid them into the loops of her fighting leathers for later use. She took first to building the beginnings of her ladder, driving the sharp end of the bones into the wall as far as she could reach, double checking they were pushed in far enough to be sturdy.

“What’s it doing? What’s it planning?” one of the faeries hissed.

Feyre faced back toward the center of the pit opening, calculated the distance, and began plunging bones into the ground, sharp-side up. One by one, she stuck them into the muddy floor until the pile of snapped bones had disappeared, the whole area—save for one spot—filled with her homemade caltrops.

Feyre didn’t double check her work as she turned on her heel. She began climbing up the bone ladder, sparing one of the bones looped through her fighting leathers to serve as the final rung. Finally, she heaved herself out of the pit, her trap set. Now to bait her prey.

The Wrym had to be decently far away, for she felt no vibrations and heard none of its rumbling groans. The only indication of its location was from hasty glances toward the faeries crowded above, but they seemed amazed enough at her handiwork that most were staring right back at her. Feyre supposed she’d have to track it herself, then. She spared a moment to ensure that no part of her was left uncovered in the filthy mud, dousing herself one final time. She withdrew one of the bones from her belt, her grip slippery.

“What’s it doing?” that same green-faced faerie whined.

“She’s built a trap,” Rhysand answered again with twinkling eyes. “The Wrym relies on its scent, and Feyre is its invisible huntress.”

Feyre glowered and sent him an obscene gesture, just for old time’s sake. His laughter reverberated through her mind in response and she smiled inwardly at him.

Go hunt, my beautiful, cunning mate.

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre spared two more of the bones on the especially tight corners leading to the pit, driving them into the ground so she could use them to haul herself around the bend. The novelty of her trap having worn off as she stalked back into the labyrinth, Feyre was able to spot a crowd of faeries gathered to taunt the Wyrm. She followed after, slowing to a stalking pace as she flattened her back against a wall as she heard the slithering and grunting of the worm. And crunching.

The faeries watching the Wyrm—ten of them, with frosty blue skin and almond-shaped black eyes—giggled. Feyre could only assume they’d grown bored of her and decided to watch something else die.

Feyre slid around the bend and craned her neck. The crowd murmured overhead. Too covered in its scent to smell her, the Wyrm continued feasting, stretching its bulbous form upward as one of the faeries dangled a hairy arm. The Wyrm gnashed its teeth and the faeries cackled as the arm dropped into its waiting mouth.

Feyre raised her bone-sword as she moved around the bend, away from the Wrym, and prepared herself to run for her life. She couldn’t afford any self doubt as she drew the jagged edge of the bone across her palm, splitting open her flesh.

I am Feyre Cursebreaker, High Lady of the Night Court, the Stars Eternal, and I will endure.

Blood welled, bright and shining. Feyre let it build before clenching her hand into a fist. The worm would smell it soon enough.

Something unexpected had happened last time, Feyre remembered—the Wyrm had become so ravenous it’d broken through the wall rather than come round the bend.

The crowd had gone silent. Feyre tried to back up casually, putting space between herself and the wall but keeping her eyes fixed towards the turn. She couldn’t look as if she knew the Wyrm would move unexpectedly—Amarantha might suspect Rhysand’s intervention.

The blue faeries were grinning at Feyre as she stumbled back, mock confusion growing on her face the longer she waited.

She must have been selling it convincingly enough because shattering the silence like a shooting star, a voice—Lucien’s—bellowed across the chamber. “TO YOUR LEFT!”

Feeling so grateful for her friend, Feyre used his interjection as an excuse to break into a sprint away from the wall. The extra space she’d slyly given herself had been enough to offer an edge as the Wyrm exploded through the mud, a mass of shredding teeth. Feyre was already running, so fast the trenches were a blur of reddish brown. She could hear the Wyrm shuddering through the tunnels, quick on her heels, but not quick enough.

Feyre took a sharp turn, grabbing onto a bone-rail to careen around without breaking her speed. She let the momentum propel her forward to the next turn. Feyre’s breath was a flame ravaging her throat as she hurtled around the next bend.

The worm was a raging, crashing force behind her, but Feyre’s steps were steady as she strode across the mud, flipping through the final turn. The crowd became ravenous as she shot through the straight passageway curving up before the pit. Feyre had earned precious seconds on those turns; now that they were running straight on, the Wyrm was gaining on her quickly. She could feel its breath warming her back as the mouth of the pit loomed, and she lept.

Time seemed to slow as Feyre met open black air. Somehow falling had lost its edge after learning to fly with Azriel. She swung her arms as she tumbled gracefully toward the spot she’d kept clear of sharp bones. Feyre hit the ground hard, rolling with the momentum. She felt something pop, but didn’t give herself time to clock it as she hurried into the darkness of the den.

The Wyrm plummeted into the pit with a wet, crunching noise. And then its body went still.

Feyre ventured toward the beast, seizing one of the bones from the ground as she did, just in case. Her left arm was limp and throbbing—dislocated, she realized belatedly. From the fall.

There were gasps rising indiscriminately from the crowd. Then cheering. Feyre was too busy wondering how she’d climb out of the pit with a dislocated shoulder to bask in the pride of it.

No one made any move to help her. Feyre gritted her teeth. Fine then, she thought. She’d set it herself. It was crude, and she might not do it correctly, but Rhys could rectify any further damage later on. Right now she had to focus on getting out of this Gods’ forsaken pit.

After taking a long, steadying breath, Feyre shoved the left side of her body into the mud wall with enough force to make her gasp. Still, she felt that pop as her shoulder slid back in place. Feyre swallowed past the hot shards of agony as she stalked to the bone ladder.

She couldn’t help the whimper that escaped as she raised her arm to the bone rung, but at least she could move it again. Each step up the ladder was pure torment, but eventually Feyre was able to pull herself back into the labyrinth. She was gasping, mostly in pain, as she silently stumbled back through the labyrinth. Feyre knew she probably had more injuries, disguised by the tingling remains of adrenaline pumping through her veins.

She reached the edge of the trench and beheld Amarantha, sat high on her platform. Feyre still had a long bone clenched in her fists and she knew exactly what she planned to do with it.

“Well,” Amarantha said with a little smirk. “I suppose anyone could have done that.”

Feyre took a few running steps and hurled the bone at Amarantha with all her remaining strength, wincing against the pull at her shoulder.

The bone embedded itself in the mud at Amarantha’s feet, splattering filth onto her white gown.

The faeries gasped again. Amarantha stared at the still wobbling bone before touching the mud on her bodice. She smiled slowly. “Naughty,” she tsked.

But Feyre smiled right back, all teeth. Defiantly, tauntingly. Just enough to demonstrate her assuredness. This was the only task Amarantha had a chance of defeating Feyre in; now she was practically sitting in her own coffin. Feyre wanted to hint it to her, just a little bit, just enough to make her regret underestimating a human.

Careful, Rhys warned, but there was pride shining in his voice.

“I suppose you’ll be happy to learn most of my court lost a good deal of money tonight,” she said, picking up a piece of parchment.

Congrats on your earnings, she purred to Rhys. What’s my cut?

Hmm, we didn’t negotiate anything, but I suppose I owe something to my Champion. How’s a ring sound?

“Let’s see,” Amarantha went on, reading the paper as she toyed with Jurian’s finger at the end of her necklace. “Yes, I’d say almost my entire court bet on you dying within the first minute; some said you’d last five, and—” she turned over the paper—“and just two people said you would win.”

Two people? Feyre frowned, but then her eyes found Lucien in the crowd. Despite the punishment he’d be facing for his outburst, he was grinning at her ferociously, pride gleaming in that russet eye. She was touched.

Don’t tease me. There’s only one ring I have my sights on, and I wish it could be acquired so easily as killing a Wyrm.

Ah, yes. But once you do acquire it, it’s yours.

Feyre tried not to smile at the implication of his words. They’d made everything she’d just endured, twice over, more than worth it.

Amarantha frowned at her list, and she waved a hand. “Take her away. I tire of her mundane face.” She clenched the arms of her throne hard enough that the whites of her knuckles showed. “Rhysand, come here.”

Red hands grabbed Feyre as Rhys started to prowl forward. She couldn’t stay long enough to hear what was said to him, though she longed to. She hoped he wasn’t in too much trouble. It seemed Amarantha had tightened his leash since her arrival.

Stay safe. Please, she begged him as she was hauled away. Say whatever you need to say. Throw me under any current you need if it keeps your head above water.

I’ll come see you soon, was all he said.

Feyre couldn’t even look back as she was dragged, none too gently, back to her cell. Her shoulder throbbed in pain and as the adrenaline wore off, she felt her other injuries slowly waking up. A sharp sting in her right thigh, a biting pulse in her ankle, and plenty of sore, aching muscles.

She collapsed in a heap as soon as she was thrown into her cell, succumbing herself to sleep before the pain won over.

Taglist: @cretaceous-therapod @feybaenc @uniquelyboringmusings @imsecretlyaherondale-blog @rhysandswingspan

#A Court of Faded Dreams #feysand fic #feysand #acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #fanfiction #pro feyre #pro rhys #UtM #first trial

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