A Surface of Pressure and Burden

Chapter 11: A Faerie of Sarcasm and Hotness

If I thought Feyre was taking a dim view of her "cell" before the WWE (as I'd been calling it in my mind, the Wriggly Worm Episode), her angst went up to 11 afterwards. I spent a dismal night listening to her gripe aloud to the air about how her arm was shattered to smithereens (I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure it was just a scratch, and would have stopped bleeding much faster if she had stopped taking the bandage off constantly to obsess over it), how cold her bony body was, and how unable she was to eat any of the gross, disgusting, fattening food that room service brought to her.

I'd completely given up hope of Feyre figuring out the riddle on her own. She kept muttering to herself "Is it some kind of poisonous plant?" - and I tried not to remember with resentment the times I had tried to share with her what the Widow Maykre had taught Elain and I about poisonous plants in the woods, and she hadn't listened, often coming home with poison ivy and other horrifying plant oils on her clothing, which transferred to us when we did laundry.

I was all too aware that she couldn't see or hear me, so I tried everything I could think of to send the clue to her some other way. This was made very difficult by the fact that it was nearly impossible to interact with the visible world in my enchanted state without intense concentration. The terms of the spell (Will would have loved hashing all this out) seemed to be such that I could do anything that was required for safety and quality of life. For instance, I was able to eat the delicious room service that Feyre turned her nose up at (Feyre unfortunately, when telling this story later, made a point of mentioning that I had clearly not gone without food during my invisibility situation), and I could stand on the floor without falling through to the center of the earth. However, to do something nonessential, even as simple as picking up a piece of chalk to write the word "love" on Feyre's wall, was a task that felt like walking through heavy snow without snowshoes. I would spend hours getting my invisible fingers to pick up the chalk, but inevitably I wouldn't get more than half of the "L" scratched on the wall before the chalk would slip through my hands, crack on the floor, and I'd have to start the entire cauldron-boiled process all over again.

The closest I came to success was taking the fresh fruit Feyre was served every morning and pushing the pieces into a heart shape - a task that was easier than the chalk, but still left me shaking and dizzy. I could have slapped Feyre when she saw the heart shape, and instead of taking the hint, attributed the act to Lord Rhysand sending her a secret message.

And speaking of Lord Rhysand...I first met him that morning after the worm fight. The faeries had given Feyre some paint and a small canvas and I was trying to focus my hand muscles on opening a paint jar when Feyre's room door slid quietly open and a tall, dark-haired High Fae slid into the room.

Reader, let. Me. Tell. You. I've never been one to go for the Bad Boy type, and nothing would ever change the fact that my heart belonged to Will Blackthorne, but objectively speaking, Lord Rhysand was HOT. Oh my fae, I'd be lying if I didn't admit I still feel a bit weak in the knees when I remember that first morning he appeared in Feyre's room. So very tall, jet-black hair that was just the right amount of messy, muscular without being, like, too muscular, those green, green eyes glowing in his serious face - but even more than his good looks was the amount of intention he put into everything he did. His every move was deliberate, flowing with an almost catlike grace. It definitely helped that, unlike most other men in Prythian, the catlike grace was where his resemblance to some type of animal stopped. If you hadn't seen his delicately pointed ears, you would just assume that he was some kind of next-level human man. And his voice, oh my cauldrons, his voice was like melting velvet. He was also a Prince of the Prythian Night Court, but was doing what they called "a summer intern-ship" working as the costume designer for Amaranthathon. He was also a relentless, unstoppable flirt.

"What a sorry state for Tamlin's champion," he snarked upon entering the cell, the inevitable camera-fae following in his wake.

"Oh my fae, don't touch me, why are you so obsessed with me," Feyre snapped while booking it across to Rhysand's side of the room in record time.

"Don't you want me to heal your arm?" he asked, giving a sly look to the camera-fae.

"Oh my fae, stop trying to touch my arm, also, how could I ever repay you? I'm just a so pesmall, tiny, wiry, unemotional, rough-mannered-"

"Ah, that," said Rhysand, evidently growing weary of Feyre's monologue, "Living among the faeries has taught you some of our ways, I see. Well, Feyre, I'll make a trade with you. I'll heal your arm in exchange for you."

Feyre practically wriggled out of her skin at this announcement, starting another round of "Why would you even want me when I'm so small and tough and wiry and tiny-"

"For two weeks of every month," Rhysand interrupted, "two weeks of my choosing, you'll live with me at the Night Court. Starting after this messy three-trials business."

"Cauldrons," the camera-fae muttered. "How many freakin' spin-offs does Amarantha need?"

"Excuse me, but do you bring in 90% of female viewers ages 16-59? I didn't think so," Rhysand snapped.

Sometimes the magical world of these High folk seemed so lofty and incomprehensible.

"Anyway," Rhysand continued, "This is the last time I'll extend my assistance."

To my knowledge, it was the first time he'd offered it, but I supposed the High Lords' time was very valuable.

"Once I leave this room, my offer is dead. I'll bet you'll be spitting on Death's face when she comes to claim you, too!"

What a drama king.

"Wait," said Feyre, grabbing his cape before he could leave. "For Tamlin I would sell my soul. I would give up anything I had for him to be free. I'll take the deal."

First of all, who said anything about Tamlin? Second of all, had Feyre not listened to a thing Alis had said? Don't make deals with anyone, she had said. Well, I'd certainly learned that lesson the hard way. I wished I could stop Feyre from having to learn it too.

"It's done," said Rhysand, shaking Feyre's hand and putting some sort of small, sticky, flesh-colored bandage on her injury.

"Oh my fae, it's like we're holding hands, oh cauldrons, good thing I'm not romantic and emotional like other girls, or I'd be so excited about this," Feyre blurted out.

"Well, who wouldn't?" Rhysand quipped with a wink towards the camera. "Now on to the next bit of business. Prythian Plus has said that we need to edge up your look a little bit for the next trial." He opened the door to a troupe of smaller fairies armed with piles of garments, cosmetics, and other contraptions. "Complete with this season's hottest trend - an eye tattoo on your hand!"

"Oh my cauldrons, why are you always trying to get me to take my clothes off, you're so obsessed with me -" Feyre began.

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid," said Rhysand with another camera-wink. "Now while the tattoo faeries are setting up, why don't you start with this black leather dress?"