A Court of Kingdoms and Ash: An ACOTAR and TOG Crossover

Russet Eyes

Feyre slept deeply and dreamed of nothing. There was only that same blackness, the blackness of death and non-existence that she had grown so uncomfortably used to.

Part of her thrummed in its presence. Perhaps it was because she had once died—perhaps it was because she had taken a slice of death with her when she had been Made again.

Slowly, though, the darkness began to fade.

◌ ◌ ◌

Feyre awoke to feel as if she had been stuffed with cotton. Every sense was muffled—even opening her eyes took a frightening amount of effort.

It took her a moment to adjust to the environment around her. She stared up a dark wooden paneling, lit by the soft glow of candlelight. Everything rocked gently—was it her disorientation, or was she actually moving?

She slowly turned her head to study her surroundings, grimacing at the pain that arced through her body at the movement. Every part of Feyre felt exhausted and sluggish—her mind, her body—even breathing felt like a labor.

A single candle rested upon a bedside cupboard beside her head, and beside that was an empty stool. Nothing else was notable about the room, except that it was tiny, and held no windows.

Feyre needed to think—but she could barely collect her thoughts. She only felt exhaustion and the keen sense that she was blocked off from everything somehow, as if someone had placed a veil over her eyes.

Exhaustion won out, and Feyre felt herself drift off again into blissful, empty sleep.

◌ ◌ ◌

When Feyre woke up again, she felt considerably better. The numbing exhaustion had faded, and breathing no longer gave her difficulty. Her limbs were still sore, along with her eyes and throat, but she was able to lift her head now without pain racing down her spine. And the wound on her thigh had been dressed.

Someone had replaced the candle beside her, and now a tray of soup and bread had joined it. Her mouth watered, and she felt her stomach cave—how long had it been since she had eaten anything? She licked her painfully dry lips and swallowed carefully, making to reach over—

But she found that she couldn't remove her wrists from where they were shackled to each edge of the cot. With iron. Only a mortal would use iron.

With that realization, her wits came rushing back to her. Was she in the human realm? How had she gotten here? And the armada—someone had seen her in the water after all and pulled her up before she had drowned, then.

Rhys?

She shouted his name down the bond, hoping he would reply quickly so she could tell him what was going on. But... nothing. There was nothing at all, and Feyre had the sense that trying to communicate with him would be useless, like shouting into a void. She felt so... empty.

Feyre took a deep, calming breath, determined not to panic. If she had indeed somehow ended up south of the wall, she would have to bluff her way through this. Luckily, she'd had plenty of experience with deceit.

If she only had her strength—she could snap these chains easily, or melt them, but there was nothing. She had been completely drained—by what, she didn't know. Still. Feyre simply needed to lie low until she had enough power to winnow home—