ACOTAR One~shots [Discontinued, Will be deleted]

lay yourself out, pick yourself up

He’d trapped me in here; he’d locked me up.

I stopped seeing the marble floor, or the paintings on the walls, or the sweeping staircase looming behind me. I stopped hearing the chirping of the spring birds, or the sighing of the breeze through the curtains.

And then crushing black pounded down and rose up from beneath, devouring and shredding. It was all I could do to keep form screaming, to keep from shattering into ten thousand pieces as I sank onto the marble floor, bowing over my knees, and wrapped my arms around myself.

He felt her panic across miles and miles. Could hear her screaming as if she was right next to him.

Rhysand quickly moved into action, but not quick enough. By the time Mor got to the Spring Court, Tamlin had returned, drawn back by the power Feyre had unleashed.

Mor could have gotten her out, but not without violence. Rhys didn’t doubt her ability, but against a High Lord and his court she would be vulnerable. And he didn’t dare go in himself, least he make a bigger mess of things. Not yet, anyway.

Mor retreated, and Azriel tried to slip in her place. The borders of the Spring Court were locked tight. He could only get snippets from his eyes and ears, and what he got was not encouraging.

Rhys could feel it now—the little bit of Feyre that came from him. Of course, he felt her turmoil as well through their mental bond. But something separate from that hummed, the power that he had given her along with the gift of life. If he felt it, the other High Lords did too. It was only a matter of time before they sniffed her out.

If Rhys contacted Tamlin now, he couldn’t be sure how the High Lord of Spring would react. He wouldn’t invite Rhysand into his court with open arms. If Rhys sent a letter telling Tamlin he knew what was going on, the Spring Court borders would probably turn impenetrable. What would he do anyway if he got to the Spring Court? What could Rhysand do that Tamlin couldn’t, short of shoving his way into Feyre’s mind and taking control? The thought made him sick.

There had to be an option besides sitting on his ass and waiting, but he couldn’t see one. Could he bargain with another High Lord to go? Maybe Helion? But what business would Helion have with the bride of Spring?

Feyre. He tried to get to her again. The night was cold, the stars shimmered pleasantly overhead. The air helped keep Rhysand alert as he flew in circles over Velaris. His city was peaceful, but he was willing to bet the Spring Court was not. Feyre darling, please answer me.

Nothing. He could barely feel her on the other end, and what he did feel he had no intention of going towards. It was ugly and painful, and as much as he wanted to support her, there would be no benefit of getting dragged down in her anguish.

A blast of emotion caused the rhythm of his flapping wings to falter, but he recovered quickly. She was in so much agony and confusion. He sent back whatever he could: the night sky, the feeling of flying, bonfires, the swirls of Illyrians tattoos. Anything and everything that once brought him comfort. No reply, not even a flicker of recognition.

When he winnowed back to his house, his Inner Circle waited in the sitting room. They looked at him, expectant.

“What are we going to do, Rhys?” Mor stood, face hard.