#azandcas

it’s okay i can cry enough for all of us. this is basically me at the end of every chapter and/or emotional scene in “if time is money,” truly:

I’ve finally returned to the TOG world! YAY!

"Aelin, calm down."

Fae females were far more aggressive than males. That much, Rowan knew. Sure, males had the added effects of testosterone and instinct strong enough to require personal training, but as Aelin liked to say that was all "showy shit." Females didn't have shoulders big as melons, or arms they could swing (unintentionally) and wreck a door with. Their strength lay beneath the surface, in some strange concentrated form, as he knew from countless experiences in the sparring room, flying through the air and landing flat on his ass. Just because they were smaller didn't mean they were any less vicious, far more so since idiot men, enraptured by their beauty, were so keen on underestimating just how far that muscle went. Rowan had always liked to think of females as dogs — you know, the little rabid kinds that yip and bark at your heels before sinking a mouth chock-full of needles into the fleshy bits around your calf. Unfortunately for him, Aelin was a dog with one hell of a bite.

"I will not calm down!" She snapped her teeth, seemingly beyond words.

Rowan fought the urge to take a step back and forced his voice into a semblance of calm. "You're being unreasonable."

Aelin snarled and began pacing at a furious rate. The way she was at it, she'd set fire to their bedroom floor, or at least render it hot enough for cooking. The sunlight had squeezed in through the fabric draped across the broad planes of their windows, a weak thing so late in the evening. Even still, the fury was quite clear on his wife's face.

Another growl echoed through the room, louder and with frustration coloring every note.

He gave a little sigh. They'd been married for ten years now, and even now he was wary of her rage.

Aelin halted on the purple carpet, half-turned away from him, fists clenched. "I hate that man."

"Aelin, he —"

She whirled on him, eyes flashing. "He insulted my family," she spat.

A sigh escaped his lips before he could stop it. He knew it wasn't his place to be upset, but he was just so tired of her temper. "Aelin," he massaged his temples, "I think I'm going to have to leave until you're out of this mood. I can't talk to you when you're like this —"

She was on him before he could finish his sentence, hands gripping his neck and abdomen caging him in against the wall. His lips parted at the sheer fury radiating off of her body. It was in the wild spark to her eye, the way her fangs hovered half an inch above his neck, her muscles trembling, as if she could barely keep her instincts at bay.

Rowan.

Her voice was a whisper in his mind.

Stop talking.

His mouth snapped shut.

In the following silence, he was acutely aware of the sharpness of her breaths, his own lungs straining for air, the unrelenting grip of her fingers on his neck. An abrupt thought left him dizzy and slightly nauseous. She could kill me, if she wanted to.

But just as he'd thought it, a jolt went through her and suddenly she was halfway across the room. Her eyes were wide, breaths short — in other words, the perfect expression of horror.

Rowan pushed himself off the wall, still a bit shaky. He drew his tongue across his teeth, tasting for blood. There was none, but... His hand tentatively brushed the skin of his neck, and he pulled back, hissing. So she hadn't let up at all, then.

"Rowan," she murmured and took a half-step towards him.

He glanced up at her, noticed that her face was still aghast, and then his own anger was bubbling to the surface. What right did she have to be worried when she'd damn near killed him? He was about to snap out those very words, but he hadn't lived three centuries only to let his mouth run ahead of him. So he bit down on his tongue and waited.

Aelin had not moved closer, had instead seated herself against the wall, knees drawn to chest, watching him. Her anger seemed to have abated, at least for the time being, so he felt safe in approaching. Silence was what he offered as he sat beside her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Again, he was silent.

"I didn't mean to —" She took a shuddering breath. "I don't know what happened."

He was struck by a memory, of centuries ago, when the land had been greener and mankind lesser. Then, there had been more fae, and more fae meant more fae children. He had been one of them, and growing up had been...hard, to say the least. Instinct ran deep in his veins, just as it did in any other of his kind, and self-discipline was taught rather than expected. He'd been, oh, seventeen summers when he'd first killed someone out of pure, blind rage. He'd been having a bad day, the unfortunate lad had taunted him one too many times, and then he'd been dead. That was it. Magic aside, Rowan had been quite normal for a male: no malicious intent, no homicidal tendencies.

But even still, that had been cold-blooded murder.

Rowan brushed Aelin's hand with his own, willing her to continue.

At his touch, she seemed to find the strength to look at him. Her eyes tracked the lines of his face, the slope of his brow, his nose, lips, a pause...and then they slipped to just above his collarbone. Rowan suppressed a snarl when her fingers brushed that same sore spot.

"I left marks," she breathed. She retracted her hand. "Shit. Shit."

"Why are you so angry?" Rowan asked.

She swore again. "I don't know, Rowan. Maybe because I almost killed you."

He gave a half-smile. "You know I would've killed you right back."

Aelin opened her mouth, closed it. An incredulous laugh burst out of her. "You would say that."

"I meant why were you angry before," he clarified

She sobered. "He insulted my family."

"You've said that twice now, but he never once mentioned your parents." Rowan said this, ignoring the fact that it sounded crass because he was sure that Aelin would be aware that he knew.

"I..." A grimace. "I've never told anyone this. But my parents..." She sighed, faced him fully, and stated, "Well, I didn't know them."

"No shit."

She shoved him. "I'm trying to be serious, here!"

"Go on, then."

"So I didn't know them. Because of that, I think, the word "family" has always been a title designated only to those that really matter. From all the hundreds of people I've met, I could only call you, Aedion, Lysandra, and Dorian my family." The gold in her eyes gleamed when she said, "Not two dead people."

Rowan looked at her.

As soon as the words had left her mouth, she ducked her head and stifled an affronted giggle. "Shit. I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

Rowan squinted. "It kind of did, though."

She snapped her gaze to his, relaxed when she realized he was joking. "Rowan, I almost just killed you, bared my soul to you, and the most you've done is lay your obnoxious "I'm-too-stupid-to-understand-you-so-I'm-going-to-play-it-off-as-if-I'm-better-than-you" act on me."

He raised a brow. "I must be a remarkable actor. Didn't even practice that one."

I died for a month and didn’t post. This happens all the time. But suddenly I was struck with inspiration, and it pulled me from my comatose, and here I am. AU, I think?? But whatevs, super vague world- and plot-building as always. You figure it out.

The first time they met, she was dressed in white.

It really didn't suit her, he thought. Her skin was too-pale against the sheer fabric, her cheeks flushed an ugly red and her eyes dulled to gray pinpricks. Nobody else seemed to notice. The servants bowed their heads respectfully, some falling to their knees in what was surely an over exaggeration of propriety. Not even the square-jawed prince, the keeper of the Lady's leash, took note, nor the red-haired dog that lapped at his feet.

"I want a painting," said the Prince, voice cold as his eyes, emerald pools that went deep and dark and down.

Rhysand kept his tone demure, as surely the lady's was to be soon enough. "Of course, My Lord," he said from where he knelt on the marble steps. "And what would I be painting?" He said what, though he already knew the subject of his brush, for surely she was not a creature of this world to be so beautiful, even bedecked in such glib frippery. Even with cheeks hollowed thin and shadows framing her eyes, dark as her lashes.

The Prince pulled his wife towards him with a lazy arm about her shoulders, motion expectant and entitled. Rhysand almost missed her flinch. "My lovely wife," the Prince said, turning to gaze upon her face. She did not look back, jaw tensing when his fingers found their way under her chin, pulling her not roughly, but insistently, to face him. "Paint this...gorgeous piece of art." His eyes glazed.

Rhysand curled his lip. Did he not see what a horrible state he had put her in? Her dress should not fold inwards at the bend of her stomach, nor should his fingers be able to ensnare the thin bridge of her wrist. He had seen paupers that looked better than she, and living an estate as large as the city's half... Surely the Prince could provide?

"I remember the first time I found her," the Prince murmured, words a quiet musing, eyes intense and unseeing as he stared into his Lady's steel-gray orbs.

Rhysand glanced around at the gathered servants (slaves, more like). Was he the only one to see the shallow motion of their Lady's throat bobbing, or the barely-contained fury in the lines of her face? She was not even a good actress. But their heads remained stubbornly down.

"She was in the streets," the Prince continued. "The slums of that wretched city." Here, his lips pulled back, revealing teeth sharp as a shark's. "Velaris."

Rhysand froze on those steps, blood turned cold at the mention of his hometown, the place he had left six years ago, thinking it safe, a secret. A whisper on the lips. But apparently that whisper had turned to talk and then to shout and then to laughter at those who had not heard.

"Velaris," the Prince repeated, fingers tightening on his Lady's jaw, nails biting in hard enough to mark her flesh. She did not cry out, though her hands gripped her dress hard. "The same place that the old High Lord called me a fool." The Prince chuckled. "The cobbles were painted with his blood the next minute. I ought to think the civilians were taught a good lesson, not to disrespect me. But just to be sure I had to kill the rest of them."

Rhysand clenched his fist, breath sputtering out of his chest.

"Killed his daughter first. She was so little in my hands. She broke quite nicely. Next came his wife." The Prince drew a breath, hand squeezing tighter, and a drop of blood trickled down his Lady's cheek. "She was such a pretty thing. Her hands were so soft." A cruel smile suddenly replaced the wondering look in his eye. "And she screamed quite nicely when I had my fill of her. Much like you, my dear." He stroked his wife's hair. "Why do you not look at me, Feyre?"

Rhysand did not think the Lady was breathing.

The Prince stared at her for a long while, breaking his gaze with a small shake of his head, turning his eyes back to the figure stooped at his feet. "Give me something worthwhile, painter, and I will give you more money than you could ever hope to gain in your life."

His eyes burned, and for once he was glad that his head was turned to the floor. If he had to look upon the Prince's face, he would surely do something stupid.

"I shall paint you, Lord," Rhysand spat out. "I shall paint you."

#

The painting was a lie, a beautiful, flower-crusted lie, with roses encasing a man whose shoulders were unnaturally broad, golden tresses falling just past his shoulders, and eyes the same vibrant green as the thorns studding the roses' stems. He painted a monster, one that hid behind a curtain of sunshine, bright enough to blind any passing by, but never enough to make blind those willing to look closer.

The strangest thing was that nobody seemed to notice anything odd about it.

#

"It'll do." The Prince looked up from the portrait. "You've proven your skill. Now paint me what I wanted in the first place."

For her, he painted the truth. Beneath that horrible, demurring veneer of arched back and graceful neck, hands laid in lap and velvet skin wrapped in ribbon. When he painted her, his lines were harsh and jagged, a caustic, cutting thing, with colors black and gray and pale red. He ignored the way her legs crossed, dress wide and modest and too-long, the perfect model of feminine perfection. He ignored all that and focused instead on the fiery gray of her eyes, the powerful muscles that were visible beneath all that, the finery and the tautness of her flesh over her bones. And he painted the truth.

When she laid eyes on it, under the shadow of his ceiling, the slope of his walls, she only said, "An interesting interpretation."

And Rhysand gave her a knowing look, a smile wry, and said, "I can always see through a disguise."

#

"Well done, painter," the Prince said. "You've done good. You'll find your reward in the carriage out back."

Rhysand bowed graciously. "Thank you, Lord. It was a pleasure."

From behind the curtain, the Lady watched. She was not supposed to. She was supposed to be in bed, resting from her stroll, but as time passed she found it harder and harder to keep herself contained within that prison.

Curious eyes followed the painter as he gave his final goodbyes and made his way towards the exit. The very same place she stood at. She did not shy away, though. No, she was not afraid of him, merely intrigued.

He pushed aside the curtain and froze when he saw her. "Lady," he said, clearly surprised. A moment later, he had gone through the proper bow. "I had not expected you out of bed."

His voice was not prying, but there was the hint of something else. Something sad and more than a little angry, judging.

It sparked her own fury. "Perhaps I didn't feel like sleeping in the middle of the day," she snapped.

He blinked, and then the ghost of a smile quirked his lips. "Fair enough." His tone changed. "Lady, I had hoped to give you something." His hand fumbled inside his jacket, fishing out a thick roll of paper. "This is for you."

She took it. "My painting," she stated. "You didn't give it to Ta—to the Lord."

"No." Rhysand gazed at her. "I don't think he would be able to appreciate it as much as you."

Feyre looked up sharply. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, painter."

He stepped close, close enough that she could smell him. "I mean," he breathed, "that there is more to it than meets the eye. Just as there is to you."

She shifted just slightly, finding his eyes were right beside her own. She started at the shade, a violet so deep they were almost black. Extroardinary...

Her lips parted at the feel of his breath on her neck, the phantom touch of his fingers at her waist—

But then sense got hold of her, and she was pulling away, readjusting her skirts and catching her breath. "Well," she said.

Rhysand's face was unreadable.

"I...thank you."

He nodded, dropped into a graceful bow, and said, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat, Lady." He stood and dusted off his trousers before meeting her gaze. "But don't you forget, Feyre, I can see right through you. And soon, others will be able to, as well.

"

The painting was hung in the narrow end of the foyer, just before the great wooden doors that held the peasants at bay. The colors were dark and heavy, and they should've been near unnoticeable in the gloom of the hallway, yet somehow the eye was drawn straight to that area, and where the attention wanders the feet follow. An entering stranger would soon find himself standing before a great portrait, life-size, nailed to the wall. A black background framed the face of Feyre Archeron, the Lady of Spring and Shadow of Night. Her eyes were not dulled the way they had been that first morning, holding great wells of fire and spirit and something else that shouted I am not what you think, I am not what he thinks. Dark hair smudged about her head in a great halo, highlighted in the ray of the moon, and fading as it approached the bottom of her breasts. From the waist down, there was mostly black, and only the vague outline of something else: the silhouette of clawed hands and taloned feet, a curving tail, and at her temples, the barest hint of horns.

I may have taken some liberties with the Weaver's cottage.

Aelin was pissed again.

The initial rush of outrunning a band of angry, terrified soldiers was gone. Impossible to retain any kind of good spirit if you'd been running nonstop for the better part of a day. Even harder if you were running through a forest.

She hissed a curse as she ran headlong into a branch. Cursed again when an arrow grazed the pointed tip of her ear.

"Damned archers," she muttered, coaxing her weary legs to move faster.

Her breaths came in short, rasping pants, lungs burning, braid streaming. Going from knocked-unconscious to flat-out sprint was a stupid stunt, even for her, but to go from flat-out sprint to marathon-run was proof of how exhausted and addled she was.

The trees were a blur as she ran past, pine and oak and forever-budding dogwood. The animals had been scared off by the commotion behind, but the flora was still present. Purple jasmine flowers and little, yellow spuds that puffed and floated on the breeze. In another situation, she may have been lucid enough to call this place beautiful. But through current events, "fuckin' madhouse" may have been a more apt description.

As the day wore on, Aelin noted that the trees had begun to thin. Her first reaction was to be grateful, for there were fewer roots and rocks to trip upon, but then common sense spoke up and she realized that less cover meant an easy target.

From behind came a shout. "Archers, ready!"

An arrow thunked into the bark of a tree beside her head.

Aelin whirled, cupped a hand to her mouth, and shouted back, "Definitely ready!" And then resumed running.

Perhaps sound carried better in these woods, and perhaps Tamlin's soldiers possessed a pride easily-wounded, (or perhaps she'd finally tired, and she just wouldn't admit it) for suddenly they were that much faster than her, breaking through the trees on white horses and bedecked in golden armor, plated scales running down the graceful lines of their legs and arms. How they had gotten into such assembly while she wasn't looking, she'd never understand.

But her steps were slowing as nausea and dehydration set in, and panic, with his stubby little legs, was finally able to catch up to her mind and say, What the fuck are you gonna do now?"

For the first time in a long while, Aelin Galathynius was prepared to give up, but then that shadowy little voice brushed her mind.

This way, it said, and this time something in it was distinctly female.

A mental tug had her stumbling eastwards, cutting a line directly across the soldiers' path, a necessary risk if she was to have any hope of escape. Her body went into autopilot, brain shutting off, until all she could feel was that insistent pull and a little voice in her head saying, This way, this way.

Aelin's mind woke up some time later, when she realized a miracle was occurring before her very eyes. Somehow, somehow, the voices were fading. A deep inhale had her suspicions confirmed. She couldn't smell Tamlin anymore.

The trees had stopped thinning, but the land was remarkably different. The plants were thinner, longer, as if less accustomed to standing stiff against the wind or pulling nutrient from the sun, and more to creeping around the trunk of some greater life, drawing soul from that being instead.

The air was still and humid, thick with pollen and heavy as a blanket. Aelin was left with the feeling she could sweat as much as she liked and she'd never cool off.

The voice said, Almost there. This way.

She found her steps slowing, mind clearing, and her gaze drifted across the small glade she'd stopped in. There, to the left, was a small cottage. Thatch on the roof, held together by something sticky and thick. Thin windows, tall and thin, like those on the castles back in the mountains of Doranelle. Immediately upon seeing it, Aelin struggled to turn around, fought the hold in her mind. She might be dead tired, but her instincts were still in tact. Something was very wrong with this place.

Calm down, the voice said, and...yes, that was definitely a female, an irritated, testy one at that.

"Hell, no," Aelin said out loud. "You're crazy."

Irritation flickered again.

And then the door was opening, and a clean, brown-haired female was stepping outside. Her scent was strong even with the breeze so full of pollen and Spring-shit, something dark and writhing, like a feral beast shoved into a rusted-down cage, bars popping and straining and near ready to burst.

As the female stalked closer, green dress swishing behind her, Aelin took note of the pointed ears, the delicate tattoo trailing up her arm, and the angry cobalt eyes that now flashed at her. The female stopped right in front of her, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Aelin herself, but not intimidated in the slightest.

The first thing she said was (in a particularly crabby, old woman kind of way, if anyone was asking Aelin), "If you want to die, stay out here. If not, stop being an ass and follow me."

With that, she pivoted on her heel and stomped back to the cottage. Aelin slipped inside before the door could slam shut.

Inside, it was a mess. No matter how disturbing the outside of the house was. The interior was...something. The floors and ceilings resembled hardwood, but they were pure, midnight black. And old. Ancient. No cobwebs, no spiders or creepy things hiding behind rotted boards, but it was cracked and had that musty book-smell of houses long ago abandoned. There were no connecting hallways, and Aelin thought that the whole place was a lot smaller than it appeared on the outside. The single room was lit with scanty furniture: an old chest (and with the chairs surrounding it, and its relatively flat top, she supposed it was passing as a table), a stuffed black dog curled on the purple throw-rug in the back, a bookcase, so low to the ground it might've been built for that hound, once well-aged (and somehow breathing), to go perusing through the stacks. And then there was the old loom, propped in the corner of the room beside a thin-cushioned stool, perfect and unmarked by dust, as if someone had used it just hours ago.

Overall, it was the works of a very creepy house.

Aelin turned to find the female assessing her with a frankness that had her bristling.

She glared right back.

The female let out something that might have been a snort and moved to get one of the chairs from its perch beside the chest. She brought it over, a nice healthy distance away, and flicked her fingers in a way that indicated Aelin should sit.

If she'd been at full strength, she might have laughed, turned the chair upside down and sat on the wrong side, just for the heck of it. But she wasn't, and so she didn't.

Her body sagged when she sat, fatigue hitting her with all the subtlety of a brick to the face. She hadn't let it show, but even when she'd just woken up from unconsciousness she'd been tired. Dealing with fools like Tamlin made her head hurt on a good day, but with Evangeline so far gone, and without Rowan's stoic support at her side...

She knuckled her eyes. "Damn..."

Soft footsteps had her looking up. The female had returned, a washcloth and bucket in hand.

"I know some things about healing," she said.

It was an offer.

Aelin cocked her head. Then nodded.

The female set the bucket down and knelt beside her. She did not pick up the washcloth as Aelin expected. Instead, a gentle whisper in her mind — Let me in?

Aelin glanced up sharply, found the female's piercing eyes already waiting. Knowing. Aelin studied her for a moment, wary and intrigued at the same time. Open trust did not come easy.

But this female had helped her and obviously was aware that Tamlin was an idiot, and as far as she was concerned, that was reason enough to place some good will in a person.

So Aelin nodded and the voice turned into something thicker, more tangible, as it brushed up against a barrier in her mind she hadn't been aware existed.

You need to put this down.

Aelin wasn't sure how, but she tried, and she found that this "wall" slid away as willingly as it slammed back up. The shadow in her head was gentle and feather-light, which she appreciated, given how startling even this small touch was. It wriggled deeper and deeper, like a little black worm, until it had reached the very core of her, a center of golden flame and burning heart. The worm felt out of place in there, and Aelin had to fight to keep from shoving it away entirely.

Relax. A word on the edge of her consciousness.

The word was a command, an order, and it had her rising faster than she could measure. Stubborn refusal and rage bubbling to the surface, hot and angry and compulsory. A knife found its way into her hand and she took a step forward, even through the sub-reality of her own making.

Relax. The word held a harder edge.

It was a struggle to remind herself that the danger was of her mind and not a noose poised about her neck.

She won, eventually, forcing tense muscles to relax and heart-rate to steady. The worm seemed to sigh, and then something deep and dark flowed into her being, a soothing darkness like she hadn't felt since she was less than a babe, rocked to sleep in her mother's womb. It filled her, full to bursting, sending dying embers into a burst of flame that popped and roared before settling into a steady beat.

Aelin opened her eyes with a quiet gasp.

The worm was gone, and —

"I feel...good," she breathed. "Better than good."

The female laughed quietly. "They always say that the first time." Still kneeling on the floor, her stern gaze had softened considerably, into something friendly, if slightly concerned. "You're alright, then?"

Aelin gave her an incredulous stare. "Did I not just say that?"

The female shook her head, a sly smile on her lips. "You did. I meant mentally." Her smile halted, blue eyes darkening. "Tamlin can be a bit..."

"Of an ass?"

"Of an ass," the female agreed.

Their voices died away, and suddenly without them, everything seemed unnaturally still. A glance out the reed-thin window confirmed that yes, the world chirped on outside, with a crescent moon hanging dubious in a purple sky.

"Moon's beautiful, isn't it?" the female murmured, and Aelin wondered if she was imagining that quiet hint of longing.

She debated the many possible tones to which she could answer that question before settling on, "Looks like a toenail clipping."

A snort. "I suppose it does."

Aelin studied the female, brown hair snagging halfway down her back, slender neck and nose, eyes deep and knowing as her own. All distraction to hide the strange broadness of her shoulders, the muscle that danced along her arms and legs, all unbecoming of a lady born to tittering and lash-fluttering.

Sort of like...me?

In the following moments, she contemplated the wisdom of her next decision.

"Aelin Galathynius," she said abruptly, and the female turned to look at her. "That's my name. I also happen to be queen of a kingdom you've never heard of."

The female blinked, then nodded, as if this news was not particularly surprising. "I'm Feyre." A pause. "Affiliated with a Court different than this."

Aelin grinned. "Would never have guessed, what with how loyal you are to His Royal Pansy-ass."

Feyre snorted and shifted on the floor into a cross-legged position. "Try dealing with him for nine months and let's see how loyal you are."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I could entertain myself. It was kind of fun to see him spluttering so beautifully."

Feyre scratched her cheek. "You've got me beat for sheer will, I'll give you that. Knocked unconscious only to wake up Tamlin's face." She shook her head. "I'd have gone right back to sleep."

Aelin laughed. "I was thinking about it." As her gaze wandered the cottage's strange contents, her thoughts returned to more pressing matters. "Where are we exactly."

"Well..." Feyre hesitated.

Suspicion was her bane. Voice flat, Aelin said, "Tell me."

A flash of temper. "I'd tell you if I knew," she bit out. "This place isn't exactly consistent."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes it's here, and sometimes it's...not." She shrugged. "The previous owner was old, older than this land. She needed somewhere safe to stay, so she built this cottage. She made sure it was sufficiently hidden from the rest of the world. Took safety precautions."

"Disappearing to somewhere you can't find it isn't very befitting of a safe-haven."

Feyre brushed a fist down her jaw, a crease of worry appearing between her brows. "That's not all it does."

Aelin gave her a look.

"It also...might disappear while you're in it."

She blinked. "You mean we might be hurtling through space right now?"

"Possibly."

Aelin looked out the window again. The moon was still there, wan and pale as ever. "Doesn't look like it."

"It doesn't have to," Feyre said. "It —" She sighed the sigh of one too young to be so weary. She stood up and smoothed a wrinkle in her dress. "Do you know what a pocket realm is?"

Aelin swung back in her chair, arm hanging over the side. "No idea."

"It's...hard to explain. I...perhaps better if I show you." Feyre paced in a circle, looking decidedly frazzled as she ran a hand through her hair. "I wish Rhysand was here," she muttered. "Always the better teacher." She stopped, took a breath, and turned back to Aelin. "This might be a bit startling."

She snapped her fingers.

Aelin was not sure what happened next.

Yo. I know I suck. I haven’t posted in like a month. I’m sorry. It’s just...NaNoRiMo, and then two months later, NaNoRiMo again. I’M TRYING, HONEST. So here’s part 2. Hope you enjoy.

Dedicated to @athroneofmistandglass

Rhys, Cassian, and Mor all wanted to be the one to teach her to fly.

They clawed and scratched each other bloody, until Amren was forced to break them up through various unmentionable threats. Of course, it was Azriel who won in the end. (Feyre had a feeling his silent surety came from past experience as the...maternal figure. Now that she was thinking about it, she could definitely see the others getting into trouble with those impulsive streaks of theirs, and Azriel, the only sensible one, having to come fish them out of whatever mess they'd gotten into.)

As Azriel announced his desire to train Feyre, dismayed cries broke out from the rest of them.

"Aw, Az!" Mor complained. "You always get to do the fun stuff!"

"Yeah," Cassian said. "Like rescuing her from her psychotic family!"

Amren asked, "How is that fun?"

"Because we all wanted to do it!"

"So?" Her voice was incredulous.

"So, when everyone wants to do something at the same time, it's fun to come out on top and crush all their spirits in the process. Duh."

"That is...remarkably horrible," Azriel remarked, and he began ushering Feyre in the opposite direction. Feyre, confused and slightly disoriented, did not fight him. For her ears only, he said, "Just ignore them. We'll be safe soon."

"It might be horrible," Amren distant voice crowed from behind, "but it's not nearly as bad as that time with Cassian's socks and the banana!"

Feyre jerked back so fast, Azriel almost stumbled. "The what?"

Azriel huffed out a laugh and shook his head. "With those guys, it's best not to ask."

Feyre took his word for it.

A few hours later, they stood in the safety of a grove. The wind blew in little, excited gusts, encouraging the nerves squirming deep in her belly.

Azriel must've noticed, because his dark eyes softened, and he murmured, "Feyre..."

It was as good as a question. She looked at the ground and wrapped her arms tight about herself. Feyre was sure he already knew what she was about to say, but she wished to do so anyway. "I — I'm worried...scared..." Finally, her eyes met his. "What will I do if I fall?"

"Then you'll get up." His response was immediate, the words so fierce, she stepped back. At her reaction, Azriel visibly restrained his anger. "Feyre. You are not weak, no matter what others have told you. If you fall, you'll get up, just like you've always done."

Silence for a minute.

Then she took a breath, nodded.

"Alright." His voice became brisk, commanding. "Let's see them, then."

Feyre tried to spread them...and nearly fell backwards on her ass.

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "Feeling faint already? We haven't even started the heavy lifting."

Feyre glared, but secretly she enjoyed the lighter, less-than-serious side to him. "Oh, I think we have," she hissed in reply. "These things are a lot heavier than they look."

"That's why the Night Court is in such good shape."

Feyre cocked her head at him. "You know, I don't know if anyone's ever told you this before, but you've got quite a mouth on you."

He ducked his head in acknowledgement, but Feyre could see the faint smile etched across his lips.

"Enough of this," he said softly. "Wings, please."

Feyre tried again, this time leaning forward expectantly in anticipation of the added weight. Lift, she told herself. Lift! She settled for a half-lift.

Azriel didn't seem to mind, stepping up behind her. A feather-light touch at the base of the wing had her wings shooting forward in a knee-jerk motion. Of course, the same problem applied as before — she was trying to pull her own body-weight with muscles she did not have — and pain rippled along her spine.

"Dammit," she spat.

"That's why you've got to train," Azriel said. "You're too vulnerable right now."

Feyre managed a confused smile, though unease prowled through her gut. "And what do I have to be worried about?"

A shadow passed across his face — literally. "If you're Night? Just about everything."

#

Weeks later, sore and utterly exhausted, Feyre trudged back to Rhys' house. Her wings were folded tight against her body, but even still, the talons dug furrows in the ground. Azriel had told her that it was unusual, that her wings were much larger than average for a female her size. In time, that would prove an advantage in the sky, make her stronger, give her greater speed and agility. But for now...well, pain was a bitch.

It was sundown, which meant that she'd trained all day. Not unusual, not unwelcome, but a break would be nice every now and again. Grateful for the breeze kissing her salty skin, Feyre trekked through the thin patch of woodland that hid Rhys' home from unwelcome visitors. It was surprisingly close to the center of everything, the people and the carts and the markets. But that was perfect, because the kind of people who lived in raucous city chatter did not care to look in each and every little nook and cranny that nature provided.

Rhys' house was hidden away in a little pocket that no one had deemed worthy of their footprint in over a hundred years. The ground she walked began its slow angle down, her calves and thighs barking in protest. It was only the beginning, for where the trees began to thin, the ground took a sharp curve skywards, marking the start of Night territory.

The trees pulled away suddenly, revealing a dusky, moon-kissed sky and clear mountain air. Getting to the top of the mountain should've been easy, for the inhabitants of this place were all equipped with a monster set of wings. But too bad for her, because she just had to have been born to the one dad in the world who would not teach his daughter to fly. So Feyre climbed, muscles aching.

When she reached the top, she was sweatier than she had been when she'd started, and just plain miserable. She wanted to punch someone. Desperately.

She almost did when two hands grasped her waist from behind.

"Rhysand," she hissed, voice leaking murder.

His velvet laugh filled her ear. "Hm. Yes, darling?" His nose found its way into her hair.

Feyre tried to jerk away, but his hands held firm. "What the fuck. Did you just sniff me?"

He breathed deep and Goddammit, she could feel him smiling. "You smell like sweat and roses."

Her stomach gave a happy little flip at his tone, but she couldn't help saying, "That's certainly a strange mix."

"Maybe half of it belongs to Azriel."

Sarcasm dripping like honey, she replied, "I doubt Azriel smells like roses, Rhys. Sorry to burst your gay-bubble."

Rhysand spun her around suddenly and brought her to his chest.

Startled, Feyre's suave demeanor failed her entirely.

"I missed you, Feyre," he breathed.

She wheezed a laugh, because he was kind of choking her and it was hard to breathe pressed against his pectoral. "It's barely been a day, Rhys," she mumbled.

His arms tightened, and she let out a little whoof of air —

Rhys' embrace slackened as he stepped away from her entirely. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to...sorry."

Feyre studied him, rubbing at her neck absently. He rubbed at the back of his head, almost sheepish, unsure of himself for once.

She decided she liked that.

"Well?" she asked.

"What?" His voice held poorly-concealed nerves.

"Won't you invite me inside?"

A brilliant smile graced his lips, relief and vague amusement evident on his face. "Of course, darling."

Woah, those tiny little houses in the background took forever for some reason. But here it is! Rhys and Feyre (Ahem, excuse the horrible linework; I’m really new to people).