#thqc

Her breaths have evened, and though she’s peaceful the bruise-like smudges beneath her eyes tell another story. So you let her rest. 

The grassy spot of the day has positioned the two of you near the manor’s border, coinciding with the edge of a great lake whose waters ripple beneath the sweet spring breeze. Lush, verdant grass giving way to ridged reeds and the sharp leaves of typha bordering the glittering grey-green lake. Winds shift in direction, carrying over the soft swishing as water laps against the shore and—how nice it would be to bathe. 

Fae complain about the stagnancy under the mountain yet confine themselves within cotton and clothing. It’s barely been a month but your skin needs to breathe, to be relieved of cloying fabric and rustling linen. 

Glancing to the nearby trees, Feyre’s usual assortment of sentries are stationed in the shade, keeping cool on the surprisingly balmy day. Should she wake while you’re gone, she won’t be alone and stranded. And you’ll remain within earshot should she wish to call out for you. 

Lifting from the blanket, you wade your way through the tall grass, carving out a miniature pathway before pausing at the water’s edge. Waves ripple outwards from the base of plant stems, water-boatmen milling across the surface. 

Casting aside your shoes and socks, you gingerly step into the shallows, fingers lifting your skirts so the frilled hem isn’t sodden. It’s deeper than you’d anticipated, though still only reaching your ankles. Sediment stirs between your toes, silt clouding the water as you shift your weight experimentally, relishing in the silken tides of water that swish and swirl across bare skin. 

Raising your skirts higher, you wade deeper into the pond, cool, murky water rising up to your shins, over your knees, swallowing the skin at the bottom of your thighs. Skirts are bunched in your hands, rolled, pressed, and crumpled against your stomach. A warm breeze blows, twisting hair from your face, fluttering the cotton around your sleeves, playing with the teasing frills of your dress’ neckline. 

Sediment swirls beneath the blue-grey-green surface, and tiny things nip at your calves. Tiny flashes of silver dart about, delivering tiny kisses to the arches of your feet, the swell of your ankle, the back of your knees. Slivers of glittering blue accompany the flashes on occasion, slices of red, and green swirling about as the creatures taste and examine the silt that’s been stirred up, clinging to the hairs on your legs like dust motes. 

Further in you wade, the water now clutching at your upper thighs, squeezing at bare flesh. Ripples lap against skin, urging you deeper, to submerge yourself further and drift like a leaf across the surface on your back, pushed along by the breeze until you catch and tangle among the reeds.

Eyes close, and you scent the air. Crisp, and sweet: floral notes blown in from the gardens. The smell of mud and dirt, of algae and damp. Pond water, and the smell of things that are wetter than they should be. 

Boney things shackle your ankles with surprising force, and the mud slips beneath your feet. 

Water splashes but the noise is muffled as cold water covers your face, wrapping your body and shoulders, soaking your clothes. You hands dart out and you catch hold of something—thin and narrow, but writhing with strength as you right yourself and push from the pond, hauling the grey, slimy thing with you. 

It’s an arm. 

The hand is skeletal and webbed, fingers tipped with flesh-shredding nails. 

You yank it higher, blinking pond water from your eyes as the world comes back into perspective.

Beneath the water it thrashes, a long tail squirming, tossing shovels of water this way and that. The arm is connected to a shoulder, and a head emerges from the waters, it’s features familiar but twisted in a snarling hiss. Black hair is slathered to its scalp and shoulders, fracturing the face with silky black lines, pale-ish lips curled back from pointed, white-yellow teeth. 

In your hand its fingers flex, arm tugging in attempts to free itself. 

You take it by its throat, keeping a firm grip on its wrist and pull it further from the water, minimising the splashes sent out by its tail. The creature hisses, and you recognise the small swell of breasts across its torso. Along its ribcage are small, natural serrations, flaring in and out like lengthy nostrils. 

Brow furrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity, you examine the creature closely, peering at its face: big black eyes, swollen and round; grey-green skin, like the murk of silt; sharp teeth littering the inside of its mouth; a fish-like nose; long, silky black hair. A faint memory stirs somewhere. You’ve seen this kind of creature before. 

It’s free hand claws at your arm, red staining the pale cotton of your now-torn sleeve. 

“Release me,” it hisses, eyes wide, teeth bared. “Release me.” 

You squeeze its throat in warning. “Was it you who toppled me? Or another like you?” 

“Release me,” it hisses again. “These are our waters. You do not belong here.” 

“These waters lie in the territory of Spring, don’t they?” You counter, adjusting your hold on its throat, eyes dipping questioningly to its chest before returning to the black, gleaming voids of its eyes. It’s certainly not a high fae female. Or high fae at all, for that matter. 

You tilt your head. “Tell me. What are you?” 

It hisses again, tail splashing. “You would call us water-wraiths.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Are you not water-wraiths?” 

It hisses again, the serrations at its sides sputtering, skin quivering. There’s a gargling noise in its throat, and its tail seems to be growing weaker. 

Baring your teeth in warning, you drag it to shallower waters. Its nails scrape at the tears in your arm, but fail to do much beyond irritate the wounds. 

The water reaches your knees, and you settle atop the creature, keeping it pinned with your weight as you shove its torso beneath the surface. Its body jolts, heaving like it’s gasping for air. Once it has eased itself, you pull its face from the water, hair now clear and swept aside. “Why did you topple me?” 

Its features are still twisted, but less so now. Yellowed teeth glitter as they’re bared up at you in something like a grin. “Fish have barely yet returned. All the plumper foods were hunted out of these waters.” Its eyes flash, torso still heaving beneath the water. “You looked like you could fill our stomachs, for a while.” 

You let out a snort of laughter, and the creature’s glee seems to fade to anger, tail writhing, trying to buck you off. The mirth fades from your mouth, a cool feeling pooling in your stomach. 

“You’re hungry?” You ask. Aware of the changed female resting not too far from here. 

“Without food, we do not have the option to reproduce. And our species has been hunted these past fifty years.” 

You knew it looked familiar. Amarantha kept a pools full to bursting with them. She liked how their grey bodies thrashed and writhed against one another. The tangles they would weave one another into, bound and trapped by the long locks of silky, black hair. 

Sometimes the High Queen would watch as their frenzies took over, turning water to blood as they tore one another apart. 

You incline your head. “What food do you eat?” 

The creature hisses. 

“You can’t be that hungry if you won’t answer me.” 

The creature writhes, practically spitting water. 

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t find some for you,” you tease, squeezing its throat a bit tighter. “Come on,” you whisper, leaning closer, “I thought you were hungry.” 

“And what will you ask for in return?” It hisses, clawing with fresh anger at your arm, scratching down your shoulder. Blood leeks into the pond. 

“That you allow me to share your waters, for a start,” you muse. “Let me bathe without trying to sink your teeth into me.” 

“Bring a basket of fish, and I will not next time try to eat you.” 

“Neither will any others of your kind. Not next time, nor any time following.” 

The creature hisses lowly, but it’s stopped writhing as much. “Deal.” 

“You will also not lay a violent touch on my lover. I would like to bring her here to bathe alongside me.” 

“For two baskets, maybe.” 

You pull the creature up from the water, sitting back on where its hips might be were it high fae. 

“You will accept a single gutted fish if that is all I am able to find, and you will ne’er lay a violent touch on either me or her for as long as we bathe in waters confined to Spring territory.” 

Nails dig themselves deep into the open flesh of your arm, and teeth glitter beneath the sun. “You are lucky my sisters and I haven’t already torn you apart. They watch from deeper waters and would delight in shredding you. Two baskets, fresh fish.” 

You tilt your head. Lower your voice. “You are the only creature in this pond today. Your numbers are dwindled, and your bones struggle to be contained. You will accept what I give.” 

“I accept,” the creature hisses, “but bring me something.” 

“I’m glad we could come to an arrangement,” you say, smiling. 

In the distance, you hear a call. 

It’s Feyre. She’s awake. 

“When will you return?” The creature asks, hunger plain in its eyes. 

In the distance, Feyre has swayed to her bare feet, breeze plucking at her dress and hair as she casts her gaze about. She won’t be able to see you here hidden in the low-waters, between reeds and typha. 

“Food,” it hisses again. “When will you bring me my food?” 

You shrug. “Sometime. But maybe you’ll have starved by then, and then I won’t have to bring any food at all,” you laugh. 

You swing a leg off of it, setting it free to return to the murk of the pond. It thrashes away in a gust of splashing mud, dragging ripples across the surface as it swims for deeper waters. It circles back, the upper part of its head watching like a grey smudge from a distance, and you narrow your eyes on it, flexing the fingers that had been wrapped around its throat. 

“Next time lead with an offer, instead of trying to take what you want by force,” you call.

Feyre calls for you again, the wind carrying the sweet notes of your name in her voice. 

You turn and step out of the pond, up into the grass, lifting your arms in the air as you wade back the way you came. 

Light, blue-grey eyes widen as they sweep over you, a frown knotting her sweet, expressive brows. You suppose you are a state, drenched head to toe, stinking of pond water and speckled with silt, leaves, and tiny dying creatures that got caught up in the splash of sediment. 

Sure enough, her nose twitches as the wind changes, wrinkling faintly before she pushes down on the response. 

Feyre remains stood on the blanket, bare-footed, the upper section of her hair swept back from her face, tied in a satiny bow that insists on bothering the sensitive peaks of her ears. She folds her arms across her chest, the short puffs of her sleeves puffing further as they’re stretched, and she leans her weight to one hip. “What happened?” 

You tilt your head, a smile coming to your lips. “There’s a pool over there,” you answer, nodding back the way you came. “I wanted to bathe.” 

“Weren’t you washed this morning?” She asks, eyeing the murky water dripping from the dirtied cotton. Noting the shredded fabric of your sleeve, the blood staining the fabric.

It’s your turn to furrow your brows. “Were youwashed by someone this morning?” 

A small scowl manifests, and she peers at the tasselled edges of the blanket. “I am waited on hand and foot inside those walls.” The little earrings fashioned after purple and white flowers twinkle at her lobes, swaying in the wind. 

“You should order them leave you be,” you say, “it’s what-… You have the ability to do so.” 

Feyre’s brows deepen in their glare, and those eyes glide over to you.

Your shoulders slump by a fraction. “She’s dead, Feyre,” you state blandly. “You saw it, I saw it. You have some kind of command here, don’t you?” You ask, switching the subject. “Being connected to him.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” 

“So you keep saying…” 

“You know less than I do about how these things work. I’m the one living it while you get to lay about all day, doing what you like, thinking what you like, wearing what you like.” There’s anger in her eyes again, a fleeting spark of defiance. 

You give her a distrustful look. “You think I’d choose to wear this?” 

It’s supposed to bring a smile to her mouth. 

Instead she remains obstinate, and angered. 

A breath loosens from beneath your lungs, and you make to step forward, reaching to cup her elbow. 

Feyre takes a step back. “You’re soaked, and filthy.” 

You lift a brow, a retort on your tongue. Then a better idea slinks between your legs, and you turn on your feet, glancing over your shoulder at her as you pull your hair to the side to display the lopsided ties of your dress. “Help me dry?” 

Not long ago, her cheeks would have warmed to the taste of strawberries. Her eyes would have widened, and, if you were lucky enough, teasing enough, her scent might have shifted. 

Now she watches you, expression dull, that spark snuffed out in the blink of an eye. 

But she sighs, and steps forward. Takes ahold of the loose ribbons, beginning to pick at the knots you’d tied when getting dressed that morning. “I should pull these loose and strangle you with them,” she murmurs under her breath. So soft you wouldn’t have heard had she not lifted her chin to whisper them right besides your ear. 

A thrill unspools within, and teeth nip across your lower lip. 

“Do what you like,” you whisper back. “You’re the one holding my reigns.” 

“So you say…” 

You frown, making to turn and face her, but she presses one hand to the back of your hip, keeping you in place. You settle for a glance over your shoulder, trying to catch her eye. “What do you mean by that, Feyre.” 

“I mean you’ve not yet gotten her out of your system,” she whispers, accompanied by a sharp tug to the ribbons, constricting the waist of your dress—tight. 

“Feeling threatened by the dead?” You murmur back, something syrupy gathering between your thighs. 

A breath puffs against the nape of your neck, followed by the hot press of her brow as she leans against you. “Sometimes I think I can still smell her on you,” Feyre whispers. 

Your spine goes a little rigid beneath her, body stiffening as her breath ghosts down your back. 

Inside your chest, your pulse spikes. 

You swallow past the thickness in your throat. 

“You’re going to get dirty if you keep leaning on me like that.” 

Feyre hums, and her fingers return to work, pulling the ribbons free until the dress slouches around your shoulders, and she’s stepping back and away, leaving your skin cold in spite of the open sun. Swallowing, you turn to face her, allowing the soiled cotton to slide and crumple around your waist, pushing it down over your hips. Leaving it in a pile on the floor, before stepping forward onto the clean blanket. 

Feyre averts her eyes. “You should sit down, so the sentries don’t see.” 

If they’re half-decent lookouts, they’ll have already seen. 

“Come. We should drink,” she says somewhat stiffly, settling to the ground, dress fluttering around her and you follow suit. She pours you a glass from the clear jug, ice still clinking as the water swirls. “There’s cordial too,” she continues. “Want some?” 

You look at her, meeting her eyes. “What does it taste like?” 

Feyre holds your gaze for a moment, before glancing away. Taking the bottle and pouring a bit into her own glass. “Elderflower,” she answers. “It’s elderflower cordial.” 

“May I try some of yours?” 

Again, she glances at you. Her eyes dip to your chest, then to your stomach, then back to your eyes. “Sure.” 

You lift a brow. “No snappy remark?” 

“Can I not have a conversation without there being some unaddressed scoring system occurring in the background?” She asks through gritted teeth. 

Something tugs at he edges of your mouth. “Not a fan of games, hm?” 

“What do you think?” 

“What do I think?” You repeat.

“Yes. What do you think.”

You smirk. “I think you’re a sore loser.” 

Dark ire ruptures in the pits of her eyes, and the glass fractures in her hand, barely retaining its shape. 

You lean back, propping yourself upon your palms as you look over her. “You’ll end up hurting yourself if you don’t let it out, Feyre,” you tease, watching as icy water leaks out in droplets from between the cracks, blood diluted to a pale pink. “Next time, take it out on someone else.” 

The glass smashes in her hand, and she startles out of her fury. 

Blood sloshes in her palm, pouring down and splashing on her skirts. 

A tinge of fear creeps into her scent. 

“I hate this,” she whispers, staring at her hand. “I hate this. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.” She pulls her knees to her chest, burying her face in her arms. “I hate this.” 

Something cool and slithering stirs in your stomach. 

Shifting onto your hands and knees, you crawl forward. Feyre looks as she was in her cell. Curled up and weakened. You reach forward, fingers curling tenderly around the exposed skin of her ankle, gently wrapping. “Feyre…you’re out. You’re not under there anymore.” 

“Don’t.” Feyre jolts, kicking away your hand. Breathing hard. “Don’t.” 

You tilt your head, peering at her. 

She looks away again, forehead resting on her arms. 

Then, quietly, “I don’t know what they’ll do to you once our bargain is done.” 

You shift on the blanket, moving to sit at her side. Almost touching. 

“Want to go hunting?” You ask, “maybe I could come with you this time?” 

No response.

“You could show me around the gardens? I haven’t gotten to see them yet,” you murmur. 

Her pulse is rapid, blood bouncing through her body, thumping through her throat. 

“What about where you lived as a human?” You ask, and her breathing catches. You peer at her sidelong. “You never said much under the mountain. Was is different below the wall?” 

Feyre’s quiet for a long while—long enough for her heartbeat to steady, for her breathing to regulate. The tremble in her shoulders subsides, replaced by light shivers as the wind blows beneath a grey sky. Trees whisper, and the grasses sway back and forth. Eventually she looks up, eyes once more grey, and dull. She perches her chin atop her forearms, gazing out across the swirling fields to the frothing woodland beyond. 

One of the sentries approaches quietly through the grass. 

“My lady, you’ve hurt yourself,” he states. 

“It’s fine. The glass broke.” 

He shifts uneasily. “I need to take you to see a healer.”

“I do not need a healer,” Feyre murmurs. 

“We at least need to clean the blood. Please come with me back to the manor.” 

Feyre sighs, and rests her forehead on her arms. She lifts her head to look at the sentry. “Would you bring cloth and bandages out to me? I’m enjoying being…” She pauses, and allows her eyes to turn a bit distant. Then she shakes her head. 

The sentry shifts again. “No, of course. I will return to you swiftly. Forgive my lack of compassion.” 

Feyre shifts on the blanket. “Would you also return with a fresh dress?”

The sentry glances to where you’re relaxed a little behind Feyre. His lips thin, but he nods, and leaves. 

Both of you watch him depart. 

You nudge her. “Sneak.” 

She doesn’t look at you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

A smile tugs at your lips, peering at her fondly. 

“Whatever you say, Feyre,” you murmur to the wind, glancing out across the fields.

“You should cover yourself when he returns. It’s not appropriate for you to be naked.”

“So I’m told.” 

Feyre’s teeth grind. “You’re already testing Tamlin’s patience. If he hears about this it will only make things worse.”

You huff a laugh. “And what’s he going to do? Roar at me? Throw me? Hit me?” You turn to look at her—her brows furrowed, mouth parted and lips turned down at their edges. You lean forward, lowering your voice to a whisper. “Would that upset you, Feyre?” 

“I wouldn’t like to see someone hurt.” 

“You think he would, then?” 

A scowl twists her sweet brows. “Do you derive pleasure from being so deceptive?” 

“It’s just a bit of fun, Feyre. You need joy to live,” you smile. 

“I’m not sure you experience joy like the rest of us.” 

“And who is ‘us’, in this instance?” You ask, peering at her. “Humans? Fae?” 

“Normal people.” She snaps. 

“You think you’re normal?” You laugh. “Nobody else does.” 

She looks like she’s about to snap something more but the sentry is returning. 

“Fold the blanket over your lap,” Feyre says tightly. “You can cover your chest with your arms.” 

“I’m still wet,” you tease, lips curved. “I don’t want to get the fabric dirty.” 

“He was looking at you,” she hisses under her breath. 

“They all look, Feyre. It doesn’t matter what clothing I wear.” 

“I imagine that’s more to do with you being her whore than your clothes.” 

“And yet I’ve been at your beck and call since the moment she died and you’ve yet to make a single request of me.” You lift your attention to her watercolour eyes. “I would have thought you’d know better than anyone the kinds of things I can do.”

“I’m a woman. It’s different.” She takes a breath. “I wouldn’t treat someone like that. Look at someone like that.” 

A smirk curves your lips, and her eyes flick down. “Not for a lack of want, Feyre.” 

“Your bandages, my lady. And a dress for the…” The sentry trails off, unsure of your address. 

Feyre shifts, moving to press more firmly against you, slightly shielding you from view. She thanks the sentry, and he deposits a basket of bandages, cloth, and fabric atop the picnic blanket. He gives a slight bow to Feyre, then leaves. 

“And if I request that you behave properly while you remain here?” Feyre mutters, reaching for the wicker handle. You shift onto your knees, pulling the folded, ruffled cotton free. Hands brushing in the basket.

“That lack of verbal clarity is what almost cost you your life.” 

“Is this more of your ‘fun’?” Feyre murmurs, retrieving a fresh roll of gauze.

“I’m trying to teach you something valuable. Since you’re so inclined to be making bargains left, right, and centre.” 

“I’ve not made that many.” 

“No? Let’s see…you made one with my lover Amarantha, you made one with me, and…oh! That’s right. One with Rhysand too. The mortal enemy of the male you’re supposed to wed.” 

“I was fighting for my life.” She mutters, picking at the gauze with the edge of her nail.

“And you might have to again. So maybe next time you’ll have a better chance of surviving since you did so poorly the first time.” 

“Poorly?” Feyre hisses, abandoning the gauze in her lap. “I saved Tamlin. I saved everyone trapped under the mountain. I saved Prythian.” 

“You murdered the female who chose me, Feyre.” You tilt your head, and smile. “You murdered some others, too, and got yourself killed. Am I so heartless for wanting to prevent that?” 

Her eyes darken, storms gathering across the waters. “I didn’t ask for your help.” 

“I thought you wanted me on best behaviour,” you whisper, leaving the clean dress discarded, out of sight.

“I should have strangled you with those ribbons,” she hisses softly, at last yanking the roll of bandages free, hardly bothering to clean the slightly-puckered-skin before getting started on the binding. 

~~~~

The High Queen entered her chambers soaked up to her lashes in blood. She exits her bathing quarters pristine, pathing a trail of wet footprints across the floor as she makes her way to the sunlight. The marks of her feet are interspersed with tiny droplets that have slipped from the wet length of her hair—dark as blood, and stuck across her pale shoulders and spine. 

Without a word of greeting or acknowledgement, she settles her naked body along the leather-padded chaise that is positioned in the centre of a fattened sunbeam that’s pouring in from between pale linen curtains. Her hair catches the light—glittering like berries, or the seeds of sweetened jam as she lays it over the back of the chaise. Water continues dripping, dampening the butter-pale rug beneath her. 

Yellow rug, brown leather, and a queen of red and white. 

Wet, and bathing in sunlight to dry. 

It would be nice if she enjoyed her personal chambers with the same freedom—bare skin, and ease. It’s not been long here, you don’t think. Though this is the fourth time your queen has returned to her chambers steeped in blood. This time wasn’t even the worst of it. 

At least it was just blood, this time. 

Amarantha is facing away from you, reclining beneath the sunbeam when she calls for you. She sounds tired—exhausted. Her voice lacks that severity she usually carries. 

Lethargically, you roll to your side, tipping from the mattress but landing on your feet as you wind your way over to her. Brush against the cool stone pillars separating bed chambers from balcony. The balcony makes you wary—wrapping all the way around the tower, highest in the castle. You ease your bare back to the stone, sliding down to settle on the floor in her view, itching the skin you can’t reach. 

One dark eye slides open a fraction, marking your presence at the chamber’s perimeter. 

“Do you know where we are, pet?” She drawls softly, arms lazing at her sides as she settles deeper against the chaise. Her hair shines with the movement, glowing like metal fresh from a forge where it catches the sun’s glare. 

You pull your legs to your chest, leaning over your knees. “Summer?” 

“Almost,” she murmurs. She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Shifts her arms. “It’s called the Summer Court.” 

You hum, peering cautiously through the stone balustrade that runs around the balcony’s edge. Beyond, the sea is almost the colour of the sky, and the further out it goes the more you struggle to find the line where up and down meet. They seem to roll into one, ongoing script. Like you’re cushioned within one of those scalloped shells. 

“And do you know why we’re here, pet?” Amarantha asks, saving you from the start of something dizzying. 

You turn to face her, mischief curving the corners of your mouth. “Because you miss the sun on your skin, and desire the freedom to be naked and warm?” You ask, crawling the short distance to her chaise, kneeling at her side. You cross your arms over the wet leather, laying your cheek against your wrist to peer up at her. “It’s too cold for you, being underground all the time…” 

“I’m warm enough,” she counters, her sun-lit eyes gazing across the blinding white clouds speckling the sky. Her gaze slides to you. “Is that your guess?” 

You tilt your head, fondness in your lips. “Is it wrong?” 

“You’re not very bright, are you.”

“Not underground, I’m not,” you reply.

The High Queen’s dark eyes study you, not a trace of amusement to be found. Her expression usually seems to be drawn in the direction of severity when she’s not before her court. Her pale lips pursed, brows tight and drawn. 

Her arm lifts, and fingers push hair from your face. Nails ghost down the outer shell of your ear, and you shiver. Lips part on a breath, and the rest of the world blends and blurs as she draws your focus. Like water circling a funnel, she inexplicably pulls you in. 

It’s not often she touches you without harm in her fingers.

Heavy footsteps thunder in the hallway, the sounds of a commotion ringing out as metal clangs, and the hiss of steal cuts through the air.

Amarantha tips her head back against the leather cushioning and sighs, her eyes falling shut for a moment of peace. Then she nods in the direction of her chambers’ entry, “Go see what it is.” 

Her fingers release the pinch they had on your ear, and her arms returns to rest as her side; her attention in you has been taken. You glance over her once more before gathering yourself to your feet, padding across the rug and back into the shadows of her chambers, unbolting the black-iron lock. 

In the hallway beyond, blood has already been shed. 

A male has been forced to his knees, teeth bared, lips curled. His eyes hold enough power to drown the castle and all of its inhabitants beneath the weight of the sea, and yet he shivers there on his knees, features contorted in rage. A soldier with warm red skin, clad in scaled iron keeps the kneeling male’s arms constricted, while another points a spear to his chest. 

There’s blood in his white hair. Blood on his hands, beneath his nails, staining the once-pristine fabrics he’s clothed in. 

“Let me see her.” The male bellows, breathing hard beneath the oppressive hands and sweltering heat. His skin gleams with sweat, eyes wide and red. His turquoise irises almost seem to glow. “Come out here, Amarantha,” he snarls, and the vibrations thunder through your chest. “I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Speak with me.” 

You glance to one of the soldiers who are stood to the sides of the double doors, its eyes hard, and hungry. “What is this?” You ask, “The Queen wishes to know what disturbs her.” 

“This lord thinks he rules the castle,” it snarls, eyes on the male. Red irises glitter. “This lord thinks he has a say in whose blood is shed.” 

“These are my people,” the male growls, features twisting further into fury. “These are my people and they will always-” 

The guard pushes the tip of the spear hard against the male’s chest, and blood bursts beneath, spilling fresh marks over already bloody clothing. The male’s eyes squeeze shut in pain, but his head doesn’t bow. He doesn’t cower, and when he lifts his head again, the storm has quietened in his eyes and manifested within the rest of him. A smooth-surfaced ocean with a raging tide beneath. 

“These are my people,” he growls, lower now, “and they will always be my people.” Blood weeps from the centre of his chest, flowing through fibres down to his stomach. “Amarantha knows that too, or else she would not go to such lengths to weaken an already vulnerable citadel.” He bares his teeth, “why worry when there is no threat?” 

Fury in his eyes, but pain too. Anger, from hurt.

“Until you yield to me, Lord, Summer’s blood will continue to flow,” the High Queen announces, having appeared at your back. You step aside, parting the doors for her. A white robs wraps her figure, linen pooling on the floor, lace patterning the sleeves with a collar that slides up over her nape. Wine-red hair flows down her back, and she peers down her nose at the male on the floor. 

“Am I not on my knees before you?” He asks, and there’s pain and blood and anger in his voice. “Do I not come here, to you, to beg for you to put an end to this bloodshed because I cannot?” His voice is rough, turned hoarse at the end. The male’s nostrils flare, and his chest heaves. Turquoise irises sear against his reddened eyes, “I have nothing left to give, nothing left to yield.” 

“If that is what you insist upon, then your people will continue to pay.” 

“What is there to give?” He asks, and the spear is again pushed to his chest. 

Another set of footsteps sound in the winding stairwell—hurried, heavy breathing. A second male—also dressed in finery, also bloody, also sweating and distraught—appears in the archway. His eyes find those of the kneeling male’s and he makes to run to him but the guard aim their spears to his chest, blocking his path. His skin, though flushed from heat and exertion, drains upon spotting the Queen. 

The male on his knees shakes his head. “Return to the hall. You are needed there.” 

“No,” the High Queen declares. “Let him pass. I imagine our Lord may be too weak to stand. Better he has company.” She tilts her head, angling her jaw—how lucky you would be to press your mouth to such a throat. “Better he learn his lesson now, if he wishes to save his people.” 

The male stares at her, and perspiration shines on his brow. Now there is something like fear in his eyes, contained in the smell of his sweat. Amarantha inclines her chin, and the guard removes his spear, the butt of the weapon clanging against the ground as the soldier returns to attention. Dark eyes flick to the guard holding the male in place, and he steps away. 

Still knelt on the ground, the male does not plead for her to reconsider, but neither does he look at his companion as he slides a clean arm beneath a bloodied shoulder, helped to his feet, a fresh wash of blood dousing the heavily stained shirt. The male’s jaw tightens beneath the strain. 

The High Queen looks the two of them over: bloodied, sweaty, panting. 

Amarantha tilts her head in silent command, then turns to you, murmuring an instruction for you to draw her another bath, before disappearing into her chambers. 

The males eye the guards, the Lord giving you a cursory glance before following after her. 

You observe the fresh blood on the floor, wondering if it’ll be gone the next time you step out here, then move to return to your Queen’s side, the guards pulling the door shut at your back while you slide the bolt into place.

~~~~

The bath the High Queen had requested is pool carved into the next chamber’s floor, tilted over and smooth. A slab of red-brown rock is placed beside the water’s edge, dips and divots hewn for towel stacks and glass bottles. Each one smells more interesting than the last, and it’s a treat to know where these upper scent layers are coming from when you taste them in your Lady’s skin. 

Amarantha had bid you to stay with her, while the mess next door was tidied away. Flesh stuck beneath her fingernails, your mouth bloodied. The second male had managed to clasp his hands around your throat before Amarantha had torn him away, and promptly disabled him. 

The Lord had watched, silenced and producing a stench. 

Amarantha takes a palm-full of liquid and begins rubbing it into her hair, nails pushing at her scalp, grazing her nape, scratching behind her ears. You watch quietly from the pool’s edge, sat atop a cushion you’d lazily pulled from the cupboard. The High Queen tips her head back into the cool water and rinses out the suds, dipping her hair in and out of the pool. She catches something, and a frown tightens her brow as she examines her nails. Then she turns, and wades back through the water to pluck a clump of bristles stuck into a narrow block of wood from the stone slab, scrubbing beneath her nails. 

You pull your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your knees and laying your chin atop your forearms. “For how much longer are we staying here?”

Amarantha swaps the brush over, scrubbing the nails on her other hand. “At most another week. I’ll see how the Young Lord handles himself.” 

You peer at the water rippling around her waist, the slightly iridescent bubbles littering the sweet skin of her stomach. “And how long is that?” 

“Not long,” she replies. 

You lay down across the tile floor, hips cushioned by the pillow. It’s so…warm everywhere. Like there are invisible fires scattered throughout the castle that no one is talking about. 

It’s a nice change. 

Dark eyes flick over you, and a flicker of excitement sparks to life beneath that appraisal. You push upright, resting your upper weight on your palms. “My Lady?” 

Amarantha beckons you over, and you shift to the edge of the pool. “Take this,” she instructs, pushing the brush into your palm. “I won’t have you touching me with filth on your hands.” Her gaze lifts to your face, and her brows narrow. “You cleaned your mouth properly?” 

You incline your chin and open your mouth, tongue laying over your lower lip. All the blood is gone—you made certain. She won’t use you if you’re dirty. 

The High Queen furrows her brows. “You need better training.” 

You cock your head to one side, tongue pulling back into your mouth. 

Amarantha’s eyes glint. “Did I say ‘close’?” 

Heat pools between your thighs and you press them close together, back curving as you incline toward her, exposing your throat as you open your mouth for her. 

A sharpened nail points to the soft skin of your sternum, slowly scraping up. Between your collar bones, over the column of your throat, scratching the tenderness just below your jaw. Goosebumps brush up your spine, resigning yourself to her touch. She tilts her head, and huffs something like a laugh. 

Her breath touches your lips like a kiss. 

Something swells in your chest, but she’s turning away, leaving your skin surprisingly cool. 

“Don’t close that mouth,” she warns, as she steps out from the pool onto clean, sun-warmed tiles. You peer at her patiently, but with need steadily liquefying between your thighs. Anticipation concentrating your growing arousal. 

The edges of the High Queen’s eyes come close to a smile as she walks the pool’s edge, trailing back around to you. Fingers graze the top of your head, like she’s preparing to sink her nails into your hair and guide you to where she wants you. Instead she licks her lips, teeth biting on the way back in. “Kneel.” 

You obey without question, pulling your legs onto the cushion, pulling yourself onto your knees before her. 

She strokes the crown of your head. 

“Now, wait,” she instructs, passing behind you to unfurl a towel from its placement. “Be good.” 

The white fabric drags across her skin, touching everywhere you’d like to with your tongue, but drying instead of wetting. Her hair remains black as blood while its wet, but dripping clear onto the tiles. 

An ache works its way up between your thighs, and you consider shifting your hips’ centre to align with the heel of a foot—something to grind on, to give release to the growing tension. Watching the fabric gently abrade your Queen’s skin is…it’s something more pleasurable than torture. Drawn-out, and teasing. Playful, in a way that she isn’t Under The Mountain. 

You can’t resent pleasure being withheld when it’s for her benefit. 

The sun has trickled across the pool tiles, warming the small of your back by the time she’s done—towel pooling on the ground as she hold your eyes and walks forward. Slowly; lithely. Trailing wet footprints over the floor. Marks she could leave on your body if she walked her way up to your mouth. 

Amarantha pauses, the tips of her feet settling just under your knees. 

You peer up at her, mouth dry from having been kept open in waiting. 

Once again her touch skims the crown of your head. “Up,” she instructs, lightly. You lift higher onto your knees. 

Her arousal whets your appetite. Makes you eager, and desperate—more so than before. 

Amarantha takes a hold of you, and guides your mouth closer to her hips. Saliva pools below your tongue, eyelids growing heavy as you breathe her in. Close enough to nose at the skin of her inner thighs, her hips, her abdomen. Your fingers trail reverently up the backs of her legs, steadying yourself as your head goes a little light. Dazed. Robbed of sense. 

She pulls you closer, and the undisturbed curls between her thighs deliver moisture to your mouth. Droplets soaking down across your tongue, and she holds you there—mouth parted for her to use as she pleases. 

Her scent is what you need, and right now it’s all around. 

You wait for the order to come. 

It doesn’t.

Opening your eyes, you peer up the strong plane of her stomach. You can’t meet her eyes from how close you are, but tilt your head upwards all the same. The sharp points of her nails rake through your hair, and your mouth waters, arousal gathering at the thought of her dragging them across your back. Itching behind your ears, scraping gently down the sides of your throat. 

A whine builds in your chest, tongue ready to soothe the wet of her heat. 

Amarantha slides her hand to the back of your head and, guiding one leg over the curve of your shoulder, presses you closer to the wet heat of her cunt. Her arousal brushes against the inside of your lower lip, so close to dripping into your mouth, and yet still the order does not come. 

Instead the muscles in her leg flex, making it near impossible for you to move any closer. 

The High Queen cants her hips, dragging her cunt higher, tilting your head back until she can almost sit. The combination of heat, and the resistance she’s dealing with in this land seem to be drawing out something lazy—almost indulgent in her. 

A breathy sigh releases from above you as she gently rocks her hips. 

Preoccupied; in her own world. 

It’s a pleasure to facilitate the trip. To be the thing her ecstasy hinges upon. 

“Bed,” she murmurs through a soft breath, unhooking her leg from your shoulder. A string of arousal beads from her cunt to your lower lip, and now you’re detached from her you’ve the pleasure of swiping your tongue out, bringing that taste into your mouth. 

You’re swift to adhere yourself to her bed, pressing your bare back to the mattress, head near the foot, feet near the pillows. 

The Queen trails closer, nails raking delicately across the beaded sheets, prowling up onto the mattress. Dark eyes glitter and gleam as they rove over you—the facilitator of her pleasure. Nothing more, nothing less.

Amarantha settles one knee over your waist, seating her weight atop your hips. You’re pinned to the bed beneath her, sinking down into the cushioning. Arousal smears across your abdomen as she rolls her hips, the wet curls between her thighs smudging slick across your skin. Her hands press to your sternum as she leans forwards, damp strings of hair swinging forward—wine-red at the roots, black as blood at the ends. The scent of arousal mixes with the fragrances from her bath, cushioning you within the harmony of scents. Something light, and citrusy.

Heat simmers from the stone flooring, curtains fluttering as a breeze courses through the chambers, allowing the dark tips of her long hair to paint wet cuts across your skin. Nails curve into your skin as she drags her hips over your stomach, turning the expanse slick as she glides across. Teeth pull on your lower lip, need burrowing deeper into your bones. 

“Amarantha…” you breathe, a pleading note entering your voice. 

Dark, glittering eyes slide open—a knot in her brow. 

She leans forward, her hand parting between her thumb and index finger to cover your mouth. It hurts your skin, but…

A moan is caught beneath her palm, low and breathless. Pleading for more.

Your thighs press together, hips shifting atop the mattress.

Amarantha leans her weight forward, pinning you to the bed before pushing away, giving a final roll of her hips before languidly shifting further up your body.

Your mouth waters.

The High Queen’s knees settle a little higher than your head, before finally taking her seat atop your mouth. Arousal smears across your lips, chin, and cheeks, spreading across your skin as she rolls her hips, and push out your tongue to glide through the curling mess between her thighs.

Heat rolls from her skin in waves, soft and cushioned by her legs, pressed between the delightful comfort of the bed and the heaven of her skin, and scent. Breaths pant from her chest, and she is worked up enough to release moans through the room, unabashed and indulgent. Decadent sounds.

She flutters on your tongue, pleasure pulsing through her body as her hips buck, and you’ve your eyes closed as you bask in her ecstasy. Nails rake across your scalp as she tugs you against her cunt, scratching through your hair in a way that sends shivers down your spine.

The smell of sweat and tangerine zest clings to her skin, heavy and blossomy as her chest rises and falls.

Another breeze sweeps through her chambers, playing with her hair as Amarantha crawls off of you, settling herself sweet and comfortable against a small gathering of pillows. Basking in the aftermath of her high.

There’s a faint trace of smoke in the air, and the sharp tang of blood brought in from the outside. Able to reach you, even so high up.

You crawl to the top of the bed, settling close to her side but not touching—she doesn’t like to be touched when resting.

It’s only recently she’s allowed you to stay at all, not immediately being returned to your own dark quarters.

Maybe one day she’ll allow you to stay watch as she sleeps, too.

~~~~

A smile tugs at your lips, and you lean forward, tapping your fingers against one of her knees, drawing her attention. You pause, basking beneath her gaze—revelling in the eye contact—before settling back into your sprawl. “Shapes,” you repeat the words she’d shared with you, that first time she’d tried to paint after her return, “colour; light?”

Feyre’s lips purse, blue-grey eyes flitting to glance over the fruit scattered between various porcelain bowls, their interiors glazed in an array of pale pastels—something Amarantha would have been fond of.

“You look offended,” you murmur, spine curving to allow you to better peer at her. “Do you not like the fruit?” Her jaw tightens, surveying the food so carefully displayed before her: berries in a shallow bowl made of pear-green glass; peaches’ quarters tessellating in a flat honey-brown dish; chopped plums and spliced nectarines piled into two bowls either side a small crystal jug filled with cream. Cinnamon-dusted apple slices lay temptingly on the citrine plate closest to you, raisin and walnut spiced cake cubes just beyond.

It all smells wonderful.

“People are starving,” Feyre whispers, her eyes lifting to the tree line in the distance, marking the border of the woodland. “People…humans…” She speaks so softly her words are almost swept away on the breeze.

You tilt your head, pulling into a sitting position just to her side, minding the plates. “People will always be suffering somewhere, Fey.” Her brows narrow, and she pulls her knees to her chest, arms keeping her limbs together, bare feet pushing out from beneath the light frill of her pale blue dress. The fabric flutters in the breeze, daring to lift the hem higher, exposing the creamy skin of her ankles, the lowest parts of her shins.

Blue-grey eyes peruse your features, the lower part of her face obscured by her crossed arms, and you take the time to examine the freckles on her nose. “Lucien said you never suffered Under The Mountain,” Feyre murmurs into her arms. After a pause, her eyes lock with your own, “is that true?”

You consider her tone—superficially indifferent; aiming for neutrality, but you could spot the cool glint of resentment from a world away.

“Should I have?” You ask in return, leaning forward on an arm, close enough your noses would touch should she lift her head. Her brows narrow, and curiosity simmers like caramel in the pit of your belly—soft and gooey.

Feyre straightens, lifting her chin, “how old are you?”

You hesitate, “…you’re nineteen, aren’t you?” Feyre nods her head once in confirmation, and you peer about her face—she looks similar to you, but that’s of no relevance when she’s aged as a human up until now.

“I’m…at least thirteen…” you answer, considering the time you spent Under The Mountain carefully. Amarantha had mentioned a few annual celebrations to you, but years are still…foreign.

Feyre frowns, and you perk up, sensing her interest. “You don’t know how old you are?” She inquires, and you shake your head, close enough to catch her scent whenever the breeze offers it to your direction. “I had a… I don’t know how long I was around for, before Amarantha found me. But I was with her for at least thirteen years, so, there’s that.”

“Were you already grown? By the time…” She trails off, but you give a wicked little smile, playfully nudging her, “Certainly grown enough. She had no interest in fostering small creatures of her own.”

Feyre hums, but she seems more relaxed now, and you ease yourself back into the blanket, splayed across on your stomach. Eyes dance across the tapestry of food, “you’re not going to eat anything? Forcing yourself to starve won’t fill any other person’s belly.” You consider the pear-green bowl, plucking it from the display, glancing at the pile of berries within.

“I’ve not had some of these before—are you familiar with them?” You ask, offering Feyre the shallow glass. Blue-grey eyes pick apart the contents, peering back at you, “which are you unfamiliar with?”

“Hmm…these ones.” You pluck a black raspberry from the bowl. It’s more prickly than you expected, its skin less furred. Feyre’s nostrils flare in a rare show of amusement, lips twitching as she unfolds herself, pinching the berry between her fingers. She takes a few, piling the odd raspberries into the palm of her hand.

Feyre puts one in her mouth, and there’s something about watching one another while she’s feeding that has your toes curling.

“These are blackberries,” Feyre tells you, reaching for another. “They were a treat in summer, though ours were never as sweet as these.”

“Blackberries…” you echo, peering at the purple-ish residue colouring her lips.

Feyre extends her palm to you, offering to share her collection. There are three left in her hand.

You swallow, lifting into a sitting position.

She lifts her palm to match your height.

You watch her, chewing, eating, swallowing. Clean her lips with a few short swipes of her tongue, dark pink.

You lean into a crawl, holding her eyes as you lower your mouth to her skin, pulling two of the berries between your lips.

They’re surprisingly sweet, and you recognise the flavour from a jam you’d tried long ago. You steal the last one from her palm, tongue tasting the surface of her skin, and her lips part by a fraction.

You retreat, slowly. Pulling away.

“They’re good,” you murmur, running the pad of your finger over your lips, licking the flavour from them. Would the flavour be staining her mouth? Could you taste it there, if you tried?

Feyre’s throat rolls, and she remembers to lower her now-empty palm. A thrill shivers across the surface of your skin as she licks the lingering taste from her palm—juice from the berries.

Her eyes are heavy on you, and the space around her begins to tunnel.

Blue-grey eyes twinkle, before looking away.

There’s a faint smile on her mouth as she says, “your tongue has turned purple.”

~~~~

Haha I’m crying at these dramatic dialogues

I’ve honestly not actually thought a ton on how Feyre would be feeling at that point? I’ve considered what a dynamic with the three of them might look like but not from her perspective.

I think for sure Rhys and reader would end up tolerating one another for Feyre’s sake, but before each has figured out that Feyre isn’t going to pick only one of them, I imagine there were/will be more than a few moments where they try to turn Feyre against the other, which makes those initial steps pretty difficult.

I don’t think I’ve actually yet written a scene featuring those three all in the same room? Maybe that’s an idea for another drabble, since I’m getting pulled away from that series 🫠