Note: This is only for those wierdos who are actually interested in what the author has to say. If you're normal, skip to the actual fic.

Hello, all!

I've recently gotten hooked on Sarah J. (for Jeenius) Maas' books. I loved the Throne of Glass series, and I'm waiting as anxiously as the rest of you for Empire of Storms, but I read A Court of Mist and Fury after I finished Queen of Shadows, and I got this feeling. You know the one I'm talking about, where you think you've read the best book ever, but then you move on to the next one, and you realize just how wrong you were. And when you reread the previous book, you're opinion flips again. And—

Well, maybe that's just me, but anyway, I've been feeling a need to write fanfic for them because I love Rhys and Feyre. :)) They're so cute. And I also love Azriel and Mor. :'(( *Teary eyed mess* They're in denial everybody, don't you get it?! *Clears throat* And I love Cassian and Nesta. O.O They're so...punchy. Whatever that means. So...I hope you enjoy this drabble. I'm not really sure how far I'll take this whole fanfic series, but feedback always helps. If any of you have a request, leave it in the reviews or PM me. I'll do my best to live up to your standards.

Anyway, gotta go feed the cat again!

-Arya

Rhys

Agony. The feeling that clawed at his heart, tore it from his chest and threw it to the vultures. The only feeling he knew. Vague memories of laughing or crying flitted through his blank mind, but they were dulled, muted, as if on the other side of a wall. He couldn't bring himself to care anymore, the anguish was too much. The once sharp pain had lost its sting, as blunt as the thoughts in his head. Sometimes he'd black out. Those were always the best of moments, a reprieve from the torture.

If the arrows in his wings had been painful, the ones in his eyes were devestating. The attack had happened so fast, none of them were prepared for it. Fae in gleaming armor, fae with ash-arrows, everywhere. Tamlin had sent them, the Spring Court emblem emblazened on their helms. They swarmed him and Azriel, bowstrings twanging in their ears. It had been a twisted repeat of Hybern, except it wasn't Cassian's wings that were damaged. It was Azriel's. The arrows had sliced cruelly through the membrane as if it was paper, knocking and pinning him to the ground.

His agonized cry had Rhys whirling, dark power threatening to unleash itself, but it'd never had the chance. By turning around, he'd left his face open to fire. The double volley put even him to the test. It was his honed reflexes that saved him, leaping over the three projectiles that hurtled for his chest. But they'd still got him. When Azriel had appeared at the gates of Velaris, Feyre and Mor had winnowed quickly to see what the problem was. They'd found the shadowsinger near collapsed on the ground, tattered wings sagging behind him. He hadn't been able to fly, so he'd carried Rhys all the way here. Indeed, there was no sign of mud on the High Lord, even though Azriel was caked in the stuff. The only way to avoid soiling Rhys' body would have been to hold him high above the ground, and Feyre could only imagine, Azriel, near death, cradling his friend as gently as a babe, though his entire being screamed at him to stop. But despite the obvious care, Azriel had been unable to do anything to stop the attack.

When Amren had looked over Rhys, she'd shook her head sadly. "There's nothing I can do for him. Perhaps dull the pain, but the poison has already taken its toll. And this..." She hesitantly brushed a finger against the shaft protruding from his eye socket. She shook her head again. "This is beyond me. "

Feyre had cried, she still was, he knew. He could hear her racking sobs, feel the dewdrops splattering against his cheek. Something in him wept mournfully along with her, appalled that she was in as much pain as he was. Once he'd tried to reach out to her, but it seemed even his mind was weak. He could feel her though, and for now, that was all that mattered. Cassian's reaction had been much more muted. He hadn't shed any tears, only nodded his understanding of the situation and closed the door. He hadn't come out since.

Mor stayed with Azriel. Whenever Feyre went to visit them in the House of Winds, she was greeted with silence. A haunted look was glued to her red-rimmed irises, a look that Feyre shared. They didn't speak because they didn't need to. Amren had been the calmest of them all, trying her best to keep the lot of them together. Their family was breaking, the stress and fear fraying their nerves to fine threads just waiting to snap. And snap they did. One wrong word and the friends you'd die for turned on you.

Amren remained neutral, doing her best to break up wars and play mediator, but she couldn't be everywhere at once. Skirmishes had become a daily thing, and so they all did their best to avoid one another, choosing to feul their grief in solitude. But they all knew in the backs of their minds that without the others, they'd be nothing. It was often a fleeting thought, stuffed away behind the supposed anger and hatred, but it was there. So they stayed together, knit loosely, but together.

Rhys stopped caring about the things going on around him. Instead he focused on the agony, the only thing real in this upturned universe. He learned to love it.

One night, when he was letting the burning pain fill his pours, he heard voices. They drifted lazily into his ears, and his brain struggled to recognize the words.

—wake up...remedy...risky...never see again.

He felt they should mean something, but it seemed unimportant when compared to the pull of the agony. So he burned.

And then, one day it was gone. The agony was gone. It had retreated to wherever it came from, scared off by tonics and herbs and magic. He howled at the loss of it, at the loss of feeling, because it was all that he knew, and it had been taken. He'd kill them, the ones who'd done this to him. He'd—

"Rhys."

A name. His name. And the voice. Her voice.

"Feyre," he croaked. His voice was hoarse and weak, but he heard the audible gasps in the room. All of a sudden the noises asaulted his consciousness. Questions were hurled at him, and he winced with each one.

Are you okay? What happened? I was so worried. Do you need help? Is it still painful?

And it was all just too much because—

"I can't see you." He jerked his head to the side, even though it killed him, then to the other. Nothing. Only darkness. "I can't see you," he said again, panic starting to set in.

That quieted them. But the silence only accentuated the thud of his heart, his labored breaths, and the roar in his ears. "Feyre! Where are you?"

And then he heard something else. The stuttering inhale that came with tears. It was Azriel's voice, and wonder mixed with the fear. Azriel had never wept, never. Not once in all the centuries they'd known each other. Mor said the same, Cassian too. His stoicism rivaled that of a stone, and to hear him break, it frightened him. What could be so bad that the hardened spymaster would cry?

"Feyre," he said again, hysteria edging his voice. "Tell me why I can't see you. What happened?"

He called her name again when she didn't answer. Then Azriel. Mor. Cassian. Amren. They were all silent, the only sound Azriel's quiet tears.

"Someone answer me!" And when no one did, he yelled again.

And it was Amren who finally broke the news. "You're blind, High Lord. The arrows poisoned your eyes. We had to sew them shut after the removal process."

Silence.

And then Feyre was screaming, clawing at Amren, calling her a bitch for being so insesitive, glistening trails cascading down her face all the while. For all the hate she showed Amren, she hated herself more. She didn't know why, but it was there. Guilt for not being at Rhys' side, pity for Mor and Azriel, and rage, such rage, at Tamlin. Containing the emotions had done something to her, turned her into a beast, and she found her talons had split from her skin, running angry red streaks through flesh. And Amren let her, because she knew the pain was too much, and because she felt it was right.

And Rhys, Rhys felt something stir in him. An ember of the agony he'd one known. And he vowed to fan those flames, until they rose high, high above his head, and burned the Spring Court to the ground.

Not sure how I feel about this... I kinda just let it happen. So, let me know what you think. Remember to leave suggestions in the reviews. :)

-Arya