This is my first fanfiction that won't be a collection of one-shots! (shock horror, I know) This takes place post A Court of Mist and Fury.
Please review and let me know what you think.
Prologue
It had been three weeks, two days and six hours since Rhysand had last seen his mate. The separation had been insatiable; with a looming war, Feyre's intolerable sisters and their difficulty to accept and adjust to their new Fae forms, along with the fact that Amren refused to talk to Rhysand for 'abandoning' their High Lady in enemy territory. Cassian's condition added more problems to the equation as he refused to leave his room for a week, then transitioned to trashing everything in his wake, which in turn progressed to brooding about the place, hence unintentionally offering little to no help in the war plans.
Rhysand examined the empty seat alongside him. After five hundred and fifty years he had been offered little more than a few months with his mate, of which she remained ignorant to the bond. Now, surrounded by his closest companions, he still felt alone. On instinct he threw all his force against Feyre's shields but to no avail. Feyre so rarely relaxed her shields now that she was in constant danger of being discovered.
Raising his head, Rhysand was met with her striking blue-grey eyes, knocking the air from him, only to quickly realise that Nesta was staring intently back at him, challenging.
"So…?" she snapped, cocking her head to the side impatiently.
"What?" He replied, dazed. As usual he must've smothered himself in his own thoughts.
"What are you doing about getting our sister back?" She almost growled.
"Nothing." He replied truthfully. Despite good intentions and longing, the High Lord had made no progress in formulating any sort of a plan. Every attempt only reached several complications and was hence discarded. The horrific but blatant truth taunted him. Rhysand yearned to return Feyre home, to hold her in his arms, intoxicated by their mingled scents, to protect her from the nightmares that still occasionally haunted her.
"Nothing?!" she exploded. "Well isn't that just fantastic?" Nesta drawled, flinging her arms in the air, with a smooth, agile force she'd not possessed in her past, human form.
"I'm trying okay? Would you like me to march my forces into the Spring Court and start a full scale war to save your sister- whose well-being never concerned you! You didn't care if she lived or died." Rhysand spat the words, clenching his fists at his side, unable to contain his rage. Shadows curled around him, unfurling over his shoulders, seeping into every crevice of the room. Rhysand hadn't intentionally meant to unleash his dampened glory, but the irony of Nesta's 'concern' sparked his anger. Without a word Nesta shoved her chair from the table and stalked off.
"Come on, Elaine," she ordered, holding the door open for her quivering, obedient sister, all the while holding the High Lord's stare. The chandelier shook from the rafters as the eldest Archeron sister slammed the door.
Hours later Rhysand still refused to apologise. Equally, Nesta hadn't sought him out to offer an apology. Feyre was the one who deserved an apology from them; for the hardship she'd suffered to keep her family alive, with no gratitude.
Images of Feyre's previous encounters with the High Lord of the Spring Court were Rhysand's only indication to the way events were unfolding across the border, between their courts. He tossed and turned, tortured by thoughts of his mate being bedded or physically harmed by Tamlin. He wondered what progress Feyre was making. Was she being granted freedom? Did they know the extent of her powers? Did Tamlin still truly believe that she loved him? Were they convinced the bond had been broken? The possibilities of their only solid plan crumbling were too great not to cause worry. It was such a risk and there was no proof that it was even worth it! Rhysand constantly questioned whether it would be more worthwhile to retrieve Feyre and live out the remainder of their days together, rather than being separated until war-possibly even death.
To ease his restless mind, which prevented him from sleeping, Rhysand stepped out onto the balcony. Escaping the confines of his magic the cold, crisp air slammed against him from all angles, making him gasp down air quickly. The stillness enveloped him, welcoming him into the darkness. Shadows skittered across the land and Rhysand leaned further into the night, bracing his hands against the cool marble. Stars scattered across the sky, standing guard around the pearl-white, full moon, while the sky was a blend of purple, blue, black and navy. There was nothing but an unaccustomed peace, until Feyre's thoughts came tumbling down the bond at an alarming rate:
HELP!
Please.