One-Shot: To Dance Beneath the Stars

A/N: I wrote this one-shot before ACOMAF came out, and it was in celebration of its release. There are a few minor spoilers from the very beginning of ACOMAF (from the first 3 or so chapters), but nothing major. This is my own version of the Spring Court wedding (based on a few Tumblr posts/headcanons that I've had) and what would happen on Feyre's wedding night, a la ballroom style (since so many people were dying for this scene). I had lots of fun listening to a bunch of whimsical, romantic music for this, not gonna lie. It's 29 pages - hope you enjoy!

I looked in the mirror and saw a porcelain doll–delicate, beautiful, and breakable: me.

The doll looked perfect and absolutely Fae, thanks to Ianthe and Alis, with her brassy hair pulled back in loose curls, wreathed in Spring's most colorful wildflowers: blues and pinks and purples. They glowed like jewels in the late afternoon sunlight that came in through the window, splashes of color against the huge, white dress that suffocated the doll. With the fine makeup and the delicate gold jewelry, she truly lived up to her namesake, beauty.

And the image would have been perfect, if her blue-gray eyes–my eyes–didn't look so lost, so empty; if the swishing white dress I wore didn't whisper the truth as I stepped closer to the mirror.

Liar, murderer, worthless human.

For I was still human where it counted, despite the pointed ears and this immortal body I could barely control. Because no amount of dresses or makeup or magic could change my human heart, and no amount of white could erase the blood that stained my hands. The eyes in the mirror knew it, and it was that knowledge that created hairline fractures in the careful glamour Alis and Ianthe had so carefully crafted when they dressed me.

I lifted one hand, palm out, to touch the glass, to will some light into those beseeching eyes–and froze.

Because another eye–a feline one–was staring back at me from the center of my palm, dark against my skin. Watching.

Then it blinked.

I gasped as I snatched my hand back from the mirror to look at Rhys's tattoo–the mark of my bargain with the powerful High Lord of the Night Court–but it didn't blink again. In that moment, it could have seemed like any normal tattoo, if not for the fact that the dark ink seemed to absorb the light around it, as if it were made from the night itself.

"Everything all right, Feyre?" Alis appeared behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I tensed, looking into the face of the Summer faerie in the mirror. Her eyes were warm and glinted with concern.

"Of course she's alright," Ianthe replied, as she too walked into the room with a long box in her hands. "It's her wedding day."

I finally turned away from the doll in the mirror, gripping my skirts tightly as I watched Ianthe place the thin box on the oak table.

I cleared my throat, ignoring the tight feeling in my stomach. I was nervous for the wedding; that had to be it. "What is that?" I asked. My voice was quiet, but it carried easily in the dressing room.

Ianthe smiled sweetly as she lifted the box's top to reveal long, white, silk–"Gloves, of course."

My breath caught, and my fists clenched the folds of my skirts more tightly as a zing shot up my tattooed arm.

"We can't have…well, you know," she continued, seemingly oblivious to everything beyond the gloves she was taking from the box.

I glanced down at the dark vines and flowers that crept up my arm to the elbow. Rhysand's mark on me; his claim. The reminder that happily ever afters didn't come without a price.

But today the Spring Court didn't want to remember that price; today was supposed to be a day of happiness, when I would finally marry Tamlin and maybe begin to make the false image in the mirror a little more real.

The tattoo sent another spike of energy up my arm, but I took the offered gloves anyway and grimly slipped them on.

My stomach tightened still further to see the black ink hidden beneath the silk, as white as freshly fallen snow in the Winter Court.

Nudging Alis out of the way, Ianthe stepped up behind me and placed her hands lightly on my shoulders to turn me back toward the mirror. Her smile was serene as she looked over my shoulder, into our image, and crooned, "There. Perfect."

She tucked a stray piece of golden-brown hair behind my ear. "Ready, Feyre?"

I closed my eyes, shutting out that sick feeling in my stomach, the tingling in my arm. Tamlin, Tamlin, I'm marrying Tamlin, my mind chanted. A spell against the darkness of my thoughts, against the guilt that clung to me like a shadow. This will get better, it will. For him, I can do this. For him, I can be happy. I love him.

When I opened my eyes, I unclenched my fists and let the tension from my shoulders release. Even so, the words felt heavy as they crossed my lips, and I couldn't bring myself to meet the eyes of the doll in the mirror when I whispered my response.

"Yes."

The Spring Court had truly outdone itself when it came to the wedding decorations. I tried to focus on them as I left the marble halls of the manor to take the winding cobblestone path toward the garden where the guests–and Tamlin–waited for me.

In the last light of day, the garden was spectacular. White and yellow, red and pink and deepest blue, the flowers of Tamlin's parents' garden were in full bloom. Their mixed scents were a bit cloying to my new sense of smell, but I hardly noticed with everything else.

In front of me, on either side of the aisle, were rows upon rows of faeries–Tamlin's court, faces bright as they beheld their false savior. I didn't recognize most of them, but it hardly mattered. My eyes slipped away from them like there was some glamour on me: Fire Night all over again.

Breathe, breathe, I chanted in my head as I closed my eyes. Breathe to calm that coiling anxiety that was snaking up my spine to wrap around my ribs, my lungs. Breathe to slow this treacherous human heart.

I opened my eyes to see Tamlin standing at the other end of the aisle, Lucien beside him, and I felt that snake recoil inside. I pushed it down–down, down into the shadows as I took one last shaky breath.

And smiled at him.

He was magnificent, my High Lord. Dressed in deepest hunter green with his golden hair pulled back, he was Spring personified, and the flecks of amber in his emerald eyes glinted in the light of the dying sun as I walked to join him at the end of the aisle.

Ianthe began the ceremony.

I could do this. I could ignore the hundreds of eyes on me–their expectations–and focus on being with Tamlin. Not the High Lord, not the warrior, but the Fae I loved. The Fae I had done so much for, had…killed…for…

The sick feeling reared up again as I remembered those faces and the blood. Oh Cauldron, no, not the blood. I pushed the memories back, back, back, focusing on Tamlin and his small smile as he recited the vows I could barely hear.

"–and you have been so good to me. I promise to–"

Good? No, no, I wasn't good, I wanted to scream. I'm not, I'm not, it's all a lie! I'm not your savior–I'm a murderer!

I was damned,damned for the blood on my hands. I would drown in this guilt and this terror and this blood–this blood that encircled my fractured soul in a vise that would never, ever let me go until I shattered–

Tamlin's hands tightened around my own and I knew he was waiting for my response–for my yes–but I couldn't, I couldn't. I was suffocating. I had to say no–needed to say no–and I opened my mouth to say the impossible–

But I didn't have to.

Because just then, as the sun yielded to the night as it always must, thunder boomed and darkness flooded the garden in a massive wave.

The guests screamed, falling from their chairs as they scrambled to get away.

And amidst the chaos, I heard a familiar chuckle, a laugh that caressed the very marrow in my bones.

Out of the darkness, straightening the lapels of his jacket, strode the High Lord of the Night Court.

Rhysand.

"Hello, Feyre darling," he purred.

Behind him, someone screamed. Rhys merely raised an eyebrow in amusement, and suddenly there was no movement at all. Ianthe, Lucien–everyone around me was frozen.

Everyone, that is, except Tamlin.

My High Lord stepped in front of me, a growl building in his throat. Those lethal talons were fully extended as he said, "You weren't invited, Rhys. Go."

"Rhys," I whispered. I was cold and burning all at once as those violet eyes fixed on me.

Rhys merely tsked, casually tucking his hands into his pockets and cocking his head to the side as wisps of starlit night extended toward us. They parted around Tamlin to caress my arms and waist, my cheeks and neck, before honing in on the glove of my tattooed arm. For a moment, the virgin white of the glove became pitch black, became deepest night, before the glove simply…fell away, leaving my tattoo bare for the frozen Spring Court to see.

"There," he said, still ignoring Tamlin, "much better." He rolled his neck, as if this were all nothing. As if crashing another High Lord's wedding and holding hundreds of faeries frozen in place were as simple as falling asleep. And for him, maybe it was.

I felt a tingle of warmth climb along my tattooed arm. Looking down, I sucked in a breath as I saw pinpricks of starlight settling into the swirls of ink, glistening against those midnight petals.

That bond attached to my center gave a strange tug, and I looked up to meet Rhys's eyes again. Though Tamlin stood between us, I could still clearly see them glinting in the darkness, an echo of the starlight on my arm.

"Now," he purred, focused on me. Tamlin remained silent, tense and wary. "I must say, I'm rather upset. No invite to the wedding, Feyre darling? And after everything we went through together Under the Mountain. I'm insulted."

I snorted.

Rhys's lips crooked up on one side.

Raising my chin, I matched him look for look and said, "What do you want, Rhys?"

Rhys inclined his head, acknowledging my move. "You know why I'm here."

My stomach tightened. No, no, not now.

"Me."

Those violet eyes burned. "You," he agreed. "And I always enjoy crashing a good wedding, of course," he remarked, brushing an invisible crease in his sleeve. He was undoubtedly enjoying the tension that gripped the entire frozen Spring Court.

When I glared, he gave me a cheeky grin, adding, "Plus, it's about time for me to start collecting my end of the bargain, don't you think? You should be happy; I gave you several months of respite before calling in. Isn't that generous of me?"

If looks could kill, Rhys would be dead. Sadly, that wasn't the case, though my anger did cause several of the crystal goblets on the reception table to shatter. My magic.

Rhys tutted as he leaned back on his heels, eyebrows raised. "Still as ungrateful as ever, I see. Some things truly don't change, do they? You may want to work on that control, though."

Tamlin had finally had enough. Roaring in anger, he strode toward Rhysand, claws extended. But before he could land a hit–before my High Lord could even get within five feet of him–he met an invisible shield.

Beyond Tamlin's reach, Rhys looked unconcerned, though I could somehow sense the small spark of fury behind those eyes.

"Now that," he crooned, "was a very bad idea." And then suddenly there was a rush of wind and darkness–a mighty push–and Tamlin was thrown backwards, landing in a crouch at my feet.

Tamlin was ready to go at Rhys again, to cut him to pieces, when Rhys took a single step forward. Shadows danced and shifted around him, hints of the nightmarish monsters waiting in the dark. The pressure in the air heightened as Lucien and the other members of Tamlin's court fell to their knees, grasping their heads in pain.

"Do you really want to start a war, Tamlin?" Rhys asked softly. I thought I could see the misty outline of those enormous wings behind him, the curved talon on each apex. Beautiful and dangerous, the High Lord of the Night Court. "You know the consequences of breaking a bargain."

Ripping his gaze from Rhysand, Tamlin looked at his court on their knees. He was shaking with fury. "You will not take her from me."

Rhys's gaze shifted from Tamlin to me. "That is not your decision but hers."

My breath froze in my lungs as I held his gaze and felt that tug along our bond. And I knew in that moment, knew that despite what he said, he had come here at this moment because of me: because of my fear and panic. Through our bond, he'd known, and he'd answered the silent call I hadn't even realized I'd sent.

I remembered what he had done for me Under the Mountain, how he had fought for me at the end against Amarantha as she broke me on that marble floor.

Not your enemy, someone whispered in my mind. I didn't know if it was him or me, but in that moment I decided to trust it.

I would not let Tamlin make the choice between me and his court. Rhys was right; this was my decision to make, and I would own the choice I made Under the Mountain.

I would honor my vow.

Stepping forward, I gently grasped Tamlin's shaking shoulder and bent down to lightly kiss his cheek.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into his ear. "But I made a bargain, and I will keep my word. I'll be okay; don't worry."

I felt Tamlin's shoulder slump beneath my hand–caught the hurt look in those emerald eyes I loved so much–but he wouldn't meet my eyes. The talons were gone, for the moment at least.

Steeling myself, I let go of him and straightened to my full height.

At the other end of the aisle, still surrounded by a darkness deeper than the navy blues and plums of dusk around us, Rhys waited. He stretched out a hand in silent invitation, his gaze never leaving my face.

Eyes narrowed, I huffed a breath, loosened my shoulders, and crossed the distance between us with my chin held high.

A thought not my own echoed in my mind: You're using my tricks well, I see.

And I realized that was exactly what I was doing. Head up, shoulders relaxed, no fear.

I'm a fast learner, I thought back. Rhys's returned smile was small but real.

Before I knew it, I was standing before him, and I paused for just a second, the merest breath, looking from the High Lord's outstretched hand to those violet eyes that twinkled like stars. The monsters in the shadows had vanished, as had those magnificent wings.

Rhys's eyebrows raised, the slightest question, and I didn't flinch when I took his hand. The grin he gave me then was stunning as he pulled me to him, wrapping an arm around my waist.

I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't help but look up at him. His face was too close–I could count the lights in his eyes–and I tried to stifle the shiver that ran down my spine so he wouldn't feel it across the bond.

Rhys leaned his head down a bit, filling my vision, and flashed a knowing grin.

Cauldron boil me, he was such a prick.

Something glinted in his eyes then, and I only recognized it for what it was after he'd pulled away from me and was bending down on one knee: mischief. What I had seen was the inkling of mischief in his eyes, and now it was full blown as he looked up at me, white teeth flashing in a wicked smile that made my insides squirm.

I tried to take a step back, but he gently caught my tattooed hand. "I almost forgot," he murmured, voice as deep and gentle as a lover's.

"What are you doing?" I squeaked, face flaming as I felt one of those large hands skim the sensitive skin of my ankle.

Oh no, he wouldn't.

But Rhys's eyes were twinkling as his hand slid up my calf, beneath my dress. I felt my eyes widen as I stuttered a breath.

His dark hair created a halo around his head, but the look in his eyes was devilish as his hand crept up, up, up to the garter belt resting above my knee.

I felt his warm, strong fingers wrap around it, grazing my lower thigh and sending icy fire along my nerves as he watched me and murmured, "I do believe it's customary to remove the bride's garter belt at her wedding, no? I must say, humans do have some traditions right. I find this one particularly…delightful."

I gasped for a breath as he slowly tugged the garter belt down. My legs were trembling, my knees weak, and I was burning, burning, burning as I stared into those bright eyes.

He trailed taunting fingers down my leg, the garter belt hooked in his grasp, and I lightly hissed: "My husband is supposed to remove the garter belt."

Rhys huffed a laugh, scooping the belt over my ankle and holding it up to examine briefly before grinning cheekily up at me. "Semantics," he said, before rising to his feet and hooking his arms under my knees and shoulders to lift me easily into his arms.

"What–" I yelped. I slapped his chest. "Put me down."

Tamlin, who had been as shocked as I'd been, was seething again, canines and talons out. "How dare you–"

"Ah, ah," Rhys said, sparing Tamlin a glance. For a few seconds, Tamlin froze, but the full effect of Rhysand's magic didn't last for long. After a few blinks, my High Lord was moving again, though at an incredibly slow pace. He was pushing through Rhys's magic, but only just.

Rhys's attention was already on me again.

"Oh, but I like this human tradition, too, Feyre darling," he purred, and I could feel the vibrations in his chest. "How does it go again? Death of the old life and birth of the new one? Aren't I supposed to carry the bride over the threshold to commemorate this moment?"

I ground my teeth, utterly exasperated. "Yes, your bride–which I'm not."

Rhys's smirk just widened and his eyes–those violet eyes of darkest blue, swirling with those galaxies of light–seemed to flash with something I both did and didn't understand.

I huffed to cover the strange feeling and crossed my arms, knowing the action must look ridiculous in this dress, in his arms. "You are not my husband."

Rhys's hold on me tightened just a bit, and I shivered when my breast brushed against his chest.

"And again, I reply: semantics."

I made a rude gesture at him. Rhys just laughed, striding a few steps toward the head of the aisle where Tamlin still made his slow progress. As he did, he hiked me up against his chest and freed one of his hands. When I looked down, I saw that he still held the garter belt.

He paused several yards from Tamlin, and grinned.

Leaning his head down, Rhys whispered in my ear, "And now for my favorite part."

Then Rhys threw the garter belt into the air, simultaneously releasing the Spring Court from his hold. Chaos ensued as faeries screamed and scrambled and knocked each other in their mad dash to escape. And through it all, I watched the arc of the garter belt through the night air, falling, falling, falling–

–onto Lucien's surprised face. Metal eye revolving wildly, Lucien stumbled mid-leap as he grabbed at the garment.

Rhys burst out laughing at Lucien's shocked expression. "Well, what do you know: Fox-boy. Congratulations on the upcoming nuptials–I do hope you'll invite me this time."

Lucien snarled, but didn't come any closer. What could he do against the High Lord of the Night Court that wouldn't start a war?

Rhys turned his attention from Lucien back to Tamlin, the only one still working against the power of Rhysand's spell.

Rhys beheld Tamlin for a moment, and I felt his grip tighten on me. "Now," he said, and his voice was soft–meant for Tamlin's and my ears alone. "I think this arrangement is only fair. You got her for the wedding day; it only makes sense that I get her for the wedding night, don't you think?"

"Rhys!" I shrieked, glaring up at him, but he just held me tighter against his chest, grinning down at me happily.

Then an earth-shattering roar split open the sky, and Tamlin broke his way out of the spell, transforming into the snarling beast that could tear out Rhys's throat.

Still grinning like mad, Rhys spared a minor glance for Tamlin and drawled, "Ah, that's my cue. Hold on, love," before he took a single step back.

One second Tamlin was in mid-leap, bearing down on us with claws extended, and the next: nothing.

Only darkness, only shadows, and Rhys's warm body against me. Wrapped in his arms, I could feel his laughter echoing into my chest and along my bones, and all I could see was that stunning smile so close to me and those grinning blue eyes looking at me, seeing me–

And then Rhys took a step forward, further into that darkness–through it–and we crossed over the threshold together. The pressure released, the true darkness faded, and I knew deep in my bones–as the world realigned and the stars shown above and the cold mountain air tickled my cheeks and hair–that I had finally arrived.

The Night Court.

It was…not what I'd expected. In my nightmares, the Night Court was much like Under the Mountain, a place of fear and darkness and terror, full of screams and torture and blood. My imaginings had painted the court in ghastly grays and blacks, the darkest reds and browns of smeared and drying blood.

But I couldn't have been further from the truth.

No longer laughing, Rhys's low voice sounded by my ear, an honest, curious question. "What do you think?"

It was a good thing he was still carrying me because I would have had trouble standing on my own. We were at the threshold of a large balcony inlaid with shimmering moonstone, and beyond it…

Beyond it was a sea of stars that were shining, stark and brilliant, through the depths of the blackest night, twinkling and dancing above rugged, snow-capped peaks. Tonight there was a winter's moon, full of memory and promise as it hung among the stars, an anchor for the ever-moving sky.

It was haunting, and beautiful, and shadow, and light. Lovely. And I felt something go quiet within my soul as I beheld it all, as I drank in that never-ending sea of stars and light and darkness.

"It's beautiful," I whispered

The gems of starlight on my tattoo flared briefly in response.

I hardly noticed when Rhysand set me on my feet, as I took those few steps to the edge of the balcony to look out at that endless, glorious night–an echo of the moon and stars on my bureau drawer a lifetime ago.

I was so entranced, I was unable to stop myself as I tripped over the petticoats of my ridiculous dress and–there was a loud, awful tearing noise.

I winced, feeling heat lick my face. Looking down, I saw the tear, several inches along the bottom. Irreparable. Ugly. Ruined.

Just like me. Just like the wedding.

Oh Cauldron, I'd ruined it. Not just this hideous dress, but the wedding. I was going to say no and Tamlin–

Breathe, breathe, breathe. But I couldn't breathe, couldn't think as heat built up inside me–anger and shame and humiliation and–I had to get out of this dress.

So I reached down and with my inhuman strength I tore at the rip. Tore and tore and tore, until I'd lost an entire layer and my fingers hurt. I felt like screaming and crying and hiding and what had I–

"You know," said that cool voice by my ear, breaking through my thoughts, "if you really wanted to take your clothes off for me, you need only ask for help. I'd hardly deny you."

I whipped around, even as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. In my anger, in my panic, I'd forgotten where I was, forgotten he was still there.

My breath caught in my throat at the sight of Rhys so close, of his golden skin–no longer pale from Under the Mountain–and his burning eyes against the magnificent palace of moonstone behind him, against that star-kissed sky.

I reeled myself in.

"Shut. Up. You. Prick," I snarled, face reddening. From anger, I told myself, that's all.

I felt the caress of those talons across my mind, the chuckle behind his words as he whispered into my head, Are you sure, Feyre darling?

A growled rippled from me, entirely Fae.

Rhys merely smirked, cocking his head to the side as he surveyed me up and down, looking at the tears and tatters at the bottom of my dress.

"I don't know, Feyre. I'd say it's an improvement–at least you can actually move now."

I crossed my arms, glaring up at him, hating that he was right.

"What do you want, Rhysand?"

The High Lord of the Night Court placed his hand on his chest in mock hurt, no better than a common minstrel player. "Rhysand, Feyre darling? I'm hurt; I thought we got past that Under the Mountain."

And I couldn't help the burst of memories in my mind. Not of that villainous mask he'd worn as Rhysand, but of the male beneath that calm facade. I saw Rhys as he picked up that ash dagger and lunged at Amarantha to protect me, as he screamed my name like he cared, as he got up again and again and again until he was bleeding and gasping beside me on that cracked marble floor. As we stood together on that balcony Under the Mountain and I confessed the secrets of my shredded human heart and he'd listened. As he told me about the wings, and the flying, and that he didn't want me to fight alone. Or die alone.

No, we had gotten beyond that, hadn't we.

I am not your enemy, Feyre, he whispered in my mind. And despite everything, despite what everyone had been telling me otherwise, it felt like truth.

But I didn't give him the satisfaction of calling him Rhys. He wasn't my enemy, but that didn't mean I knew what he really was yet. And just because he wasn't my enemy didn't mean I shouldn't be wary. He was still Tamlin's enemy, after all.

So didn't that make him mine as well?

Something in the back of my mind answered in a whisper–the softest of sounds–not your enemy, not your enemy, not your enemy.

Setting my teeth, I ground out my concession: "Fine. But I still don't know what you want."

Satisfied as a cat, Rhys began circling me, and a different memory flickered across my mind of another night when he'd done the same. The night we'd met: Calanmai.

"I thought we already established what I wanted back at that delightful yet disastrous wedding," he said, hands in his pockets.

I watched his movements, turning my head slowly so he was always in my line of sight.

"You'll have to be more specific," I deadpanned.

Amusement flickered in his eyes, and I felt it along our bond. "You're learning our ways, I see," he crooned. "Very well."

He stopped, facing me.

"I want to help you," he said. As if it were that simple.

"You want…to help me," I said, skeptical. I leaned back against the railing, welcoming the support.

He just looked at me, that light flickering in his eyes. A challenge, a beckon: come on, his eyes seemed to say, ask me why.

I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of my curiosity, but I couldn't help myself. I squared my shoulders, the tattered dress forgotten as I asked, "Why?"

Rhys's smile widened. Wickedly handsome, the High Lord of the Night Court. And dangerous.

He was going to be the death of me.

"I have my reasons," he said.

"Like hell you do, prick. Tell me," I said, taking a step toward him.

Rhys didn't back down–not at all. In fact, his eyes were positively dancing as his voice brushed lightly across the threshold of my mind. There's my Feyre.

But aloud he said, "You really want to know my reasons?" He took a step forward as well, so we were only a foot apart. I could feel the heat from his powerful body, see the wisps of shadow that floated off of him to swirl along the lines of my tattoo, flirting with the starlight on my arm.

I didn't back down, didn't back away–didn't even think to. I was burning, more wide-awake than I'd been in months.

"Yes," I said quietly, into that small space between us.

Rhys leaned a little closer, as if he couldn't help himself. Those white teeth flashed in the darkness, inches away, as he murmured, "Then let's make another deal."

Bad idea, bad idea, my mind bleated. My heart pounded as my eyes narrowed.

"And…what would be the terms?" Shut up, shut up, shut up, my common sense yelled at me. But it was hopeless; I never did seem to be able to keep my mouth shut around Rhys.

Rhys didn't blink as he breathed, "A trade." And then a little more loudly, "During your time here, I'll get to teach you what I want, and in exchange I'll tell you my reasons for why I want to train you; why I want your help."

My stomach tightened. Why would the High Lord of the Night Court have such an interest in helping me? And why did he need my help?

Suspicion tickled the back of my mind, making me ask, "What type of lessons?"

"Oh, you know, helpful ones," he said nonchalantly, voice smooth as night. "Fighting, magic–I wasn't lying at the wedding when I said you needed to get that under control–and…others."

I had a bad feeling I knew what would fall under others.

"Others such as…?"

He clicked his tongue. "So many questions tonight, Feyre darling." He watched me for a moment, face blank, before smiling slowly. "Alright, why not?" he said. "We'll throw in mind shielding and reading lessons, too, but only because you asked, love."

"No," I growled, seething. Damn it, damn it, damn it all.

He placed his hands on either side of me on the balcony railing, not threatening but still present. "Really?" he crooned, and his face was so close to mine that I tried to stare at his forehead, his nose–anywhere but those captivating eyes full of fire and challenge and…something else I couldn't name.

"No reading lessons." I could deal with the others. The magic, the fighting–I'd been wanting to learn those things for weeks now, but Tamlin hadn't let me, had been too busy. And to be able to shield my mind…to learn that from Rhys–I'd be a fool to not take him up on his offer, if it meant I could protect my thoughts from him or others like him. To protect Tamlin and the Spring Court from enemies.

But not the reading. I couldn't face that shame, my own fault, my stupidity that would have gotten me and Lucien killed during that second task Under the Mountain if it hadn't been for Rhys.

A warm hand gently but firmly took my chin then, so I was looking into Rhys's eyes. They were burning, and I caught the flicker of anger there–but it wasn't directed toward me. "You are not stupid, Feyre," Rhys murmured. "Never ever think that. It is not your fault that you can't read, and if you set your mind to it, I'm sure you'll excel at it like everything else you do. It's just a matter of practice."

My face flushed again. I didn't know what to say. I looked for that taunt in his eyes, the mockery that must surely be there.

But there was none. Only that fierceness, that challenge, and beneath it a strange warmth. The bond tugged before relaxing, stretching almost as if in a languid yawn.

Reading had been my weakness Under the Mountain, and it had nearly gotten me killed. It was one thing if my illiteracy harmed me, I realized, but it had almost killed Lucien, too–had almost consigned all of Prythian to an endless tyranny of death and blood. And I knew–knew that if I were to become Tamlin's wife, I would need to defeat this weakness; that I would be expected to know how to read and write, if only for correspondences.

But also, if I admitted it to myself, a small part of me wanted to know for me, too.

Bracing myself, ignoring the warmth of his fingers on my chin, I answered the challenge in those starry eyes, and nodded.

Rhys grinned then, triumphant, as he purred, "Excellent."

I let out a shaky breath, glad it was over, glad–

But then that smile turned wicked–turned absolutely feline and predatory.

"What?" I said sharply.

"There is one more condition," he said, still holding onto my chin, "to seal the bargain." A breeze ruffled his midnight hair, and star-flecked darkness hovered like a crown there before wisping away.

I tensed.

"It's another one of my favorite wedding traditions, you see," he murmured, face inches away. "And since it is your wedding night after all…"

He wouldn't–"I am not sleeping with you," I blurted.

Rhys raised his eyebrow, but there was a hint of steel in his voice when he said, "Rest assured, Feyre, that I would never force you. Ever." Shadows flickered in his eyes–the ones I knew were still in mine. I felt my stomach clench, remembering.

Amarantha's whore, they'd called him. Oh Cauldron, what I'd just said, what she'd done to him…

His grip on my chin loosened as he lifted his other hand from the balcony railing and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. In the light, the burnished gold of it looked like starlight.

Rhys's eyes didn't leave mine as he added, more teasingly, "Trust me, if you are ever in my bed, it will because you want to be there." He paused. "It is your choice. Always."

Truth again. I felt my heart leap as I reached for him through the bond, to somehow communicate all the things I couldn't say aloud. Thank you and I'm sorry. Sorry for what I said, sorry for what she did to you. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

And amazingly, I felt a warmth seep back across that bond. It made my breath catch as it flooded my core, rising to wrap around my heart, my lungs, until I almost felt like I was floating.

What type of bargain had we made Under the Mountain?

"I–" My voice broke, and I cleared my throat. Rhys still watched me, inches away. "What tradition?"

The warmth and playfulness in his smile at that moment mirrored the heat that still radiated in me, that made me feel lighter than I had all day.

Leaning closer, Rhys brought his mouth to my ear, his cheek brushing mine, as he whispered, "Why, the wedding dance of course."

I braced my tattooed hand on his shoulder–to shove him away, I told myself.

"What?" I asked. I'd meant it to be sharp, but my body betrayed me and it came out breathier than I wanted.

Rhys didn't back away–just turned his head slightly so his lips brushed my cheek.

"The first dance," he whispered, laughter in his voice.

I blinked. Turned my head a little to look at him. Gripped his shoulder: to pull him closer or push him away, I wasn't sure.

What was I thinking?

I took a small step away but didn't let go. Traitorous hand.

"Why?" I asked, keeping my breathing steady.

Rhys tilted his head slightly, amusement glinting in his eyes. His hair was messy from the wind, and I had the strangest urge to touch it, to run my fingers through it.

Was his hair as soft as it looked?

Rhys gave me a knowing smile, lifting my free hand–slowly, slowly, watching me the entire time to see if I wanted to stop–to rest it on his head, where the starlit shadows still danced.

My pale hand was stark against the darkness of his hair. I didn't move my hand–didn't move at all as my eyes trailed down and our eyes locked.

Rhys raised a brow at me.

And my heart stuttered. Holding my breath, my other hand still braced on his shoulder, I allowed my eyes to lift from his gaze again, to my hand in his hair.

Slowly, I drew my hand through it, wondering at its softness, at how it pooled in my hand. Soft, like a cloud, like ravens' feathers.

Rhys was still watching my face when my nails accidentally scratched his scalp, a light motion. He purred.

And that woke me up. Face burning, I yanked myself away, taking a step back.

What was I doing?

Rhys just gave me one of his feline smiles, straightening to look at me more fully.

"So that dance, Feyre?" he asked innocently, stretching out his palm.

I looked at the palm, and then at him. "You still didn't tell me why you want the first dance."

"Does a male ever need an excuse to want to dance with a beautiful female?"

I glared at him.

He chuckled.

"No ulterior motive, Feyre, I promise. I just want to dance with you, and you deserve to have a better wedding night considering how your wedding day went."

A dangerous offer. I stood there and contemplated him. It would be safer and smarter to say no, to turn away and demand that he take me to my room so I could sleep in peace. And yet…

And yet, there was still that warmth in his eyes, and he had saved me from saying no to Tamlin in front of his entire court.

And if I were being entirely honest with myself, a small part of me wanted to dance with him, to see what it was like–what he was truly like. This male beneath the mask.

Rhys.

Shoving my common sense into a corner of my mind, I stepped forward and took his hand before I could convince myself otherwise.

Rhys's face flashed through several emotions: surprise, delight, and a few others I couldn't yet name.

His hand tightened around my own. I hadn't realized how much larger it was.

Before I could take it back, before I could even begin to question the wisdom of my decision, he was already leading me to the balcony's entrance.

And then we crossed the threshold, and any breath left in my lungs swooshed out.

A ballroom.

A gorgeous ballroom, with pillars wrapped in streams of gauze that fluttered in the breeze: blues and greens and violets and golds. The windows–if you could even call them that–were huge and open to the night, giving us an open view of those snowy mountains beneath the star-strewn sky. A breeze whispered in through those windows, surprisingly warm–magic?–, and it lifted the edges of my tattered skirt as Rhys led me across the marble floor, toward the center where the image of a mountain crowned with three stars was engraved: the insignia of the Night Court.

Above us, floating magic lights flickered into life, encased in colored glass: warm yellows and oranges, cool greens and blues. And beyond that, far above our heads, a dome of clear glass: a sea of stars.

I drew my gaze back down, back to Rhys, and couldn't help but watch how the colored lights shifted across his face, playfully chasing the shadows there as we stood in the center of the room.

My hand still in his, Rhys swept a bow, looking up at me playfully. His eyes beckoned, shimmering in that colorful light.

"Would you honor me with the first dance, Feyre darling?"

Still not your wife, I couldn't help but shoot down the bond. Rhys just smirked cheekily, and with the exasperated sigh of the long-aggrieved, I murmured, "Yes."

That bond tightened between us.

And then something rather obvious hit me. "But wait," I said, as Rhys straightened from his bow and drew closer, "there's no music."

"Don't worry, Feyre darling," he purred, taking my tattooed hand in his own and placing his other hand on my hip. "There will be."

I looked at him suspiciously, before slowly placing my hand on his shoulder.

We paused, looking at each other.

I raised an eyebrow. Rhys grinned mischievously.

Then there was music–glorious, beautiful music playing in my head, across that bridge between us, and I knew it was music from the Night Court, from one of its dances, its celebrations. Full of soothing strings and ghostly pipes and triumphant brass and instruments I couldn't name, the music spoke of life and its spark–its passion–and the wakening of the dark at the dying of the day, of endings and beginnings and the endless cycles in between and–

And we were off.

Rhys swept me across the floor, laughing quietly as I stumbled to keep up at first. His movements were smooth and practiced–feline–as he led me through the unknown steps, the ducks and swirls and twirls, the drawing together and coming apart. At first, I stumbled and stepped on his toes–serves him right, I couldn't help but breathlessly think–but the music was relatively calm at first, at its awakening, and I had time to learn the steps with him, time to mirror and then to guess where he would move next, time to add little flairs into the dance–something entirely my own.

And at some point–I couldn't say when–the music got faster, crescendoing as the creatures of the night would awake and stretch, as they'd give into the urge to dance and run and fly over mountain tops to chase those brilliant, brilliant stars–the ones in his eyes as they twinkled and he laughed with me, as he drew me to him and twirled me in his arms faster than I thought possible. He flipped me so my back was against his chest, his hand splayed flat across my stomach, and we moved in this sensuous dance that somehow, somehow I seemed to know the steps to already, like some half-remembered dream.

The music intensified, and the room blurred around us as we circled each other, skimming each other's arms and torsos as the other danced out of reach. I gasped and laughed–I was laughing for the first time in months, I realized–as I lunged for him and he skirted around me, grazing his hand along my arm and up to my shoulder as he drew close and I could see the laughter in his eyes. That perpetual challenge was there, staring back at me: play with me, dance with me.

And I answered that call. Yes, yes, yes.

I caught his hand, drew him to me, and we danced and danced and played. We were flashes of black and white–darkness and light–across the floor, as the torn skirts of my wedding dress flared to wrap around his dark pants and boots when we drew together, as they then separated once more when we whipped apart.

As the music in our heads hurdled toward the climax and the violins soared, it was hard to tell where one of us ended and the other began, and at some point his wings–those lovely, membranous wings–materialized behind his back. In the light of the lamps and the stars and the moonlight, I saw that they weren't solid darkness like I'd originally thought. As Rhys drew me close to lift me up and spin me, his wings spread out behind him and I realized:

There was color in that darkness.

Shimmers of gold and amber, of deepest crimson and the blues of midnight, his wings were both darkness and light, and if that part of me weren't broken, I would have loved to paint them.

The music flowed and dove off that cliff, falling from the climax in a controlled dive–then a shallow glide, coming slowly down, down to the end of night and the coming of dawn. It swirled around us, urging us to slow, to breathe, to hold on as we drew together. Rhys twirled me once–so slowly, so gently–and drew me to him, my back to his chest.

A lover's embrace, the music seemed to whisper in my mind, but I brushed the thought away, tucked it in the corner of my mind with my common sense as I placed my hand over the one Rhys had settled on my waist, as he drew me still closer and caught my tattooed hand to draw it up, up, up, skimming our hands of shadow and starlight over my stomach, my breasts, to lay at the hollow where my collarbone met my neck.

An embrace: of shadow and light, of night and stars and something–something else. I arched against him, in that embrace, letting my head fall back to rest against his shoulder, and as the last traces of the music ebbed and flowed, down on the breeze and out to the sea at dawn, there was the lightest brush of lips against my temple.

Gentle, and warm.

I tilted my head, as that last note rang out in our minds, and looked up into Rhys's face.

Beautiful. He was so beautiful–still the most beautiful male I'd ever seen.

I felt something stir in my chest, felt that bond tighten between us once more–thought I saw my own blue-gray eyes looking up at me for the briefest flicker of time–and my tattooed hand was flaring between us, a brilliant white against the petals and the darkness, an echo of Rhys's eyes and the stars above.

In the next moment, I was myself again, and we were standing, locked together, in the center of the ballroom, back on the mountain insignia of the Night Court.

Into the silence, eyes brimming with light, Rhys whispered for me alone, "Thank you. I…thank you."

I tightened my grip on his hands, still on me, and answered the only way I could in that moment: with a smile.

He tightened his arms around me, a brief squeeze–as if he didn't want to let go–, and then he released me, stepping away and letting those wings of darkness and color vanish once more.

Bowing, he said, "The bargain is sealed. I'll show you to your rooms now, Feyre."

I simply nodded, feeling the tiredness creeping through my bones now as the high of the dance wore off and I remembered what came before this wedding night. The wedding, and Tamlin, and my own panic.

How would I ever fix this?

Rhys led me down a series of hallways to a bedroom on the main floor. He paused at the door to my room, remarking, "Your room is next to mine, and we have a connecting door should you need me. I will not use it otherwise, but this way any of my court members foolish enough to get ideas will think more than twice before trying anything with you."

He looked back at me, raising an eyebrow in question: okay?

I couldn't argue with that, and if he really wouldn't use the connecting door other than when I needed him…I remembered his words again: I am not your enemy, Feyre.

"Okay," I said.

Rhys nodded, and opened the door. When I stepped inside, my breath was stolen away. Again.

I really wasn't going to be a prisoner here, it seemed. I truly wasn't Under the Mountain and I…

I wouldn't feel trapped here.

Because unlike my room at the Spring Court, my bedroom here was spacious, with a large bed, huge open windows looking out on that sea of stars, and above–above me was a large skylight showing the endless skies.

When I woke up from my nightmares, I could never feel trapped here, not with that open sky above me, around me.

I felt something loosen in my chest, and I thought I might start crying.

Trying to lock up the sob in my chest, I turned my head slightly so Rhys, standing behind me, could hear. "It's…it's perfect. Thank you."

Thank you for not locking me away, thank you for not making me feel trapped, thank you for this gift of a sky.

Rhys placed a hand on my shoulder and gripped it tightly. In understanding, in shared pain. I had only been locked away in the mountain for several months, but he–he had been trapped there for 50 years.

The horror I felt for him in that moment…

I lifted my tattooed hand and laid it over his fingers, squeezing them gently. The light streaming along the petals of my tattoo flared again.

And a question that had been tickling the back of my mind for most of the night spilled from my mouth. "Why did you take off my glove at the wedding?" I blurted, slipping out from under his hand as I turned around.

Rhys lowered his hand to his side, watching me speculatively.

"Because," he finally said, voice dark, "it was wrong. Those fools at the Spring Court wanted to erase your sacrifices; they wanted everything to be perfect and turn you into a doll." He spat the word, as if it were disgusting. His eyes were brimming with shadows, with anger. "They dared to–"

He stopped. Took a breath. And then the anger was extinguished, the shadows gone, his calm restored. "They wanted to make you pretty and helpless, their perfect, harmless beauty." He reached up a hand, as if to touch my hair–but dropped it to his side. "But they're wrong," he whispered. "You are not a helpless doll; you are at least the equal of every one of them."

I stared at him. Blinked. Swallowed. Felt something beneath my skin roar in agreement, but I shoved it down.

"And what about the light show?" I asked, lifting my hand and waving my fingers for him to see. Anything to get off this subject; anything so I didn't have to think of Tamlin or how much Rhys's words hurt–how true they felt.

"Ah," he breathed. "That." He stepped forward and picked up my tattooed palm between us, tracing his finger along the vines, the glistening petals of shadow and starlight.

I watched him trace it, frozen as the fire from his touch raced up my arm.

"This," he murmured, looking up from my arm and into my eyes, "was a reminder: that light cannot exist without darkness. And that darkness can still exist in the light–that it never truly goes away. That you can live beyond the darkness and see the light again, even if that darkness is still in you."

He paused, cocking his head to the side, and smiled. "And, Feyre," he purred, "it is a reminder that without darkness"–he skimmed the dark ink on my skin, and it was like he was brushing my soul instead, so intently was I listening–"we cannot see the stars."

Cauldron boil it, I was going to cry. I didn't want him to see, couldn't let him see, so I just said, "Good night, Rhys."

Rhys dropped my hand and stepped away, turning for the door. I was going to break down; I was going to shatter and drown in this darkness, and there was nothing I could do. He was wrong, wrong about the light in the dark, because I couldn't see it.

Rhys paused on the threshold to his room, the connecting door half-open.

"Oh, and Feyre darling," he crooned, "did you still need help with removing that wedding dress? I'd be more than happy to oblige."

Darkness forgotten–for the second at least–I saw a flash of red.

"Still not my husband, you prick!" I yelled, chucking a pillow at his head.

Rhys didn't even dodge–only laughed as he stepped through to his own room. "Semantics, my dear," he said tauntingly.

And then, more casually, "See you in the morning for breakfast."

I tried to throw another pillow at him, but the door was already closed and Rhys was gone. For now at least. Until breakfast.

Oh Cauldron, the High Lord of the Night Court was going to kill me.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I let the tears fall silently as I stripped off my torn wedding gown and the terrible day as well. Kicking the hideous gown into a corner, I fell into the bed and tried to breathe.

Tamlin, Tamlin, Tamlin. My heart was cracking, that black ichor spilling out, filling my heart, my lungs, me.

I was going to say no, I was going to say no. I couldn't do it; I'm not good enough, never good enough. I had too much darkness, too much blood on my hands.

Liar, murderer, worthless human.

I turned my head on my pillow, gasping in air as I looked first at my tattooed hand–still shimmering and dark all at once–and then beyond, into the star-kissed skies of the Night Court.

Without darkness, we cannot see the stars.

I tried to swallow the ball that was suddenly in my throat. I had wanted to tell him that I had too much darkness, though, and couldn't too much black cancel out the stars? Couldn't it swallow them whole, swallow me whole?

I had brought light to everyone else, but I was still lost in that darkness, still locked away–alone–in my cell Under the Mountain.

Alone, alone, alone…

A caress of warmth came along that bond, embracing me, soothing me, lulling me to sleep. But as my eyes began to close and my mind to wander, I saw those gems of starlight shimmering against the darkness of my tattoo. And in that last moment, hovering on the threshold between sleeping and awakening, I could see both: both the darkness and the light.

And then my vision was blurred and they were swirling together, coming together and apart in their perpetual dance.

A dance beneath the stars…

A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoyed it! If there was anything in particular you liked, please feel free to leave a review - I always love hearing feedback 3 :)