Hi again! Thanks for reading and reviewing! Sorry about all the mistakes in the previous chapters: as I have said before, I haven't written any stories or anything in a very long time. Hope this chapter is better! Yeah, so the 0.0000000000001% chance actually won out this time. This chapter isn't as fast-paced as I hoped it would be, but the next one should be more interesting. Just saying, if you can't find this story one day, just check the M rated category. I might change the rating one day for violence, and maybe other stuff, but definitely nothing serious. Enjoy!
Feyre's POV:
I'm screwed. One hundred percent, totally screwed. Calanmai? Really? Rhysand must be insane. I try to dash right back into the palace when said insane man blocks my way.
"Feyre, I can explain-"I throw my hands up in the air. "Explain? Explain! All right, I'd love to hear it!" I feel this burning sensation writhe under my skin, so hot- no, cold- that it is actually painful. It's like the time I had accidently spilled boiling hot water from the kettle onto my arms. I was fourteen then, and my father had been furious at me for being so clumsy. This is what it feels like. Something so hot it feels like ice.
I'm so absorbed in this, that I don't even notice Rhysand is talking to me until he calls my name. "Feyre? Feyre, are you listening?" I search for something to say. "Uh huh- what? Yes, I am," I mumble. I feel like smacking myself in the face. Way to make yourself sound like a fool, Feyre. Rhsyand arches an eyebrow to show he knows I'm lying. "Anyways, I didn't see why you would be upset. It's not like I brought you here specifically for the...Rite." I feel stupid now, my face burning. I had jumped to the first possible conclusion, and made myself look ridiculous.
Rhsyand is dragging me to a secluded spot in the garden. "There's more to Calanmai then meets the eye. It's also a time when- he gestures to the sky- this, becomes visible." I strain my eyes towards the starry night sky, until I see what Rhysand must mean. Across the moon and stars bounds a white stag, pursued by a hunting party dressed in fine, luxurious silks. Their faces were both terrible and majestic, cold and haughty, but also merciful. They looked ancient, even more so than Rhysand, Tamlin, or even Amarantha. I rubbed my eyes with my closed fists, a warm breeze stirring my hair.
"It can't be real," I murmured. A hunt taking place through the stars? Impossible. "It's the Great Hunt. " Rhysand's voice is quiet. "Legend has it that those who reach the end of the world and die there receive a place in the Hunt. Even mortals. They will forever be chasing the White Stag across the world, stopping only to feast every night with the Watchers of the Cauldron." For the first time, I see Night and think, beautiful.
Rhysand's POV:
For a second, seeing Feyre's golden-brown hair lying over her shoulder, her face stunning in the moonlight, all I want to do is corner her in the hedges and kiss her senseless. But of course, one can't do what he always wants. Not if it would cause a war between Spring and Night and cause more bad than good. Earlier this evening, when Feyre first realizes that I had brought her to the Sacred Rite, I thought she could sense my lie when I told her that I didn't bring her here for the Rite. In hindsight, it wasn't really a lie. Just skirting the truth a little bit. I snort, and Feyre turns back to me. She's asking me something, but all I'm concentrating on is the movement of her legs I can spot through the fitted trousers she's wearing. Get a hold on yourself, Rhysand.
I roughly grab hold of her arm, jolting her out of her peaceful state. "You've seen enough. Go get some food." I see her face and add, "It's safe. I've made sure of that." Feyre scurries off, looking happy to be out of my company. Why wouldn't she? It still hurts though. I'm alone, watching the Hunt race through the sky. When I was a boy- I smile grimly, I can barely remember my childhood- I used to dream of finding my way to the ends of the Earth and joining the Great Hunt. People would watch me in the sky, and I would finally become one with myself. A worthless wish. I needed to lead my people, to become an example. I'm becoming increasingly melancholy, so I decide to go find Feyre.
I allow myself a wry smile, and the stars seem to shine in response. Nothing was boring with Feyre, the wildcat, beautiful and breathtaking and stunning. I really have to stop thinking about her. Like an infection you don't notice until you're halfway to the grave, my attraction to Feyre had taken me by surprise.
I try to fill my head with senseless, worthless thoughts, the faces of the girls whose hearts I'd broken, the faces of those whose minds I had broken as well. Evil thoughts. Evil actions. Because that is all I am, and I do not deserve anything good. The Night grows closer to the time I will have to pick a faceless female to regenerate the earth, and I still have not found Feyre. I reach out the tendrils of my power, searching the sea of minds, trying to locate the familiar thoughts. They're not there. I expand my mind even further, and finally locate a sliver of Feyre in the masses. But that's it. Only a sliver, which means she's either sleeping or barely conscious.
But I know Feyre, and I know that she would never fall asleep surrounded by unknown Fae. Shit. I'm running now, following the trail of her consciousness. I'm so close, I can just faintly pick up on a few disjointed thoughts. The one thing I can hear very clearly is my name; Feyre is calling my name out in terror in her mind. She suddenly flickers, and then she's gone. I'm panicking now, straining my senses to pick on any scent or noise to locate Feyre's whereabouts. I should never have brought her to Calanmai. Stupid, senseless fool! It's almost time for the Rite; I have to find her now. Suddenly, a painful, white light flashes across the sky, over in a split second, but I can feel the power and magic for minutes afterward.
Some instinct tells me it's Feyre, so I run in that direction. I find Feyre in a forgotten and pitch black area of the Garden, shaking, huddling in a ball. For a terrible second I think she's dead, but her chest is rising and falling unsteadily.
Feyre's POV:
The first thing after my outburst that I feel is cold. Wet and freezing, like I was drained of all warmth in a second. The three bastardly Fae that had attacked me had quickly run off after what seemed like a magical display of power. The Fae that had ambushed me had obviously been drunk, trying to give me sloppy kisses, not pushy until I told them to stop. That's when they forced me, and had… I groaned. The magic had erupted out of me, but too late. The very light in the air had burned them, suffocating the Fae, until they escaped my deadly magic. My powers had finally surfaced.
The grass underneath me was soft, and I was almost asleep when a hand shook me awake. I opened my blurry eyes to see a pale blob with a black blob on top. My eyes cleared and I realized it was Rhysand. His warm hands gripped my ice-cold arms and he shook me again. "Feyre! Feyre! What happened?" Rhysand's voice was laced with worry and concern, eyes wide and probing. His tunic sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was unruly. I tried to form words to explain, but my voice caught in my throat and I drifted out of consciousness.