Hello everyone.

I know what you're going to say... two updates in 1 week? What?

I have been sick and missed work for a day, hence the extra writing time.

This is the scene we have all been waiting for.

Sorry it is so short, I just think it would be foolish of me of me to dribble on. I think it ends in the right place.

Enjoy, and please review!

Rhysand picked out his usual black tunic with silver accents, one of the less ostentatious pieces from his miniscule wardrobe. He dressed himself gingerly, the healed skin on his back stretching over his sore muscles with every movement.

Ash was annoying. Even with most of the splinters out, it left him feeling weak. Even with his power lingering underneath his skin once again, he was unable to heal himself. No part of his back remained open or scabbed, which he supposed was a blessing compared to mortal healing. Regardless, the twinge across his shoulders and lower back as he laced his new black leather boots was enough to make him grit his teeth.

He stood from his chair by the fireplace, bouncing on his heels a few times to test the fit of the boots. Nuala and Cerridwan had been kind enough to burn his old, blood-soaked clothes and did not answer him when he asked where they had found the new clothing. He was no fool however and had recognized the hallmark scent of Velarian leather. His heart caught in his throat for a moment as he thought of his friends.

Morrigan, Cassian and maybe even Azriel… they would all be dead by now. There is no way in hell they would have let that red-haired bitch whip him. He was thankful that they were not there with him, that this burden was something he could carry on his own. Amren would have been the only one who may have survived in the depravity Under the Mountain, if not only for the reason that no one could kill her.

And that was why Rhysand had made her his second-in-command. She would be able to make the hard choices, and she was closest thing to immortal as anything he had ever seen. The year would fade into eons, the earth crumbled into dust and Amren would be floating through space. Probably ruling over a clan of alien creatures as she floating on by.

He stretched his arms above his head, testing exactly far he could stretch his skin without a tearing the new skin. It hurt, his muscles aching and burning, but his skin stayed intact. There were a few more splinters imbedded in the muscles in his back, but those would have to wait for another time.

The wraiths materialized from the shadows around the door, the darkness pulling at their forms as they strolled in his direction.

Nuala reached for a stoppered bottle on the nearby table, and before she could grab it Rhysand held out a hand.

"No. I need my powers sharp and my mind clear. No pain elixir." His voice was starting to sound like his own.

Without a word, Nuala silently set the bottle back down on the table.

They both looked at him in curiosity. Rhysand drew the darkness into him, allowing the shadows to cover his body in their cool embrace.

When he looked down at himself, he was a man of shadows and mist. He gave a small smile, holding his hand out in front of his eyes. "Shall we go make a bargain, wraiths?"

Nuala simply faded back into the shadows, slipping to the floor in a pile of mist. Cerridwan gave him a nod and smile before melting down into the shadows.

Nuala and Cerridwan led the way down to the prison cells, knowing all paths Under the Mountain better than Rhysand could ever hope. They sensed things even Rhysand couldn't long before they appeared. He really didn't want to be discovered out in the hallway so soon after his punishment. He was sure that the word of his quick recovery would quickly reach ears that he wasn't quite ready to whisper into yet.

So, his wraiths winded their way down the hallway, jumping from shadow to shadow. Disappeared into the wall, the shadows, to avoid searching eyes. Rhysand followed them, using his magic in a way that he hadn't in so long. It was kind of like using an old weapon, familiar and yet unwieldy until his muscles grew accustomed to them. He twisted the night around him, fading his body into the shadows.

The pull on his power was more than he would like to admit, but it was manageable. His wards were all holding.

They didn't encounter a single soul until they reached the corridor in front of the antechamber to the prison. Rhysand slipped behind a tapestry as he heard their grunting voices ambling down the hall, and after a moment two red-skinned guards rounded the corner. He recognized them as the pair that had dragged Feyre to the first trial.

"-won't last another two nights if you ask me. Maybe we won't be seeing a second trial after all." One of their snorting voices chortled.

"Five marks that she won't last the night," the other grunt grumbled.

"You got it. It's disappointing though, I wanted to see what our Queen-" they opened the door, Rhysand slipping into the shadows behind them. "-has planned for the little slut."

Rhysand quickly faded into the shadows by the spit. Neither guard noticed the flickering of three shadows in the faelight.

"Perhaps another monster?"

"No, no. You know she never does the same thing twice."

Any minute now, High Lord. Get nearby the cell door. Nuala's whispering thoughts brushed against the antechamber of his mind.

Rhysand jumped from the shadows nearby the spit in the center of the room, to the thin shadows nearby that metal cell door. If the grunts were looking hard now, they would surely see the outline of a man lurking next to the door way. A part of him urged to use his magic just to slide through the wall, but there were wards set up against that and the expense of his power would be-

The door clicked, and then starting creaking as it slid against the dusty floor. Before he could think about it, he had whipped around the door and into the hallway behind a large jawed, yellow toothed lesser fae.

He felt the brush of cool air against his skin as two dark eyed wraiths slid into the corridor behind him, just as the door softly clicked shut.

He paused, listening, "Samson, took you long enough, man-"

"How's the bitch looking, eh-"

Rhysand blocked out the chattering and turned back to hallway before him.

It was darkly lit as usual, flickering blue faelights floating down the hallway. It was a long hall of wooden doors, a small metal grate at the bottom and eye level at each door. Eerily silent, not even rough breathing was heard as Rhysand made his way towards Feyre's door due to the spell designed to torture Amarantha's prisoners.

The last door the left had been her own cell previously, and he was not disappointed as he approached her door. The spells kept him from hearing her, but he could… feel her. Her presence. Her mind was behind that door.

Nuala and Cerridwan were behind him, and he nodded once to them as they took up a spot in the shadows on either side of her cell. Their presence on this trip hadn't been a necessity but the wraiths had lingered around him since his punishment. When he had asked them not to come the looks he had been met with was enough to chill even his own bones.

Drawing the shadows into himself, he made himself invisible. His head spun for a moment with the effort, and he let that feeling pass before slipping directly through the door.

As he entered that dimly lit room, he was disturbed to see starlight eyes glaring blearily at the cell door, which he was standing directly in front of. Feyre was sitting with her back to the far wall of the cell, her face hidden partially by the shadows. Her right arm was crossed over her stomach, rising and falling with the quick breaths that were entering and escaping her lungs. Her left arm lay uselessly by her side, a torrent of dried and fresh blood alike leaving a pool under her and coating her mud-stained shirt. A white bone remained glimmering from the wound in her arm, barely visible in the dim light.

Feyre was covered from head to toe in that muddy filth she had been coated in during her first task, no one bothering to allow her to clean herself since the event. The mud had started to flake off her face and bare arms, thin rivets of pale skin peaking out under her eyes where tears had been leaking down her face. Her eyes, while open were blinking slowly, like it was an effort to keep her eyes open.

Here goes nothing.

Rhysand held his breath as he allowed his shadows and night to ripple from him, the darkness leaking away from him and into the shadows of the world. His eyes bore into her own, and a lazy smile slipped onto his lips. Rhysand, the night triumphant. A creature of shadows and fear looked back at the human girl.

A scowl fell across her face as she took in the male form before her, the clouds in her eyes momentarily dissipating.

Happy to see you too, love.

"What a sorry state for Tamlin's champion," Rhysand was pleased to hear that his voice was again near normal. His smile grew as she glared at him.

"Go to Hell," she managed to grumble out, her voice like pieces of paper rubbing together. The force of her voice seemed to take energy out of her, her eyes fading back to mist for a minute and her good hand tremored against her abdomen.

Cauldron, she looked like shit. Cerridwan had said she was dying but… He approached her slowly, dropping into a crouch in front of her so that he could see the part of her face that was obscured by the shadows of the cell. All he could smell was the filth that monster that left behind and that infected wound poisoning the air. He sniffed once, trying to find a stronger inkling of that enticing scent she let off… the sour scent of sick was lingering in the far corner of her cell.

There was a pile of still full food trays in that corner. It looked like she had pushed that food as far away from her as possible in the cell. A splatter of the vomit sat nearby. He couldn't help but grimace.

As he lowered into his crouch, she shifted slightly like she was trying to get away from him. It appeared she was too weak to do more than wince away.

Her heartbeat was so desperately fast, the heat pouring from her struggling body was a pressure against Rhysand's face.

Yes, she didn't have long. Death very well could have been lurking in a corner of her cell.

He cocked his head once, letting his face take on a serious look. He reached up, brushing a gentle hand against her forehead. She was burning up, almost painful to touch.

"What would Tamlin say," he murmured, "if he knew his beloved was rotting away down here, burning up with fever? Not that he can even come here, not when his every move is watched." Much as his own was… but Rhys had shadows on his side.

It didn't hurt that he was much cleverer than Tamlin as well.

"Get away," Feyre gasp at him, her eyes watering as if the words pained her. She tried to swallow.

Cauldron, give him strength.

Rhysand rose a careful eyebrow, staring into those bleary eyes. Her face was so pale. "I come here to offer you help, and you have the nerve to tell me to leave?"

"Get away." She mumbled, her eyes struggling to stay open.

"You made me a lot of money, you know. I figured I would repay the favor." Let us see just how clever you are, darling Feyre.

Feyre didn't answer him. She just leaned her head back against the hard wall behind her, not seeming to notice the sharp crack her skull made against the stone. She was turning green.

Shit. Perhaps healing first, deals later.

Rage slithering up his face, burning him. This girl had fought for them all, had won the first challenge that many faeries would have struggled to win. Amarantha was going to let her die, just rot away in a jail cell. Amarantha said that it was the Cauldron's will if she died from her wound…

It was never the Cauldron's will to let a human girl rot in faerie prison during an unfair trial.

"Let me see your arm," Rhysand said, his voice low.

Feyre didn't move. She was slowly closing her eyes.

"Let me see it." Rhysand growled. Before he could change his mind, he gripped the elbow of her injured arm, pulling her arm into the dim faelight.

Feyre arched her back, biting her lip against the pain. She was silently screaming.

Guilt for causing her pain was quickly replacing the rage, but he pushed that back. Cruel, unyielding. That's who he needed to be.

"Oh, that's wonderfully gruesome." Rhysand smiled, if only because the eyes that looked at him now were no longer hiding behind mist.

"You disgusting bastard," she hissed.

"Such words from a lady," he chuckled as those eyes became daggers.

"Get out," she hissed again, her voice cracking.

He cocked his head again, trying to keep her from slipping back into the haze. "Don't you want me to heal your arm?" He gripped her elbow tighter.

"At what cost?" She snapped. Interesting. Feyre was clever indeed.

"Ah, that," a teasing smile spread across his face. "Living among faeries has taught you some of our ways."

She looked away from him, her face strange. Curious, Rhysand examined her thoughts. Unsettled. She was unsettled by him. She began picking mud out from underneath her fingernails on her good hand, closing her eyes

"I'll make a trade with you," Rhysand continued. He had to do this the right way, or it would come out wrong. He was thankful she couldn't hear his own heart as he spoke. "I'll heal your arm in exchange for you." Her eyes flew open.

"Two weeks every month, two weeks of my choosing, you'll live with me at the Night Court. Starting after this messy three-trials business."

"No." She snapped, shaking her head.

"No?" He leaned forward until her breath was on his face. Her breath still smelled like her… and familiar. Like how a scent brought you back to a memory, but you couldn't place your finger on which one. "Really?" His eyes were burning into her.

"Get out," she breathed at him. Her eyes were defiant.

"You'd turn down my offer- and for what?"

Feyre said nothing.

"You must be holding out for one of your friends – for Lucien, correct? After all, he healed you before, didn't he?" Because Rhysand used his powers to make him… In Lucien's defense, he hadn't been difficult to convince.

She looked away from him. How did he know? He heard her thought like she had called his name.

"Oh, don't look so innocent. The Attor and his cronies broke your nose. So unless you have some kind of magic you're not telling us about, I don't think human bones heal that quickly."

Feyre continued to look anywhere but at him, but her thoughts were like she was throwing them at him. Rhysand stood, pacing back and forth as the anxious energy he had been trying to contain was escaping. His back burned, but he ignored it.

"The way I see things, Feyre, you have two options. The first, and the smartest, would be to accept my offer."

Feyre glared at him and spit a pitiful looking bit of spittle at his feet. Honestly, it was impressive that she knew how to spit that far. Rhysand only shot an annoyed look at her and continued his ramblings.

"The second option- and the one only a fool would take- would be for you to refuse my offer and place your life, and thus Tamlin's, in the hands of chance."

When he had said his part, he stopped pacing and turned to look her in the eye, staring at her. There were few things he wanted more out of his life than for her to agree to this bargain… two weeks, every month he could know her. It was something to live for. And it allowed him to protect her, to heal her. To make her his, at least within the bounds of the bargain.

Listen, Feyre. Hear me. Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.

She looked up into his face this time, and whatever part of her that was so defensive, that had said 'no' so quickly, was quieted. Her breathing slowed and her mind went blank. She was listening.

"Let's say I walk out of here. Perhaps Lucien will come to your aid within five minutes of my leaving. Perhaps he'll come in five days. Perhaps he won't come at all. Between you and me, he's been keeping a low profile after his rather embarrassing outburst at your trial. Amarantha's not exactly pleased with him. Tamlin even broke his delightful brooding to beg for him to be spared- such a noble warrior, your High Lord. She listened, of course- but only after she made Tamlin bestow Lucien's punishment. Twenty lashes."

Feyre began trembling, her face growing pale as bone underneath the filth. Visions of Tamlin whipping Lucien were shooting through her mind.

Rhysand shrugged. "So, it's really a question of how much you're willing to trust Lucien- and how much you're willing to risk for it. Already you're wondering if that fever of yours the first sign of infection. Perhaps they're unconnected, perhaps not. Maybe it's fine. Maybe that worm's mud isn't full of festering filth. And maybe Amarantha will send a healer, and by that time, you'll either be dead, or they'll find your arm so infected that you'll be lucky to keep anything above the elbow.'

He approached her. Say yes, say yes. Don't be a fool. His eyes were begging her, but she stared up at him in hatred.

"I don't need to invade your thoughts to know these things. I already know what you've slowly been realizing." Rhysand sunk again to a crouch in front of her. Their faces were only inches apart.

"You're dying." He whispered the words. They left his lips and he knew she felt the caress of his breath across her face.

Her eyes filled with tears, her face a grimace of pain and hatred. She bit her lips together.

"How much are you willing to risk on the hope that another form of help will come?"

Those tear-filled eyes started to overflow even as she looked him with unadulterated hatred. He did this. He told Amarantha about Clare. He made Tamlin beg.

Rhysand hid the sting behind her thoughts deep below the surface. He wasn't sure why her thoughts bothered him, so many others had thought the same things.

"Well?" His voice was steady.

She bared her teeth at him, "Go. To. Hell." The words were a growl. Tears shivered down her face, turning brown with filth.

Foolish. She cannot say no. She will die.

Before he could change his own mind, he lashed out of her, grabbing that broken shard of bone in her arm and twisting.

Feyre's scream shattered through the cell, the sound so raw and aching he felt Nuala and Cerridwan recoil. She thrashed beneath him, so weak, so unable to stop him. Hopeless against his strength.

Just as she would be hopeless unless she accepted his help.

When he could bear it no longer, he released her arm. She panted, sobbing. Her breaths were wet and broken. When she finally found the strength, she opened her eyes to look at him again.

He smirked at her, the mask slipping over the horror.

She spat at him, and he did not flinch back. He let it hit him in the face, just below his left cheek. He knew he deserved it.

Rhysand laughed darkly as he stood, self-hatred and misery a torrent within him. He could barely tell up from down, let alone knowing if he had won her… He wiped the spit off his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

"This is the last time I'll extend my assistance," he strolled to the cell door, turning back to look at her. "Once I leave this cell, my offer is dead."

She spat at him again.

Maybe he had gone too far. Maybe he had thrown her off a cliff, where death waited for her at the bottom.

Rhysand shook his head, letting his mask slip off for a minute.

"I bet you'll be spitting on Death's face when she comes to claim you, too."

Rhysand began to fade into the shadows, not planning on leaving. He let his edges blur into his night, but his eyes lingered on her own. He would watch her even after she thought he was gone. He would need to think…

But as he began to fade the expression on her face changed. Indecision clouded the hatred. I might be dying… And if Lucien couldn't come… Lucien underestimated me… He'd sent me to hunt the Suriel with a few knives and a bow. Rhysand was surprised at this. She had captured the Suriel?

Rhysand was being swallowed up by the shadows when-

"Wait."

Rhysand paused. Her thoughts poured out of her. For Tamlin, I would sell my soul; I would give up everything I had for him to be free.

A feeling of elation filled him even as she whispered again, "Wait."

He stripped the shadows off him. He couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face, "Yes?"

She lifted her head off the stone to look at him properly. Her chin was pointed up in the air, and she looked at him with a noble expression. "Just two weeks?" The human queen asked him.

"Just two weeks," he purred at her, kneeling before her majesty. "Two teensy, tiny weeks with me every month is all I ask."

"Why? And what are to … to be the terms?" She asked, her voice weak again.

Rhysand was so tempted to tell her all his plans, to tell her everything… but then his plans would be ruined.

"Ah," he adjusted his tunic, looking away from her. "If I told you those things, there'd be no fun in it, would there?"

She grew quiet.

She swallowed once. Feyre looked at her injured arm, glaring at it like it was a particularly rebellious pet.

Then, she looked at him. "Five days." The queen was back.

"You're going to bargain?" He chuckled. A woman after his own heart. Very well, two could play at that. "Ten days."

She held his gaze. "A week."

Rhysand examined her, the weight of her gaze pressing into him heavily. She was sold now; he could have asked for any amount of time. She would have to agree… And a week. A week felt like such an impossibly short amount of time. But time with her hadn't really been the point of this bargain… she would allow him to heal her.

He searched her face for any inkling of realization for what he was about to do. There was nothing… just hatred. Determination.

He looked over her hands, the painter's hands he had seen creating those poppies all those months ago. She had been carefree, had enough freedom and ease in her life to be able to spend time painting.

Things had changed so immensely since that time.

He was thankful that the Cauldron had even let him see her. He was thankful for any amount of time under her gaze.

"A week it is." He said finally.

"Then it's a deal." She said, laying her head back on the stone again.

He grinned in a wild, wicked way as the magic stirred over them. The bargain mixing with his own healing magic… he gripped her injured arm before she could think further on it. She screamed as his magic tore the bone from her flesh, the infected blood pulling from underneath her skin, the skin beginning to knit together. As her arm healed, the magic inquired about the customary tattoo indicating a bargain with his court. His mind switched back to that dream he had experienced, the one where she had been with him in the House of Wind and-

Rhysand grinned, as a possessive sense of satisfaction poured over him when he examined his handywork. Feyre had passed out as the bone had been ripped from her skin, but she remained leaning against the wall. On her left arm, the previously injured arm was covered by a swirling Illyrian tattoo of luck and glory. This one in particular was usually earned after showing particular cunning and skill on the battlefield. In the palm of her hand a feline eye was looking up at the ceiling of the cell. That had been Rhysand's own doing. He couldn't help but make it exactly how it had looked in his dream. His magic had also scrubbed the worst of the dirt from her skin and hair, although small molecules would remain behind. It left her skin pale and glowing from being Under the Mountain for so long, much dissimilar to her tanned skin during Calanmai.

She was beginning to stir, and she opened her eyes. They were inexplicably clear as they turned to Rhysand. She slowly sat up, her right hand going to run a finger through her hair which had returned to its golden brown, silky waves.

She turned her eyes to her left arm next and froze.

"What have you done to me?" Her voice was no longer weak.

Rhysand moved away from her, standing before her instead of kneeling. "It's custom in my court for bargains to be permanently marked upon flesh." A small amount of guilt itched at his chest, but he ignored it. She would have never agreed had she known.

She rubbed at the tattoo, trying to wipe away the ink like it was dirt. She stared at her palm incredulously.

"Make it go away." Feyre said numbly.

Rhysand chuckled, "You humans are truly grateful creatures, aren't you?"

She flipped her arm backwards and forwards, moving it farther and closer from her face. Examining every inch of that mark. She examined a small flower that sat between her thumb and index finger. Rhysand glanced down at it as well. It was beautiful.

"You didn't tell me this would happen," she accused.

"You didn't ask. So how am I to blame?" Rhysand smiled, drawing the night into himself again as he strolled to the door.

"Unless this lack of gratitude and appreciation is because you fear a certain High Lord's reaction." Rhysand's smirk was not fake this time. Tamlin… Tamlin had done nothing to deserve this girl. He had done nothing to deserve the chance to destroy Amarantha.

Feyre's shock turned quickly to shame. To regret. She looked from her tattooed hand to Rhysand.

"I think I'll wait to tell him until the moment's right, though," Rhysand murmured. He was not bluffing. A moment to get back at his worst enemy, for all the wrongs Tamlin had done against him. While he hated using Feyre like a pawn in this game of crowns… he would enjoy the look on Tamlin's face the first time he saw her tattoo. The first time the High Lord saw Feyre with him.

Feyre swallowed as she took in the gleam in his eyes.

"Rest up, Feyre." Rhysand purred at her.

Then, he disappeared into his cloak of shadows and mist and strolled directly through the cell door into the prison hallway.

Nuala and Cerridwan nodded at him, both carefully quiet.

Rhysand let out the shaky breath he had been keeping in, leaning back against the cell door as he sucked in the musty air of the jail.

Is it done? Nuala asked him, mind to mind.

Rhysand nodded once at her, the guilt of his bargain swallowing him up.

Powers be damned, he seized up every inch of his power, tearing through the wards that kept faeries from winnowing inside the prison cell, and winnowed directly into his bedroom.

He threw himself down onto his bed and ignored the burning of his back with the effort. He pressed his palms into his eye sockets.

She was alive. That was all that mattered.

Now Rhysand just had to play the game.

Yay. Please review :)