Chapter 10

Feyre followed Azriel through the forest for what felt like an eternity.

Their path was well marked, the trail didn't appear to twist or turn, and yet it all just looked the same.

Towering oaks lined the way with wild vines to fill in the gaps. She couldn't have strayed from the path even if she wanted to. The sheer uniformity of their path mixed with the gloom of dense foliage made Feyre's head swim and her eyes cross. She stumbled as the world twisted.

"None of it is real," Azriel put a hand on Feyre's back and the path stopped moving beneath her feet. "We're getting close to the cottage, the wards are pushing back. Just keep moving and everything will settle again."

Feyre's head was swimming. She couldn't make her eyes focus on the trail, so she closed them tight and let Azriel push her forward gently. Nausea made her limbs shake and she threw every bit of her consciousness into the sound of their footsteps.

The rhythmic crunch of dirt and leaves beneath boots distorted. It echoed from every angle and grew to a tremendous din.

Azriel's hand tightened on the back of Feyre's shirt and he half-dragged her forward suddenly. The noises were too loud, her head felt like it was going to explode. She needed to get away, to turn back and flee this damned place as quickly as possible. Pressure slammed into her from behind, throwing the High Lady of Night forward until she collided with something cold, hard, and flat.

The sound faded.

Her stomach settled.

The world stopped spinning.

"Sorry, I didn't think the wards would put up that much of a fight since I was with you," Azriel said as he hurried to pull Feyre to her feet. She groaned, but stomped down her impulse to snap back, in case Persephone was already watching.

A paved stone path (what she'd fallen on) began abruptly as the dark forest trail gave way to a large clearing. Stone-walled gardens flanked the walkway- one filled with herbs in neat rows, the other vegetables. They too had paving of a sort- raised wooden platforms capped in tile that went right up to the base of the plants.

When Azriel nudged Feyre forward, she noticed just how low to the ground everything was- the latches on the gates were about as high as her kneecap. A squat shed rested against the side of the herb gardens wall- the door was normal height, but again the handle sat only a couple feet off the ground. At the end of the path were two more regular-sized buildings made from the dark oak of the forest: another shed, and Persephone's cottage.

It couldn't have been much larger than the hovel the Archerons inhabited when she was taken to Prythian- but that was as far as the similarities went. The stone walls were painted white, with chains of sea glass draped over from the slate roof to throw splashes of color across the stone. Thigh-high windows were closed off by shutters painted in blues, greens, purples, and pinks. The door to the cottage was cut in half with two separate handles- one again at normal height, the other low to the ground.

Azriel mentioned something happened to his mother when she delivered her Illyrian children. Feyre had an awful idea of what that might be.

"Don't be nervous," Azriel said as he bent down to grasp both door handles at once. She didn't reply, she wasn't sure he was talking to her. He opened the door only a little and Feyre heard a sudden scraping sound from within, "It's alright. It's just me."

His wings fell a few seconds later. He turned to Feyre, "Let me go in first. When I tell you it's alright, you can enter."

"Of course," she did as Amren advised and replied in a low, soothing voice.

Feyre tried not to listen as Azriel entered the cottage and pulled the door mostly closed behind him. She only heard his voice, too low to make out any words. Her heart thundered in her chest while Azriel comforted his mother and braced her for their meeting. In five hundred years Persephone hadn't seen anyone beyond Azriel.

"Feyre? You can come in now," Azriel called.

She took a deep breath and slowly opened the door.

The inside of the cottage was more roomy than Feyre would have guessed. Whereas there were four people crushed into the Archeron hovel, this home seemed perfectly suited to one.

A weaver's loom was pushed up against the far wall beside a neat pile of fabric. Shin-high counters marked the kitchen area with an equally low table in the dining room surrounded by brightly colored cushions. There was a bookshelf, a candle-making station, and even a few simple crafts around the room- remnants of past hobbies Persephone had taken up. On one table was a ball of string and a pile of sea glass chips beside a cross-shaped tool meant to bore holes through the glass.

Azriel was sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room. Doors for a privy and a bedroom were closed on either side. His wings were stretched out against the wall and as Feyre stepped towards him she noticed the fabric of his shirt shift suddenly tighter.

"Where should I sit?" Feyre asked quietly. She could hear the woman hidden behind him breathing hard.

When he motioned towards a patch of floor near the fireplace a small, pale hand shot out and tugged his arm back into place, hiding her as much as possible.

"Mother? This is Feyre Archeron, the High Lady of Night," Azriel half-turned his head towards the woman cowering behind him as Feyre took her seat.

"It is a pleasure to meet you. Azriel was one of my very first true friends in Prythian, your son is a good male," she bowed her head, even though Persephone couldn't see her.

Amren had warned that there would be long periods of silence. Feyre waited patiently as Azriel's shirt shifted again- Persephone adjusting her grip. After a moment she could see dark brown hair poking over his shoulder. A few minutes later there was a forehead. Azriel held his breath as that white hand reached over his wing and gently pulled it down, revealing half of a face.

Feyre offered her warmest smile at the large brown-gold eyes that watched her. She put a hand over her heart and bowed again. When Feyre straightened her back Persephone had ducked down again- but slowly she returned and dared to show her full face.

When they first met, Feyre noted Azriel's classic beauty, now she knew that he'd inherited every last bit of it from his mother. The same high cheekbones, sharp brow, and elegant nose. The same narrow jaw and full lips. Azriel may have been born with the rich, tanned skin of the Illyrians, but he was his mother's son in every other sense.

She was a goddess, Feyre supposed it was only normal for her and her son to possess that otherworldly beauty.

"Feyre met the delegation that arrived from the mountain armies," Azriel turned to speak to his mother. She didn't take her frightened eyes off the High Lady. "She would know more details than I did."

"There were two who called themselves Graecian," Feyre said. "Hades and his nephew, Bellerophon. The other was kin of Amr- of Azrael. His name was Zahariel."

No reaction.

"We don't know who the others are in their group, but Rhysand will escort them to Vele Luk tomorrow."

"You don't have to meet them until you're ready," Azriel murmured quickly to his mother, "and I will be with you at all times."

Feyre remembered her first days in Night after Mor rescued her from Tamlin's prison. She'd chosen to hide upstairs rather than meet Azriel or Cassian. Even moving from the Palace of Nightmares to Velaris had been almost too much for her to face.

She remembered another part of Azriel's horror story, "Lady Persephone? Your son told me that you know who I am? What I am?"

"She loves the story of Feyre Cursebreaker," Azriel repeated what he'd told Feyre before as he watched his mother's face. He was trying to help put her at ease, but she only looked more anxious.

"Did he tell you how I became fae?"

"I did," Azriel glanced back to her.

Feyre wanted Persephone to answer in some way, not necessarily Azriel. He shifted slightly on the floor and Feyre noticed her other hand was pressed against his shoulder, "He told you the High Lords each gave me a kernel of their magic to bring me back?"

On the half-hidden hand, a finger tapped and Azriel nodded, "That was one of her favorite parts." He wasn't answering over Persephone, he was answering for her.

"My power is something made of all seven High Lords combined. I can't be sure, but I think I could remove your collar."

It was created by seven ancient High Lords using the might of the Cauldron itself. Something only seven more High Lords could remove. Persephone was as helpless as a normal human in Prythian. Removing the collar and unleashing her power would give back at least some of what was stolen from her for so long.

"No," Azriel's voice was hard after the tap on his shoulder. Persephone pushed herself back further into the corner and Feyre heard that strange scrape again. She wanted to reassure the goddess it would be removed without any conditions- Feyre was prepared to try and take it off that very minute, but Azriel made a low, quick gesture- wait .

"Alright," she said, "it is your decision." Persephone remained cowering behind her son, and Feyre's heart sank. She'd gone too far with her offer too soon.

"You're alright," Azriel's voice was so soft and so kind that it took Feyre a moment to realize he was speaking to her. "It's just a lot to handle at once. Little steps," he directed his last statement to Persephone and repeated, "little steps."

He waited for her to meet his eyes and nod softly. Azriel slid to the side- keeping his wings stretched out the entire time. Persephone was no longer able to hide behind her son's body, but she still had the cover of his wing.

Little steps.

Persephone held the top ridge of the wing, but she let him lower it far enough that Feyre could see the collar clamped around her throat.

Some part of her always knew it would be the same as the box that once contained the Book of Breathings.

The collar was comprised of thick, unpolished metal that wound its way around the lower half of Persephone's neck. She'd expected it to be tight to the skin, but the High Lords who crafted it didn't exactly have the measurements of the archangel. It was hardly loose, but wouldn't impede breath or movement.

Instinct told Feyre that if she were to touch it she would feel that same awful, leeching pain as when she stole the book from Summer or on that terrible day when she repaired the Cauldron and nearly lost Rhysand.

Without realizing it, Feyre's careful composure cracked at the memory. She forced the sadness from her eyes as quickly as possible, but the shift seemed to ease Persephone's fear ever so slightly. Azriel's wing lowered a little bit more.

"Mother?" He'd leaned to one side as she moved, but he was nearing the limits of how much his wing could bend at that angle. Persephone released him and while he moved back closer to her, he pulled his wings in at last.

She wore a simple yellow linen dress neatly tucked against her legs, but it was what was beneath her that broke Feyre's heart. Leather straps crossed over her lap, holding her to a small wooden platform with sturdy wheels. Everything in her home and the clearing around was made for someone who never stood at their full height- now Feyre knew why.

Azriel and Rhysand both said the Illyrian births nearly killed her. More than that- they'd left her crippled.

"She prefers this to one of the traditional wheeled chairs," he rested a hand on his mother's back. Feyre schooled her face into neutrality, but it was an effort to draw breath around the lump in her throat.

This was the legacy of those who built her Court.

No wonder Rhys joked so often about misting the lot of them.

Feyre was silent for too long. Persephone was clutching the hook on the top edge of Azriel's wing as if it were a lifeline. "I will do whatever it takes to make sure this never happens in my Court again."

Persephone understood- or at least she seemed to. Her grip on Azriel's wing eased.

"When would you like to go to Vele Luk?" Azriel asked Feyre.

The point of the visit was to introduce them, but even the High Lady could see that his mother's bravery was faltering. If they were really going to move her to Vele Luk that day, they couldn't push her too far at a simple meeting.

"Whenever Lady Persephone is ready. And if you need me to fly ahead and make sure the others stay in their rooms, then that's fine too," they hadn't exactly worked out the logistics of getting Persephone into the city. All Feyre knew was that they were to walk back out of the wards (another two hour hike) and then they would be flying.

He looked to his mother. Persephone's eyes were brimming with tears. It broke his composure somewhat. He offered her a sad smile and didn't bother hiding his own pain. This was the first step towards losing something he would never be able to replace. Either her, or the Inner Circle. For Persephone it was more- she was leaving the only safety she had known in eight thousand years.

"You go ahead," Azriel's voice broke. He cleared his throat and with more confidence said, "The wards won't bother you as you return. We'll meet you in the city."

"Okay," Feyre stood slowly and bowed her head to Persephone. The woman was just staring at Azriel's wing, refusing to look at the female. Feyre backed away from the two slowly, only turning as she reached the door.

Azriel and his mother needed time to say goodbye, and there might not be an opportunity once she was overwhelmed by the relative chaos that was sure to be Vele Luk.

Feyre just hoped they could keep Hades away from Amren until Persephone was ready.