Firstly THANKS SO MUCH to everyone who is supporting this story! This chapter is back to Rhysand's POV 3 Sorry for any spelling mistakes by the way. When I'm typing it I'm using British-English spellings, and then when I transfer it to the document manager it tells me that tons of my spellings are wrong cause it wants to register it as American-English. Please review and let me know what you think of the story xx
Ch.2: The Casualty
Rhysand noticed Amren strutting into the room and settling herself in the corner. He didn't bother to go over and attempt conversing, knowing it would be pointless and only result in her attempts at degrading his love for Feyre. Instead he focused his energy on the casualty. Cassian lay on his stomach, twitching every time a bout of pain washed over him. It was painful to watch. The wings lay in feathered ruins and it seemed unlikely that there was any hope of salvaging them. There was no known cure, but Rhysand still hated leaving his brother in pain until some antidote could be located- whenever that would be. Cassian's condition, known to the King, made him even more vulnerable and an easy target. The inner circle's lack of action could potentially cost Cassian his life.
"You can go, I'll be here," Mor offered gently, appearing alongside him.
"It's okay, I want to be…" Rhysand began but she silenced him.
"There's nothing we can do but keep him company. You have other serious matters to attend to," she reminded gently. He left without another word, sensing the tense implication of her words. Regardless of their unwavering loyalty for the past centuries each member of his inner circle- especially Amren and Mor- felt betrayed by the rash decision made by their High Lord and Lady. Rhysand was baffled that they accused him and claimed that he was at fault. It's not like he wanted to send Feyre into enemy territory!
After having been dismissed, Rhysand decided to tackle other situations, first and foremost; the war…or, on second thought, Feyre.
Feyre, darling?
Silence.
Fay-ruh? He dragged out each syllable, awaiting a response. But none came. Rhysand tried assuring himself that she was only keeping her guard up, but- for the first time- being kept in the dark was terrifying. A glimmer of love and assurance trickled down the bond, diluted in comparison to before, but still there. Feelings were enough to keep him content for only so long, but he needed to be able to freely communicate with her! Especially considering that it was too soon to start planning her escape, he decided. Feyre would hardly have gathered enough valuable information, in the short time since she'd arrived, to prove that their separation hadn't been completely useless and tormenting. He blamed most of his torment on the bond. While he presumed Feyre was having difficulty being apart from her mate, the mere prospect of her being miles away, in the home of his sworn enemy, could potentially send him into an uncontrollable rage. But, somehow, with great difficulty and decades of self-control and restrain he managed to keep his actions in-check. Shaking those fears from thought, he retreated to his study in order to make some progress in relation to war plans.
Grumbling about missing out on the chance to meet up with his mother and sister that weekend, Rhysand leaned lazily against the wall, watching the Illyrians training. The day was calm and serene as a gentle breeze combed through his purple-black hair. He gazed longingly at the crest of the mountain, where he imagined his sister sitting herself down at the kitchen table while his mother prepared lunch. Rhysand would much rather be involved in such simple, domestic jobs rather than stuck there, overseeing endless training.
The scene changed.
The cabin was a bloodbath.
The blood of his loved ones splattered the walls.
Nearest to Rhysand lay his mother's crumpled body. Her severed head was nowhere to be seen. His stomach churned at the realisation that there were slashes across her wingless back. The remains of her corpse was strewn near that of his sister; arm outstretched for her helpless daughter. Slowly he turned towards his sister. Too young- centuries too young! Her petite body was curled in on itself resembling the fetalposition. Similarly, her wings had been brutally carved from her back and, along with her head, were nowhere to be found.
Time slowed. Rhysand couldn't breathe. It should be him lying there, savagely murdered. Not once in their whole lives had they done anything to deserve this! His mother was one of the kindest people he would ever meet. Her generosity wasn't only limited to their family, but instead extended to every member of the Night Court. Her warm eyes would always provide a calming element amidst the tense atmosphere elicited from his father's presence. She was, in a sense, his savior. Rhysand moved towards his sister, again. Barely a century old, she had done nothing but followed in her mother's footsteps.
But…there was another body. Fearful he approached said body. His mother and sister were the only two who were supposed to be here, so who else had also fallen victim to the slaughter? Unlike the others, this body bore no marks of having lost her wings. Her slim form was facing the wall furthest from him and the fact that she too had lost her head made identifying her all the more difficult. Gingerly he turned the corpse over using his shoe. The only feature that registered with him was the mark on her right arm. Intricate and beautiful swirls of black ink crept up the grey arm. Feyre.
The sweat clung to every crevice of Rhysand's body as he stretched his stiff neck. With everything that had happened in the past week he had retired to bed every night, exhausted, only to find that he could only fall asleep for an hour without waking abruptly due to Feyre's absence. Such irregular sleep patterns resulted in unintentional and spontaneous naps each day, usually full of nightmares and memories. The nightmare fueled by that ancient memory, however, had been tampered with, for Feyre had not even been born at the time of his mother and sister's deaths.
The High Lord re-examined the scene before him. Tattered, ancient maps, curling with age at the corners, lay scattered across his stone desk. Maps, which unfortunately, only showed the way previous wars had been fought, lost or won. But none, not one 'reliable' map, could predict the King of Hybern's next move. Perhaps it is you who should make the next move! A part of him taunted. But how? How could he advance his forces without inflicting major loss upon his court- his friends and family?
Rhysand persisted through the next monotonous hour, trying relentlessly to come to some solution. There was no obvious course of action that could save all those he loves, protect his court and defeat the King of Hybern. It was simply impossible. The daunting prospect loomed over him- and would continue to do so until resolved, whether successfully or not. So many people expected him to succeed, not to mention his own desire to prevent the king from rising to ultimate power.
Eventually the lines and coordinates began to blur together, while the floor began to sway beneath him. Holding his head in his hands, Rhysand rose from his chair, stiff and agitated, and wandered from his study, aimlessly. Hushed voices drifted down the hallway, so out of blatant curiosity he followed them. Rhysand arrived at Cassian's bedroom door, where he'd been countless hours beforehand, only to find- of all people- that Nesta Archeron was crouched at the foot of the bed, staring intensely into Cassian's glazed eyes.
"Why?" He asked in a broken voice.
"Why what?" She asked in a resentful tone. The muscles in Cassian's back twitched involuntarily before he gritted out his response:
"Why don't you look at me with pitiful eyes, like I'm a broken, used, good-for-nothing, old toy?" His voice became thick and heavy with anger and pain. Nesta hesitated. Her stone-cold glare softened and she glanced around the room, as though looking for her answer.
"Your wings shouldn't define what kind of warrior you are…" she spoke softly and hesitantly. "I look at you and I only see the man who offered to do all in his power to protect my sister and me. I see a noble man who respected two human lives over that of the Queens. You sacrificed your wings in order to protect your friends and honestly that kind of sacrifice is more noble than any other warrior." She spoke in barely a whisper, not unsure of her words, but almost afraid to voice such thoughts. With a shaky hand he caressed her cheek, as an expression of utter shock and love passed over his face. His touch, however, seemed to break whatever trance she was under, for she flinched away and scrambled backwards, in search of an exit. Rhysand quickly disappeared into the shadows before they would notice.