"The Rainbow has suffered some with no imports available for supplies but…"
Cassian prattled on about the state of my home for the past 50 years, eyeing me wearily. It had been two weeks since I had come back, and he was still pissed at me.
"It may have to suffer for a bit longer until—"
He pounded into me over and over- as if he could push out the nightmares that invaded my body through sheer force. A tan, golden haired Tamlin had his face contorted in pleasure as he—"
I jerked away from the sudden influx of images, slamming my fist on the table in front of me.
"Rhys?!" Cassian demanded, startled by my sudden outburst.
I pushed my chair back and stood hastily, trying to avoid the second stream of consciousness invading my own.
"I'm fine, Cassian" I mumbled, failing to come up with an excuse for my alarming behavior.
My general opened his mouth to speak, but I turned away, leaving before he could question me further.
As time passed, I received more and more flashes of the spring court seen through her desparing and guilt ridden first, I was relieved when nighttime came to give me a reprieve from my own despair. I still suffered through intense nightmares reliving all I had done Under the Mountain, but at least the nightmares were my own.
There was blood everywhere.
It was an effort to keep a grip on the dagger as my blood-soaked hand trembled. As I fractured bit by bit while the sprawled corpse of the High Fae youth cooled on the marble floor.
I couldn't let go of the blade, couldn't move from my place before him.
"Good," Amarantha purred from her throne. "Again."
I sat up in bed, gasping. So Amarantha haunted Feyre in her dreams too. I massaged my aching temples. It pained me to see her in such anguish. My cold immortal heart wept for hers-though immortal now, there was no mistaking Feyre as anything but human inside.
As I laid down again to attempt some semblance of a full night's sleep, another flash of the Spring Court breached my mind. Feyre—braced over a toilet—retching her guts up while her High Lord slept soundly in the bed.
I snarled in fury. He sat on his ass when she was sacrificing her soul Under The Mountain to save him, and he was sitting on his ass now, as the consequences of her sacrifice were destroying her slowly.
I slipped out of bed knowing I would be unable to sleep with such fury in my veins. I unfurled my wings—the muscles in my back still sore after 50 years of unuse. I stalked to the balcony and breathed in the fresh, sweet mountain air. Pushing away the bittersweet memories of my mother that resurfaced whenever I flew, I leapt off the balcony, soaring through the air with one mighty stroke of my Illyrian wings.
Freedom—that's what flying was. Freedom from the confines of the ground...from the nightmares that plagued me there.