Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Hour 2

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. A deep understanding was sweeping throughout the space as reality skewered into their collective consciousness. A monster had emerged, wearing the skin of a high fae - one of them. She didn't want peace, she wanted chaos. She wanted power and pain. What was always so obvious to Rhys was becoming painfully clear to those gathered under the mountain now. They had mistrusted her - or rather, they had been blinded by her overtures of hospitality and goodwill. She had smiled the smile of a docile confidant, a kindred spirit. She had feigned the temperament of a good soul led astray, reformed from her path of evil. Somehow, she had convinced them, all of them, that she was reborn as some kind of benevolent goddess. The Never-Fading Flower. Rhysand felt physically ill at the moniker. Given to her by his people.

Now they were all trapped here, together. Worse — with her. She had shown them what she could do with their shared powers. The possibilities were limitless, he realized. The violence she could accomplish was limitless. The power running through her veins now was unstoppable. He was surprised she wasn't burning from the inside out just trying to harness it all to her will. How was she doing it, he wondered. There must be some sort of spell, a siphon that helped control the flow of power from them into her. That must be why, in the breath between seconds, Rhys could feel a familiar tickle at the nape of his neck. Like his power was brushing past him on an errant breeze, trying feebly to reach him, to burrow back into his body. But it was only scratching the surface — running it's phantom fingers across his too-hot skin only to be gone again in the next moment.

Around him, guests whispered to each other in hushed but trembling voices. Amarantha was moving too fast to predict, and the actions she was taking were both vicious and terrifying. It was the unknown that was making his skin crawl.

The Spring Court was gone, and their absence made the chamber feel uncomfortably open. Rhysand felt exposed in a way he hadn't before. There were strength in numbers for prey animals. And he had come to the conclusion that's what they were now. Seven High Lords, reduced to nothing but chattel.

And now there were six.

Rhysand looked around at them slowly. They seemed to be trying to disappear within their ranks. Unlike Rhysand, they were edging further behind their courtiers, letting them be the shield, letting them take the brunt of whatever misplaced attention Amarantha might throw their way.

This was a tactic Rhys couldn't follow. These were his people and he was sworn to protect them. Even those he did not particularly like. So he would stand as a pillar of strength before them, in front of them, and absorb whatever he could for them.

When Amarantha returned to the dais, she spun and seated herself upon her throne, washed clean of all Lucien's blood. She was smiling to herself, her eyes glazed over as if she were replaying the moment she ripped his eye out over and over again in her mind's eye. No one moved - they barely breathed. The anticipation of what she would do next was like a noose around Rhysand's neck. What little magic remained inside of him was screaming at him to run, that something was coming, and it was coming for him.

"We shall have fun these next years."

Rhysand and those around him flinched at Amarantha's sudden declaration. There were immediate murmurs of assent as she lifted her eyes and scanned the crowd. Her smile had slipped, but as she noted all the heads nodding in her favor, it rose back into place. She appeared lethargic, drunk on power. Her eyes were half-lidded and her expression was as soft as a lamb's.

"Rooms have been prepared for all of you so that your stay is comfortable," she said, waving a hand as servants materialized, lesser fae who appeared both afraid and determined. "But first, in good faith to my Tamlin, I shall enact vengeance for his father."

Her eyes snapped to Rhysand. They were bleary, her growing smile sinister. Involuntarily, he backed up a step, half raising an arm to push one of his female courtier's further behind him.

In the end, it didn't matter what he did. It didn't matter that he stood in front of them rather than amongst them.

Amarantha raised her fist and squeezed it tight. Rhysand felt the spray of hot blood against the side of his face and neck as she eviscerated his court. He turned, too slowly - though it wouldn't have mattered, only to be met with a stone floor slick with sinewy blood and shining entrails. Masses of lumpy flesh and tattered silks took the place of living breathing creatures. She hadn't killed all of them — perhaps half, but the ones she did kill she hadn't even left anything with which to identify them. But he knew who was absent. Jivral was gone - his remains now muddled with those of another, collecting dirt and loose stones and the grime of the floor.

Rhys lurched forward, stricken with the unspeakable urge to gather up their remains in his hands, to drop to his knees and sift through the gore for anything - anything that would prove that they were just here. Their hearts were just beating, seconds ago. Instead, he forced himself to remain still and standing. Those who remained of the Court of Nightmares were screaming, clawing at each other desperately as the pools of thick red blood edged up against their party shoes.

Rhysand took three deep breaths, then turned around.

Amarantha was grinning at him. "That's right, Lord of Night. I remember." She leaned back on her onyx throne and watched him. He felt crushed beneath the weight of her gaze. Each breath he took left him nearly gasping for the next one. He made to step forward and his stomach rolled as the heel of his boot squelched against the bloody remains of his court.

"Enough." His voice rang out, booming and clear — far stronger than he felt. The command in it startled Amarantha, he could tell by the slight twitch of her shoulders. "If it's retribution you want, you'll have me. No one else."

Amarantha stood slowly, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor as she strode toward the very edge of the dais. "Oh, I will have you."

She flicked her wrist at the Attor, who had been waiting patiently for his next command. He straightened and motioned to the servants. Together, they began gathering up the crowd and herding them into tunnels which had been sealed behind giant paintings that lined the walls intermittently.

"Sleep well, my new courtiers!" Amarantha called as they retreated deeper into the mountain.

In minutes, Rhysand was alone with Amarantha and dread's cold finger drew an icy path down his spine. But he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. He felt the absence of his power so keenly now.

She began to move toward him at an unhurried pace. His already racing heart kicked up a notch. He knew she heard it because her smile widened. As she approached, he watched her take in a slow, menacing breath through her nose. Like she was smelling him, his sweat, his blood, his magic.

What she wouldn't smell was his fear. Rhysand was a ruler in his own right. He was the most powerful High Lord Prythian had ever known. And he had been raised to never bow before foreign dignitaries - never cow to petty threats. She could do her worst, and he was sure she would, but he would never give her the satisfaction.

"My Lord," Amarantha drawled, her voice dripping with mockery.

She had come to stand before him now, far too close. Rhysand could smell her — sickly sweet, like a dense sugary syrup that was failing to cover up something rotten. It was the niggling smell of too many flowers, right before they wilted, their already dead leaves spoiling the water that once gave them life.

Amarantha reached out with deliberate slowness and pressed the tip of her forefinger right in the center of his chest. Jurian's eye rolled wildly in its confines. Amarantha's pupils were blown wide as she made contact and Rhysand felt his body seize up, his muscles locking beyond his control.

Amarantha leaned her head to one side as she regarded him. "A fine garment," she said and waved her hand, relieving him of his jacket and livery collar. Rhys felt the chill of the empty room against his newly bare skin, a sheen of sweat breaking out at her proximity. "And what fine markings," she purred, eyeing his swirling black tattoos.

She began to circle him then, dragging her finger around his body as she went, from his chest to his bicep, along the top of his shoulder blades and around to the other side. Rhysand couldn't move his head to track her movement. All he could do was stare straight ahead. He couldn't even lessen the tension rolling through his body by clenching his teeth.

When she came to stand in front of him again, he watched with muted horror as she pressed her finger, slick with his sweat, against her tongue.

Slowly, she drew it from her mouth. "I'm so glad you're here, Rhysand. You'll be such a delicious distraction." She clasped her hands in front of her demurely. "Though, I didn't see any of your compatriots in attendance tonight."

Rhysand was thankful for the invisible gag and chains she had on him because he would have nearly jumped out of his skin. Instead, a traitorous bead of sweat dripped from his temple down the side of his face. Amarantha tracked it with a deep hunger in her eyes.

"The big one would have been such fun, don't you think?" She smiled. "I like to share."

He managed a feral, guttural growl, deep in his throat. Instinctively, he reached for the void of his magic. It was very much still absent, yet, the floor shook subtly beneath them. Candle flames flickered wildly, for just a moment, then returned to normal. Amarantha had the goose sense to look momentarily uneasy, but it was gone in a flash when she met his eyes again.

"Ah, ah. None of that violence you so crave," she murmured, lifting a finger. Rhys continued to struggle fruitlessly against his own body. He should have killed her. He should have killed her a million times tonight in a million different ways. He was in misery, standing this close to her and not being able to strike her down. "You answer to me now. Every," she reached out again, "single," and positioned her finger above the dip between his collarbones, "part of you." She pressed down, hard.

He couldn't even swallow against the sensation of her still-wet fingertip digging into his clammy skin. He could only stare wild-eyed at her as she grinned.

In that moment, Rhysand knew he would do anything to keep her attention away from his court and his family back in Velaris. He knew that he did truly belong to her. Could he bear it? He had to if he wanted to live to see them again someday. Perhaps Tamlin would succeed in breaking the curse. But what would be left of him after all this?

"You'll serve me and if you behave I'll grant you certain freedoms. Freedoms that others won't have during their stay," she said congenially.

Rhysand swallowed and found she had granted him the ability to speak. "And if I refuse?" He felt like he was vibrating. Like all the energy he was pouring into fighting against his invisible restraints was being harnessed and used against him in turn.

Amarantha's head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing to slits. She reached for him again, this time, for the waist of his trousers. She slid her four fingers beneath the waistband, the tips of her blood red nails brushing against the base of him before she closed her hand around the fabric in a tight fist. Rhys let out a strangled grunt of shock and revulsion at the contact, but couldn't pull away from her. In fact, he found himself stepping closer into her as she tugged on his waistband beckoningly.

She was not as tall as him and so she craned her neck up so their noses and chins aligned. "You cannot refuse me," Amarantha said, the painted skin of her lips tracing his own as she spoke. It was not a kiss, it was a threat.

She was pressed up against him, heat from her body radiating into his like magma. The scent of dying flowers and rot shoved up his nose with every shallow breath he took. He could feel the line of her body through the fabric of her clothes. Her fingers twitched again against the bare skin at the very base of his torso.

Her words were loaded. She knew he couldn't refuse her. He had so much more to lose than Tamlin ever had. He closed his eyes, in agony. He couldn't stop her. He couldn't so much as blink away the sting of tears as he felt her fist tighten, knuckles pressing into his hard stomach in anticipation. In warning.

In promise.

She lingered a moment longer, their breaths mingling in the minuscule space between them. Then, she released him, bodily and magically and stepped back.

Rhys fell hard to his knees at the unexpected unbinding, panting. He was shaking all over from the energy he had futilely been exerting trying to break free from her magic, and the sudden release from it was making him dizzy and nauseous. More than that, he was shaking from the realization that she held the strings of his life like a puppet master. And to play her game, he would have to comply, willingly. He would have to dance for her, his new master.

He could see the sparkle in her eye as she looked down at him, the hunger, the unveiled lust. Tamlin had refused her this, but he could not, and she knew it. She savored it — his weakness, his complete undoing. And he knew she was going to make it horrible for him. She was going to make him hurt, in every definition of the word. Rhysand hung his head until his chin touched his chest as he sat back on his haunches, if only to put some distance between them.

He could see it now; his future unfurled before him in his mind as he struggled to regain his breath. She would run him ragged, torture him. She would ruin him — he was sure of it. He could feel the truth of it in his bones.

And he would let her. He would endure her. But as she reached down and stroked the damp strands of his hair, he felt unsure whether he would survive her.

Her fingers fisted, nails raking over his scalp painfully as she gathered up his thick blue-black hair in her grasp. She was tugging his head back at the same time she was sinking into a crouch before him. Her vicious smile came into focus first, then her nose, nostrils flaring at the scent of his misery, the salt from his sweat. Then finally her eyes, blackened by desire and glowing with savage power, locked onto his.

Her fist tightened as she forced his head back, exposing the long line of his neck to her. She leaned in close, pressing her lips against his sweat-slicked skin.

"You belong to me now," she breathed, her tone gentle and so at odds with the cruel sting of her words. She peppered featherlight kisses down the side of his neck. Rhysand held himself as still as he possibly could as she continued her slow perusal of his skin. She paused at the intersection of his neck and his shoulder for a moment, her lips rubbing softly back and forth, the motion raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

"And you'll never see the night sky again."

Amarantha bit down hard, her teeth puncturing his skin with a quiet pop. She fell into his lap, drawing him closer as she bit down harder. Instinctively, Rhysand's hands encircled her waist and she groaned into his skin, the sound wet from his blood in her mouth.

Rhysand gave himself three deep breaths to feel the sharp edges of his anguish as it stabbed into him. Deep and crippling grief blossomed slowly inside of him to envelop his heart in a thick layer of unyielding despair. The familiar rhythm slowed under the immense weight of it. He felt an ache that was unlike anything he'd ever known before.

As he released his third breath and slid his hands from Amarantha's waist and into the hair at the base of her skull, Rhysand closed his eyes and prayed to the Mother.

Let my family never know this pain. Let them be safe and out of her reach.

And then he chanted their names over and over again in his head as Amarantha drew back and kissed his lips in earnest, forcing the taste of his own blood into his mouth.

Cassian

Azriel

Morrigan

Amren

He let go. Let himself drown in the familiarity of the syllables as he chanted. On the surface of his consciousness, Rhysand felt Amarantha's tongue as it swept into his mouth. Which he opened dutifully, eagerly.