Velaris - House of Wind - Year 5, Night 17

Azriel's wings caught a sudden updraft and he let himself rise higher above Velaris.

From this height, the City of Starlight was nothing more than minuscule specs against an inky black Earth far below, mirroring the sky above for which the city had been named. The air was thin, as thin as Azriel could stand while still maintaining the capacity for flight. The sensation of entrapment prickled beneath his skin as it so often did, even soaring through the open air. Rhysand's wards that barred them within Velaris were iron-tight. Azriel could not escape them, not even in flight. He could fly as freely as he pleased around the perimeter of the city itself, but as soon as he flew too close to the wards, the air sizzled with a warning hiss and his teeth ached at the force of the activating magic. So he flew up. And up and up, until the air was so thin he could scarcely draw breath and his wings felt as though they were slipping against nothing at all.

He banked hard to his left. Enough time had passed for him to instinctively know where the wards stood. He closed his eyes against the burn of the frigid wind.

Five years had passed since Rhys had gone Under the Mountain. Five years had passed without his grounding presence, without the sound of his mirthful laughter filling the townhouse. Five years without catching sight of his slow smile spreading when he knew he had won a hand of cards—his tell. Azriel realized he had taken for granted Rhysand's calm assuredness and just how much he had relied upon it to find his own center. In the long span of a faerie's life, five years wasn't such a vexing wait. But these past five years had carved themselves, minute by minute into Azriel's soul. He felt the weight of each second as it passed, stacked on top of his shoulders. What he wouldn't give to see his brother again, to embrace him, to feel his presence and hear his footsteps fall safely against Velarian soil.

Any attempt at contacting those trapped Under the Mountain had been fruitless. The mountain was sealed up tight. Azriel's shadows and greatly reduced network of spies ran reconnaissance constantly. Few went in or came out and those that did were fiercely under Amarantha's control. That, or they were simply too frightened to report on anything happening within the once-hallowed space. But inevitably, like water through an unsealed crack, information bled from Amarantha's prison, and when it did, Azriel was waiting.

The few faeries that did make trips outside were primarily facilitating the delivery of supplies—food, water, bolts of fine fabrics, tools. Sometimes, Azriel received reports of bodies being removed from the mountain. There were far less reports now than there were in the beginning. If he had to guess, he would assume that those trapped within were adopting a sort of detached acceptance of their fate, hence the steady decrease in bodies exiting the space. They had stopped fighting back.

But he would always remember those first grim reports of the dead, how he waited with bated breath each time, wondering if next it would be Rhysand's body carelessly thrown from a nameless peak. Agonized anticipation slowly gave way to an unnerving wariness as many of the dead were reported to have met a similar end. One that was oddly familiar. They had no outward markings, no obvious causes of death save for one thing—hemorrhaging from their noses, ears and eyes. A hallmark of a painful end meted out by a formidable Daemati.

At first, Azriel didn't want to believe it. How could it be true that Rhysand was responsible for killing his own kind? He tried to rationalize how it could be, why it would be necessary for Rhysand to operate in this way. Azriel spent long hours going around and around in his head, trying to comprehend what Rhysand was doing, what he was going through, how he was surviving it all. There was so much no one knew and very little they did know.

What they did know twisted inside Azriel's gut like a knife. The news of Rhys wasn't happy. Azriel had long ago stopped worrying Rhysand's body would turn up on the snowy ledge of the mountain in a tangle of other bodies. The rumors were rampant, colorful as they were unpleasant. Even repeating them inside his own head felt like a betrayal of the male he held so dear. But he couldn't turn away from the rumors either—none of them could.

Whore

Traitor

Liar, killer, bastard, murderer, craven, monster.

The list went on.

Azriel was used to others making assumptions about the enigmatic ruler of the Night Court. It was only natural that the most powerful of them all would attract suspicions that wondered just how depraved the depths of that power was. There was always idle chatter around Rhysand and his night-born magic, his air of darkness, his razor-sharp wit and his elegant charm. When the details of Amarantha's court had first spread far and wide, it had been largely compared to the Court of Nightmares. They said she had fashioned her own court after Rhysand's ancestral seat of immense and unfathomable power. The comparisons between Amarantha and Rhys were immediately drawn, so it was expected then what Rhysand was rumored to have done next.

But to ally himself with Amarantha. To tie his power to her, to willingly submit to her both in mind and in body…Azriel couldn't conceive of it.

In the end, Azriel decided it didn't matter. It didn't matter that Rhysand was killing faeries—because he was killing them, the evidence was there plain as the wings on Azriel's back. It didn't matter what Rhysand was doing, Azriel realized, because he knew Rhysand better than he knew even himself. He would follow Rhys into the heart of battle again and again. He would follow Rhys into places unknown, untrod by fae and beast alike. He would follow Rhys into the churning sea and sink to the bottom with a smile.

Azriel knew his brother. He knew Rhysand's heart as though it beat inside his chest, side by side with his own. And he knew that whatever the reason was that Rhysand had for delivering the blow that extinguished life, it was a just one.

He was about to turn back toward the House of Wind when he sensed his shadows returning on the breeze.

He pivoted, the great expanse of his wings beating the air in powerful swoops that held him stationary as his shadows reunited with his body. The night air had been chilled, smelling of a still far-off storm, but the swirling black whorls smelled of wisteria and freshly tilled soil, and they warmed him like a hearthstone when they ensconced him.

Spring, they whispered against his ear. Yes, he recognized the scent of it now—heady and floral. In the next moment, he saw flashes of the Wall that separated the human lands from Prythian. It was damaged, crumbling slightly in some places and falling to ruin in others with openings wide enough for a human to fit through with ease. And fit through they did. Some were wide-eyed and timid, darting a foot across to press the toe of their well-worn shoe against Prythian soil only to pull it back quickly, triumphant in their bravery. Some jumped jerkily across, bouncing with nervous energy until they lunged back toward the safety of the human side, friends beating them on the back, shouting their praises. Then, there were some, mostly veiled young women, who stepped cautiously but determinedly across. They did not return.

But what was so important about this, Azriel puzzled as he hovered idly above Velaris. In his mind, he was still inspecting the deteriorating wall and its brazen visitors. He could almost feel the rough stone beneath his fingers, the trampled grass soft beneath his boots. The air here smelled sharp and atmospheric—like fear and overgrown pasture.

Then, another form appeared, this time from the other side of the Wall. It was a stout, full-blooded fae male with muddy brown hair, dressed in hunting leathers, his expression set in a grim resolution. He paused for a moment and pressed his palm against the Wall. He looked as though he wanted to look back over his shoulder the way he had come, but he didn't. Azriel watched him set his jaw, steel his nerves, and step over the broken stone barrier. Just as he was about to disappear into the forest, he transformed. His shoulders rounded and dipped, brown leather sprouting dark tufts of fur. His boots grew claws and gave way to huge paws, and suddenly, he was a fae male no longer, but a lone wolf with chestnut fur and eyes that were too distraught to be anything but deeply sentient.

It was with a whimper, not a howl, that he disappeared into the dark forest.

"Tell me again."

Amren paced back and forth before the roaring hearth in the grand dining room of the House of Wind. Her jet black hair swung like the blade of an axe against the hard line of her jaw. From the table's head, Morrigan's eyes were fixed upon Azriel's face, boring into him like he was a newly resurrected god. At his side, Cassian stood stalwart, brawny arms crossed against his chest.

Azriel had already told them half a dozen times what his shadows had uncovered earlier that day. He had no new words with which to describe the scene that replayed in his mind over and over again. But, once more, he opened his mouth and regaled them with the details of his news.

Just as they had the last hour, everyone listened anew with rapt attention, not even daring to breathe. This was the most pivotal information they had received in the five long years since Rhysand had bound them to Velaris. Since then, they had been as useless and aimless as a new babe, swaddled in all the doubt of being born into an unfamiliar world rife with danger around every corner. But this, this was something tangible, something useful, something that finally, finally felt like forward movement.

"How noble of that giant waste of air to finally do something," Cassian muttered in the silence that followed Azriel's retelling. Amren was nodding.

"The Wall has been failing for some time, we knew this to be true. With no magic to infuse it with power, it was inevitable," she said as she made another pass across the stone floor. It was a wonder she had not worn a permanent groove along the length of the hearth. In all the times they had met here, pacing was Amren's preferred method of plotting, of strategizing. Azriel couldn't blame her. An idle body was the luxury of an idle mind. None of them had that luxury any longer.

"But the magic should have held for longer than five years, surely," Morrigan interjected. With no official meetings to facilitate, no trade agreements to draft, no politicking, no galas to attend to uphold the grandeur of the Night Court, Mor had slipped into a somber state of dressing. It wasn't the traditional black robes of grief, but it was close. Her usual red was slowly replaced with more muted tones, then deep blues, hunter green, grey, and finally, true black. Her skin looked wan against her ebony tunic and scarf, the firelight reflecting against the beaded collar cast an eerie glow across her pale lips. Azriel wished so desperately to see her smile again, to see the light of joy flame to life in her eyes.

"Yes," said Amren, making another pass. "The Wall wasn't designed to fall so easily to ruin. Tamlin's magic should have been somewhat effective in shoring up the areas in which he was seeing degradation," she said. "We know the red witch left him with some." The ire in her voice was thick.

"Unless he wasn't fixing the Wall at all," Cassian said from Azriel's side.

"That much is clear. But still, even without proper attention, the Wall shouldn't have deteriorated as it did—"

"He wasn't just ignoring it," Cassian interrupted.

Amren ceased her incessant pacing. Her silver eyes flashed from the path she was walking up to Cassian's face. Azriel shifted on his feet, pivoting to watch Cassian as he spoke next.

"Mor's right, the magic should have outlasted these five years. It should last far longer. The Wall is on Tamlin's land. There is no one left to monitor the Wall for weaknesses, and there sure as shit isn't anyone left to monitor Tamlin." Cassian uncrossed his arms to rest his hands on his hips. His face, once so quick to grin was set in a grid of hard lines.

"Are you suggesting that Tamlin is destabilizing the Wall?" Azriel asked. Cassian didn't respond, he didn't have to and frankly Azriel didn't expect him to. He thought back to what his shadows had shown him—the image of the stoic-faced Spring Court soldier stepping through the Wall, intent upon something.

"He's trying to break the curse," Mor whispered, rising slowly to her feet. Her tunic shifted around the lithe, borderline frail lines of her body. An ember smoldered in her rich brown eyes. "He's sending his own soldiers across the Wall as bait," she breathed.

It seemed ridiculous, impossible even, but the more Azriel thought about it, the more he realized that the logic was in fact sound. How else was Tamlin going to break the curse? He couldn't very well stroll down the main thoroughfare of the closest human town searching for suitors. No, they had to hate him, to fear him and his kind. They had to be ready and willing to kill.

"What human is going to stand against a wolf the size of a bear," Cassian asked incredulously.

"He's got time to fine-tune his approach," Amren drawled, as if giving Tamlin any sort of credit for a good idea pained her. "Is this the first soldier Tamlin has successfully sent into the human lands?" She asked, turning to Azriel.

"I'm unsure," he said.

"Monitor him. Watch all those he sends across the Wall." Azriel nodded, so glad to have a task that felt meaningful for the first time in a long time. Beside him, Cassian shifted and Azriel knew he was desperate for one of his own. Gently, Azriel bumped his shoulder against Cassian's as Amren began pacing once more. The corner of Cassian's mouth twitched upward, but his eyes remained far-away as he returned the gesture.

After a moment, Amren paused again. She was silent for a breath, then looked over her shoulder at Azriel. "Anything on Rhysand?"

So many times they had received horrible, nauseating news of him, of his deeds, of his treatment. There were times when he could tell Amren didn't want to ask, didn't want to hear one more word that gave life to the ruinous story of Rhysand's reality. But they owed it to him to hear it, to bear it, just as he bore the weight of the pain he was enduring.

Mercifully, Azriel didn't have news of Rhys this time. He shook his head, "no." A collective breath was released throughout the room.

"He is strong," Amren recited as she always did. They nodded. "We will find a way to help him," Amren vowed as she always did. They nodded. It was silent once more, yet no one moved.

"Starfall is tomorrow," Mor said in a small voice. Her face was angled toward the balcony doors and the peaceful quiet of the night beyond.

They hadn't celebrated a holiday since Rhysand had been trapped. Not Starfall, not Solstice, not birthdays or minor holidays.

Solstice was difficult simply because of the sheer insistence of it—the length, the long weeks that led up to it and the several high celebration days themselves. Of course, Velaris was offered all the trappings and tidings of the season, they had made sure of it. The city was bedecked in evergreen wreaths swathed in red velvet ribbons. The lamp posts were festooned with holly berries and garland. In every square, an enormous evergreen tree stood, decorated with brightly colored glass balls and tinsel and glowing lights that sparkled and shined against the freshly fallen snow. The people of Velaris hurried about their tasks with all the wonder of the season, oblivious to their High Lord's sacrifice.

But the townhouse and the House of Wind remained cold and silent. No festive music echoed within the decorated halls, no spiked nog chilled in the icebox. There was no roast, no tree, no holiday tidings. There were no gifts exchanged and no merriment. The four of them marked the passing of the holiday in anguished silence, clutching at each other's hands, resting tired heads against the shoulder of another.

Starfall was a different story. It was a holiday that signaled rebirth, spirits finding their way home. The journey was dazzling, magnificent. There was nothing in the world quite like it, and it was only visible in the Night Court, though it was widely known throughout the land. This would mark the fifth Starfall without Rhysand.

Azriel's chest suddenly felt tight, his throat constricting at the thought of all those souls finding their way while the only one he cared about most in the world remained trapped under the ground, forgotten.

"He will be home for the next one," Amren said as she always did, her firm voice cutting through Azriel's reverie.

Together, they nodded.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Year 5, Night 18

Dawn was not far off. Rhysand could tell because Amarantha was slowing, her attentions withdrawing, her smile morphing into something triumphant.

She had used him up, demanding he perform for her all night long, and when he wavered, exhausted, she dosed him with a vitality potion and pressed the edge of her favorite knife against his throat. He redoubled his efforts, kissing her with a desperate intensity, moving inside her with long, languid strokes, smoothing his hands along her skin in reverence.

When she finally pulled away, she conjured a thick strand of rope and tossed them at him.

"To the window," She purred, her still-hungry eyes raking over his naked form. Rhysand was sore all over, dripping sweat and blood alike, but he hauled himself over to her window, which he had steadfastly refused to look at all the while he'd been inside her. Now, he couldn't avoid it.

"Tie yourself to the bar, just there. I wouldn't want you to miss your big evening, even if it's only the end," she mocked.

He acquiesced, but made the loops around his wrists looser than she wanted and she clicked her tongue. "That won't do. Guards!"

In swarmed Amarantha's personal guards. Rhysand was far, far beyond finding offense or even shame in any number of them witnessing moments like these.

"Rhysand is tired. Help him tie his binds," Amarantha said as she cloaked herself in a deep purple dressing gown.

The guards shoved him roughly to his knees, and he bore his weight on the sacred ink of his crown in a way he'd never imagined he would. They tied the binds so tightly his fingertips immediately began to tingle. He would have to remain on his knees, one shoulder pressed against the stone of the window to keep his hands level with his chest. If he wanted to sit, he'd have to hang slightly from his wrists tied to the bar. It was a familiar position and he didn't fight as they finished off the knots and released him.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lord of Night," Amarantha crooned and she swooped from the room, her guards trailing after her.

Rhysand heard the bolt slide into place and pressed his forehead against the cool stone of the wall. He knew if he looked out over the inky swathes of the waning night sky, he'd come apart and he so, so badly didn't want to feel the agonizing edge of sorrow—not tonight.

This was his fifth Starfall Under the Mountain. Amarantha's methods of torture were not as new and awful to him as they once were. Last year, he had looked. He had allowed himself to look, to gaze out over the sprawling distance, as far North as his eyes could see. He had allowed himself to wonder what his family was doing—were they dancing together as they did in his memories? Were they laughing and happy and free? He hoped so.

This year, Rhysand did not look. He couldn't find the will; he didn't have the heart.

He kneeled atop the sacred mountain and stars of his people, closed his eyes, and let his thoughts fall through the dark abyss of his mind as a spirit might descend tonight on their way home.