Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Day 34
The darkness pressed in on Rhysand like a thumb pushing on a bruise. He had never been wary of the dark—darkness was in his blood, in his veins. But the darkness Under the Mountain was so absolute that it felt like a yoke around his neck. Rhysand kept seeing Amarantha waiting around every corner, hungry for him like a rabid dog.
Some of the rooms allocated to theguestshad balconies depending on where they were within the mountain, but not Rhysand's. His room was deep inside the mountain's heart and despite its expansiveness and its luxurious trappings, Rhysand could find little comfort there. It was a glorified prison, after all. Luxurious only because he sold his soul, night after night, day after day. The only comforts he could claim in the room were the moments he found himself alone, truly alone. But those moments were few and far between.
It had been hard to keep track of the days, and after the first week, Rhysand decided it didn't matter. Why keep count of each moment that ticked along in agony? Why keep record of his misery? He clenched his teeth, did what needed to be done and pressed on to the next minute, hour, day.
After a while, the days began to take on a rhythm that Rhysand had at least come to expect.
Each morning, Amarantha would wake lying next to him and rake her nails down his back. No matter the position he'd fallen asleep in, he always found that in his slumber, he'd instinctively turned his back to her. And if he didn't manage to rise before her, she took great satisfaction in dragging him back into herself. She ran hot—almost unbearably so, thanks to the overwhelming power running through her . Sometimes he could feel it while he was inside her. It answered to him, feeling his nearness, yearning for him just as he yearned for its return.
After she'd had her fill of him, she'd rise, dress, and leave him to his own devices for a little while.
When he was sure she was gone, Rhysand would lurch to his feet and race to the attached bathing chamber, where he would dry heave until he was sweating and weak.
This morning was very much the same as all the others since the first.
Gods, he was tired. Already. He thought he would at least manage to endure it a little more steadily for a little while longer. But she ground him down hard, mercilessly, as he was sure was her intention. And while he matched her energy as best he could, their interactions both physical and mental left him drained and hollow.
His body ached. His head was pounding, and he raised trembling fingers to press hard into his temples. Another day of slinking along beside Amarantha unfurled before him. The looks of disdain on each face he passed were burned into his memory. They all thought him a monster, a bastard. A whore. Her whore. The moniker was like a burning seal on his soul, stamped by her wretched hand, pressed with hot, red wax. It had changed something integral inside of him, this new way the masses had begun to perceive him. He had always been feared and because of that fear, people tended to give him a wide berth, which was fine by him.
But this was something different than just fear. It was hate. And they didn't just avoid him because they were afraid of him, of what he could do. They avoided him because theyloathedhim, what he was doing, who he had become to rise just a bit above them in the nightmare in which they were living.
Rhysand told himself he didn't care, as he had never much cared for the opinions of others. It had never been important to him to be well-liked or even respected. He had his family to turn to for those types of fulfillments—he didn't need to be gratified by strangers. There was no reason to swing so far in the other direction, however, and be despised by his peers. Except for now, apparently. And he would do it gladly. He would take blow after blow in order to keep what was most dear to him safe and out from under the prying eyes of that beast.
The thought of her had him once again staggering to his feet, swaying slightly as he managed to stand. The room spun on its axis once, twice, then grudgingly leveled out enough for him to draw himself a bath. Rhys ran the water as he always did, exclusively from the hot tap. There wasn't water hot enough in this world or the next that would rid the feeling of her mouth on his skin. It didn't matter how hard he scrubbed or how hot the water burned. Rhysand felt her all over his body, all the time. Even when she wasn't physically touching him.
The omen of her fused to his skin like a thick layer of grime that refused to be eradicated.
But scrub he did. Over and over again once he could breathe through the initial shock of the scalding water. He picked up the soap, lathered it until his hands were slick with frothing bubbles and scoured his body.
Once he felt as clean as he possibly could, Rhysand submerged himself beneath the water.
There he stayed. Seconds ticked by, then one minute, then another. The world was quiet below the surface. It was the only place that was truly quiet. So often there was shouting or crying. Sometimes there were heated arguments in the corridors between countrymen or rival courts. Very rarely there was laughter, but when there was it was usually Amarantha herself or the degenerates that hailed from the Autumn Court. They alone seemed to be enjoying themselves. And similar to Rhysand, they too had been rewarded for their good behavior. A trickle of power back here or there, a compliment from Amarantha tossed their way like a bone to a hound.
Pathetic, he wanted to think. But wasn't he doing the same? On the surface, at least. Too often lately he was confusing whether or not he was the good man he had always known himself to be.
Rhysand broke the surface with a slow gasp and raked his dark hair away from his eyes. The room came back into stark focus. Everything Under the Mountain was bleak, no matter how ornately decorated. The walls were slate grey, the floors and ceilings largely the same. Even much of the furniture had been carved from the hateful rock. It didn't matter that a richly colored throw rug covered the floor or sparse tapestries dotted the walls. The rooms were little more than caverns, carved forcefully by corrupt magic where they never should have existed in the first place.
He had wasted enough time wallowing in his own self-pity. The red witch would be looking for him soon enough.
Rhysand stood, still feeling tender and nauseous, but at least he had scrubbed her most recent fingerprints from his skin. There was nothing he could do about the deep gouges she had left in his thighs and shoulder blades. Without his magic, healing came slower than he was used to. The bleeding had stopped, but his muscles were in agony, as they usually were in the morning. It was a horrid thing, but he prayed soon his body would adapt to the rigors of Amarantha's demands.
Not that she had noticed anything amiss. To her, Rhysand was a veritable god. He gave her everything she asked for, and even what she didn't. He doted on her, ravaged her with touches full of longing and adoration. There wasn't anything he denied her, not even when it brought him pain—especially not then, because in those instances, Amarantha seemed to be enjoying herself the most. She took her pleasure from him with teeth and claws and a brutal efficiency that fortunately, Rhysand had never known before. And he was meant to bear it, hunger for it as she hungered for him. For all she knew, he very much did.
And that's what hooked her—that and the fact that with his very meager power reserves he drew on that hunger, teased it out until she was nearly frothing with need. At first he feared he had gone too far, stoked the flames of her desire too much. And perhaps he had. Perhaps her claiming of him needn't be so vicious had she not been so enthralled by him. But it kept her attention firmly where he wanted it; on him and no one else. She would hurt him and no one else. She would fuck him and no one else.
No one else would have to suffer this but him.
A wardrobe had been provided for him, which he abhorred. There was, thankfully, plenty of his signature black, but she wanted to see him in purple and sometimes red. And he had to abide. It would have been easier had the red not been in the exact shade of her hair, the purple a direct match to her preferred gowns. Rhysand stared hard at the clothes for a long minute before he reached for a black jacket, white shirt and black trousers. He couldn't do it this morning. Not after last night. Not after all the red she'd already drawn from him in the small hours before dawn.
He dressed jerkily, being overly cautious with his aching limbs. It took him several tries to fasten the buttons on his perfectly pressed jacket. His body needed rest, but even if he stayed back in his room he knew rest wouldn't come. So with grim determination, he pushed the final button at his collar through the hole.
Rhys paused at his door, dressed impeccably in finely cut clothing and highly polished boots. His blue-black hair was combed neatly back from his unlined forehead. A quick inventory of his body told him he'd have to put more pressure on his right foot than his left in order to mask a slight limp. He only felt a small stirring of magic and couldn't rely on such a little amount to carry him through for the rest of the day. He didn't know whether he'd need it for something more important than just a small comfort.
When he stepped out into the corridor, he found he was alone. Which wasn't uncommon. The section in which his room existed seemed sparsely occupied if the general lack of other inhabitants was any indication. Although, Rhysand did tend to keep odd hours. Without a view of the outside, he couldn't be sure, but he could guess by Amarantha's comings and goings since she at least seemed to keep to a normal schedule. It was most likely late morning by now, if not early afternoon.
Rhysand had taken three steps in the direction of the throne room when he was waylaid by the Attor. He swallowed his groan of annoyance as it smiled menacingly at him with its rows of sharpened brownish teeth.
"Something I can help you with?" Rhysand asked, not breaking his casual stride. He slipped his hands into his pockets and imagined them closing around the beast's neck.
"No rising with the sun for the Lord of Night, it seems," said the Attor with a wet clicking of its tongue.
"I'm afraid not," Rhysand answered coolly. "My nights are rather busy these days." He winked sidelong at the creature and watched its ridiculing smile transform into a sneer.
"Our queen commands your presence in the throne room," it said with malice. The Attor never was one for prolonged conversations, easily intellectually bested as it was. Rhysand usually needed to only deploy one or two scathing remarks for it to stand down.
"What luck. I'm headed there now."
"I'll accompany you. These tunnels can be so long and winding for the uninitiated," it hissed.
Rhysand laughed a hollow note. "Oh, I can assure you, I've been initiated. I'd wager I know these tunnels better than even you," he teased. There was no way that was true, but there was also no way Rhysand was going to walk into that chamber with the Attor as an escort. He was already universally despised, he wasn't going to add Attor collusion to his long list of sins.
The beast's laugh was jagged. Then it stopped and looked hard at him. "You lie."
Rhysand shrugged. "There's only one way to find out, I suppose."
The Attor was not wanting for teeth or for brute strength, but what little brainpower it possessed left something to be desired. And it loved a challenge.
It growled deep in its throat before turning and racing down one of the tunnels just to their right.
"Idiot," Rhysand muttered under his breath. He continued his leisurely pace down the corridor, now blessedly quiet. With every step, Rhysand slipped on his mask of court and shoved everything that was distinctlyhimfar out of sight.
When he arrived at the threshold of the main chamber, thrillingly tardy, the Attor was waiting for him and it was pissed.
Rhysand smiled his most charming smile at the creature and let his deep blue eyes sparkle as they once had, just a bit. "You win this time, Attor," he purred like a lover.
The Attor, too stunned to speak, let Rhysand brush past him and make his way toward the dais unattended. On his way, a familiar hymn rose up in hushed whispers.
Whore.
Traitor.
They sang as one. Not everyone, but enough that their voices sent a wave of nausea crashing against the walls of his empty stomach. The closer he got to the dais, the words of their chant died out until finally, Rhys could only hear the normal ebb and flow of indistinguishable chatter throughout the room.
"Ah, Rhysand," Amarantha sang in greeting, as if he hadn't been inside of her not an hour ago.
As he always did, Rhysand stopped just short of the dais. Nothing could make him ascend those cursed steps of his own volition. He inclined his head as he bowed only slightly at the waist. Not a full bow, for she wasn't his queen, but enough that it placated her.
"I have a job for you," she announced.
"Anything, My Lady," he said in answer. He raised his eyes to look at her and would have jolted at the triumphant gaze in her eyes had he not trained himself to never react to her whims.
"Good boy," she hummed and favored him with a delighted smile. His skin crawled, but he answered her smile in kind. "Bring him forward!"
The crowd parted immediately as two Autumn court courtiers dragged forward a young fae male. Rhysand kept his feet rooted in place and watched. How quickly those belonging to the Autumn Court had given over to her demands. He watched them now, keeping his face a cool mask of indifference, as they sneered nastily, roughly handling the young fae. When they arrived beside him, they dropped him to his knees, but kept a hand on either of his shoulders.
Rhysand peered down at him. It was impossible for him to remember everyone that dwelled in this forsaken place, so he didn't look any more familiar than any other young fae male. And he didn't bother speculating. Amarantha would tell him soon enough. She did so love to hear herself speak.
"We have a dissenter," she began, jutting her bottom lip out dramatically in feigned hurt. A few rowdy calls went through the space, but the room remained choked with silence. Rhysand could feel the morbid anticipation hanging in the air. "Axios here from Day Court has betrayed my hospitality, haven't you, Axios?" Amarantha said in a sing-song voice.
To his credit, Axios stared up at Amarantha with unveiled hatred and kept his mouth firmly shut.
"Just tell me who else you were with and I shall spare your lives. You may remain in the dungeons until my Tamlin comes to me," she said. Rhysand suppressed the urge to roll his eyes like a child.
Axios began to tremble, but the hard line of his mouth remained sealed shut.
"Come, come, Axios," said Amarantha between clenched teeth. "Either you tell me, or dear Rhysand here takes the information I need by force."
Rhysand remained still. Surely she didn't mean for him to beat the living shit out of Axios. She had the Attor for that, or better yet, the over-eager Autumn Court courtiers.
Axios' stare blackened with resentment at the same time his young body was wracked with nervous shivers. But he did not speak. Amarantha's jaw ground at the clear affront.
She snapped her head to Rhysand. "Rhysand," she said, "Take his mind. Tell me who else he was with in the Southern tunnels," she hissed.
Rhysand wanted to laugh, to tell her that he couldn't even heal a paper cut with the amount of magic she'd left him, when suddenly he felt a wave of warmth crash into him. The familiarity of his magic rushed back into every hollow space it had vacated within his body. The thrill of feeling his power answer to him again was heady; he felt lightheaded and unsteady on his feet. He knew straightaway that it wasn't even close to what he was used to, no she still kept well over half his power leashed to herself, but this…this was power enough for him to enact her punishment on Axios. And the feeling of it returning was exhilarating, euphoric.
He was breathing hard. For a moment, just a moment, he looked up at her. Their eyes met and held. A million different scenarios played out simultaneously in his head in the seconds that ticked by as if moving through a thick syrup. Time slowed to a near-halt. He felt the thudding of his heart painfully against his ribs. Inside his pockets, his hands had clenched into tight fists that now shook against his thighs. He wanted to gasp for air, to run, to strike out with a killing blow and end it all.
But he didn't do any of those things.
As if Amarantha could see everything plainly on Rhysand's face, she arched a manicured brow in challenge. And like thegood boyhe was, Rhysand slipped into Axios' mind like a newly sharpened steel blade.
He had no defenses so there wasn't much to cut through. It took Rhysand seconds to get to the information that he needed. He saw three faces and three names. They were equally young and very obviously naive if they thought they were going to emerge triumphant over Amarantha's curse. It appeared to Rhys that they were looking for a way out in the Southern tunnels, and that's where Axios had been apprehended by the Attor after he had gotten separated from his cohorts.
Be quiet. Close your eyes. The pain will not kill you, but it is necessary.
Rhysand spoke inside the young fae's mind and he jolted forward before squeezing his eyes closed and groaning in pain. He kept it pretty surface level, but knew Amarantha was going to look for some sort of prodding.
"Well?" She asked after a moment.
"It appears young Axios had two friends helping him. Bryce and Thurn from the Day Court," Rhysand said, sounding unbearably bored. There was no way to save them all. But he could spare one—the youngest looking of the bunch. The third was no more than a child; his cheeks still retained the roundness of youth. The older three should have known better than to implicate a child.
With a quick and quiet strike, Rhys sliced the boy's presence from inside Axios's mind. Then he found the mental signatures of his cohorts and did the same. It would be as if the boy had never tagged along on that ill-fated mission.
"See?" Amarantha said on a sigh. She leaned back in her black throne. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Axios groaned again when Rhys gave him a little mental nudge. Amarantha grinned.
"Take them all to the dungeons," she said to the Attor. "We'll finish up with you and your dear, dear friends later." It was a threat. And Rhysand saw what his night would most definitely look like as Amarantha waved goodbye at a still-moaning Axios.
Just as quickly as she had bestowed him with his power, she yanked it back. It was an effort to remain on his feet. He felt ice cold. If she had dunked his head beneath a frigid river he would have been less shocked. In the next instant, sweat broke out on the back of his neck at the sudden shift in equilibrium. Rhys had to regain his bearings all over again, all while pinned beneath Amarantha's knowing stare.
"That's all," Amarantha said with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
Rhys sketched a jerky bow and wasted no time turning on his heel to escape her presence as best he could in a room where her eye saw everything.
He had to fight hard to ignore the waves of ire and the repulsed gazes from those around him. It was just another way he had betrayed the people of Prythian, and he knew it.
He felt like a caged animal and wanted to snap at them, to rip them apart with claws he had always kept so very carefully concealed.
What would you do?He wanted to scream at them. In fact, he'd give anything to switch places with them. Let them bear the burden of all he carried. Let them get crushed beneath the heel of Amarantha's boot.
But he wasn't doing it for them. It wasn'tthemhe was protecting. And although he had spared the youngling from Day, he hadn't set out this morning to be Prythian's savior. The boy had been lucky.
That was all.