Bring Her Home

Those rare moments when he was alone were precious beyond words.

Nuala and Cerridwen surrounded him as soon as he left Amarantha's chambers, offering him strength in the journey back to his own. Most of the time they were the only reason he was able to force one foot in front of the other. The first night he spent with her… it felt as if a vital part of him had died. Perhaps that death gave Azriel's spies some ability to direct his steps.

The twins always had a hot bath ready for him, and left their High Lord to scrub raw every last inch of skin she'd touched.

Well… at least early on they'd left him alone for the bath. After a few weeks he'd taken advantage of the solitude and-

-and now he knew they took turns guarding him as he bathed.

It was after the bath that they truly gave him time alone to cry, rage, go numb- whatever was necessary to pull back the male from where he hid while Someone Else was used by that monster. Only when Rhysand reached out to summon them would Nuala and Cerridwen open their minds and remind him who he endured it all for.

Under the Mountain was a continuous battle Rhys fought for his own sanity- and the only reason he won that battle time and again was because he knew after Someone Else went away again, the twins would show him the faces of his best friends. Nuala and Cerridwen's memories of them all were a balm to heal a flayed soul.

During that time his spirit was crushed and shattered. It felt as if his heart had been ripped out, and every breath was a hell he could hardly endure. To live after so much humiliation and depravity- were Nuala and Cerridwen even his friends, or was their gift of memory just another torture arranged by the Crimson Whore?

Sometimes Amarantha arrived then, as if she knew his heart was exposed and raw. As if she knew Someone Else was away and it was Rhysand she would hurt. The fallout from those visits… afterwards, Nuala and Cerridwen were the ones who soothed him as he raged.

Instinct told him she was coming now, and a sob escaped before Rhys began forcing himself down.

But- this time was different. He couldn't pull the mask up. He may never be able to again. His stomach roiled and bile rose in his throat. At even the sound of her shoes on the flagstone Rhys thought he would vomit. At her voice he knew he wouldn't be able to hold back his tears. He felt her enter the room and began to shake.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't-

A safe distance behind him, someone began to sing a slow, soft song.

Dandini dandini danalı bebek

Mini mini elleri kınalı bebek

Annesi babası çok sever

Uyur da büyür nazlı bebek

Eeeeeee Eeeeeee Eeeeeee Eee

Pışşşşş Pışşşşş Pışşşşş Pışş

Dandini dandini danadan

Bir ay doğmuş anadan

Kaçınmamış yaradan

Mevlam korusun nazardan

Eeeeeee Eeeeeee Eeeeeee Eee

Pışşşşş Pışşşşş Pışşşşş Pışş

It was a lullaby in the old Illyrian tongue, one his mother used to sing to sooth him as a child. The female singing now had an accent, but it was the memory she inspired that gently washed over him, slowly relaxing his features, settling his stomach, and easing his ragged breath.

Dandini dandini danali bebek

Baby with tiny little henna hands

Loved by both his mother and father.

Let him sleep and grow up.

Eee eee eee e

Psss psss psss pss

Dandini dandini danadan

He is as beautiful as the shining moon.

God gave him all the beauty.

Let god protect him from the evil eye.

Eee eee eee e

Psss psss psss pss

Over and over she sang those ancient words, until Rhys felt the paper beneath his face, the books beneath his hands, and recognized at long last the scent of leather, ink, and musty tomes.

His heart remembered that the horrors had ended. Amarantha was dead. He was free… he was home.

A lead weight remained in place of his heart, but Rhys knew that was a weight he would carry the rest of his life. He stirred and let the calm, quiet voice lead him wholly out of his nightmare.

Mor stopped as he sat up, groaning. He'd fallen asleep at a library desk, and his entire upper body was stiff. He stretched, then nodded to his cousin to let her know it was safe to approach.

"Thank you."

"Whenever you're ready to talk, you know I'll be there for you." Mor sat on the arm of a couch a few feet away, giving Rhys the space and time to process where he was. "Whatever happened- it won't change the way we look at you."

Whatever happened- Rhys wasn't even home a day before Azriel began gathering fifty years worth of reports from his spies and discovered exactly what happened Under the Mountain.

For Rhysand's sake, until he was ready to talk about it, they feigned ignorance while offering sometimes overwhelming companionship. Even when he needed to hide himself away, one of them was never far. Rhys didn't remember what it was to be respected and loved- it was up to them to remind him.

Rhys winced in apology, "I can't talk about it. Not yet. After fifty years-" he swallowed. I may never be ready.

"Today, fifty years from now, five hundred- it doesn't matter. We'll still be here."

He still wasn't sure he even wanted to be there in a week, let alone fifty years. Especially not after-

Ice filled his veins and for a few moments it felt as if the world spun away without him. His pulse raced and he grabbed the table.

"It hasn't started yet," Mor crossed her arms. "Tamlin isn't even at the altar."

"That doesn't make me feel better." Rhys almost wished Mor left him to his nightmare instead of waking him. His heart wouldn't ache so horribly when it was over. He'd prayed nightly to the Cauldron and the Mother both that once Feyre was married that gaping maw in his chest would at last fall quiet.

When an angel blesses the dreams of a damned soul, can he ever endure losing her? Feyre had been his greatest blessing in a darkness he never thought he would escape Under the Mountain. Three years of dreams, and if he only had those months of her hating him Under the Mountain, he may just go mad.

"The wedding doesn't change anything." Mor said, "Marriages end in the face of a mating bond. You'll never stop wondering-"

Rhys growled low in warning.

"-what might have happened if you'd just been honest with Feyre. If you let her see though the mask."

"It doesn't matter," he snapped. "She died for Tamlin. I'm not going to complicate matters. She's suffered enough. She's too-" he cut himself off.

She's too good for me. She doesn't deserve to be dragged into my hell.

Once he could face a married Feyre without his heart ripping in two, Rhysand would offer her a deal- the end of their bargain in exchange for his mother and sister's wings. If she couldn't find them… he would sever the link anyways and spend the rest of his days trying to cauterize the gaping hole in his chest.

Unless Hybern was kind enough to put him out of his misery first.

Mor knew the darkness in Rhys' eyes, so for now- to respect what he was going through- she let it go. "I came because Cassian is looking for you. Evidently you two had plans?"

"We do," Rhys swallowed. He'd intended to be thoroughly drunk by now. As it was, he wouldn't even meet up with Cassian before the end of the Spring ceremony. Would he feel it? The moment she tied her soul to that monster? Would he feel the vow like a blow against the bond?

"Come on," Mor jerked her chin to the door. "I'll keep you company until it's over. I can drink you and Cassian under the table easily enough."

She looped an arm through his as Rhys passed, haggard and exhausted. His skin had reclaimed the golden-brown Illyrian hue with days on end spent outside, but Rhys' hands still trembled slightly. Sun-kissed as his skin may be, it was still wan and drawn too tightly over his bones. His eyes were sunken and dull, and when he fell asleep on the books of the library he'd smeared away some of the makeup he applied to hide the physical manifestation of his sleepless nights. Blue-black skin sagged low.

Azriel saw Feyre once. He'd described a female more dead than alive. If that was still the case then Rhys and his mate were indeed two sides of the same coin. Her suffering was perfectly mirrored in Rhysand. If they had even a single week with one another, Mor knew both would begin to heal. Apart, there was no chance for either of them.

She heard the door open and close far above and her heart stumbled. Would Rhysand hate her when they stepped out of the library to a court nearly dark from sunset?

Truth be told, Mor knew exactly where Rhys was the moment Cassian mentioned their missed meeting. She also knew the Commander wouldn't look in the library unless it was an emergency. Rhys ventured deeper each time one of them retrieved him- inching ever closer to the monster at the bottom. He was using it as a shield against his friends- and Cassian feared nothing as much as he feared that beast.

Mor went straight to the library and sat at a table far from Rhys' private little alcove. She was several floors up and across the hollow mountain from him, but it was the only position from which he could be seen. Clotho was going to tell her when the sun set, and only then did she plan to wake him. Once the ceremony in Spring was over, and his mate was lost forever.

But then she saw him twitch, and darkness began to leak out from his form. She'd wanted to grant him the mercy of missing the ceremony, of not sitting there in sick horror waiting to see if he felt her vows. Still, no matter what she was waking him to face, Mor would never let Rhys go through those nightmares alone. Not if she could protect him.

She walked slowly with her arm wrapped around his, both offering support and slowing his pace. Her stomach churned in dread, but it was nothing compared to how he felt. His eyes were unfocused, sad. He sighed every few steps.

The sound carried more despair than any creature deserved to feel.

Somewhere around the seventh level, Rhys felt a stirring in his chest. He shoved it down and picked up his pace, pulling Mor along. Suspicion filled his heart as his cousin resisted, gently slowing him down.

What did she not want him to see?

He tugged his arm from hers and began walking faster.

"Rhys-"

His breath was ragged. It felt as if something small were trapped in his chest, fighting violently to get out. Panic consumed him, and that walk turned into a jog. Why didn't Mor want him going outside?

Was it already too late?

Too late- too late for what? He couldn't do anything. He wouldn't do anything.

… but was it too late?

With a small, nervous sound, Rhysand began to run.

The breath was knocked form his lungs, and it was an effort to keep his legs moving up through the levels of the library. His vision was flashing as heforced himself to not reach for their bargain- to not look through Feyre's eyes and confirm that the inevitable nightmare had come to pass.

His vision narrowed on the door, looming not far ahead. Rhys cast a wall of power out and threw it open.

Every step was too fast as he ran, propelling him forward to that horrible sunset.

Ten steps from the door, at the edge of the fading sunlight, he slowed.

Then stopped.

His heart was beating so fast, too fast.

He was going to vomit.

Panic and loathing, humiliation, rage, and a fear nearly tangible overwhelmed him-

-and Rhys finally realized the feeling wasn't his. Not entirely, at least.

It was coming from his bargain-link with Feyre.

He was too hot, the walls of the library were closing in. This hell was inescapable. The beast inside him was roiling now, his body shook with the building force of it as it hunted for a way out- and felt its equal thrashing at the other end of a slumbering bond.

"Rhys-" Mor ran around him to grab his face. His eyes were unfocused and darted side to side as he tried to sort his feelings from Feyre's- to see what was wrong.

Help me, help me, help me. Save me- please, save me. Get me out. End this.

"She needs help," he said quickly, yanking Mor's hands from his face and shoving past her, out into the sunset. "She's begging someone to stop the wedding."

A horrible, disgusting relief was filling his chest, but he couldn't give in to the desire that plagued him every second he'd been away from Feyre's side. He needed permission. He needed someone else to make the call, so that he knew the decision was rational and right, not born of grief, jealousy, or some sort of entitlement.

"Go," Mor snarled. "She needs you- call in the bargain and get her out of there!"

"I can't-" if he had Feyre by his side for even a minute, would he ever be able to take her back to Spring? He could feel her fighting for air, just as he could feel his own lungs refusing to draw breath.

No- no.

Mor dug her nails into Rhys' wrists hard enough to draw his focus back, "Rhys, the Cauldron has given you another chance- rescue Feyre. Show her who you are. She's alone and frightened, your mate needs you. None of those bastards in Spring will ever help her- it has to be you!"

Gratitude flickered in his eyes, even as rage began to build. He felt Feyre shattering on the other end of the bond, her own grief and agony had long since consumed her heart, and now it was feasting on what scraps remained.

The feeling- it was one Rhysand knew all too well.

I stayed away to give him the chance to heal you. That was the only thing that kept him from calling in their bargain- Feyre's love for Tamlin. What he felt on the other end of that bond- it was a rotting of the heart and mind that only occured in those utterly abandoned after suffering horrific trauma. You saved him from the Crimson Whore- how has he not saved you too?

Rhysand vanished in a burst of darkness. He barely had the presence of mind to throw up a glamour and hide his rumpled clothing, sloppy hair, and fear-pale face before the roaring night cleared and he stood at the other end of the wedding aisle- behind a too-thin woman in a ridiculous gown.

Nothing more than a prize for the male who stood at the altar.

Padding had been sewn into Feyre's dress to fill her out and hide just how emaciated she was. Every trick imaginable had been employed to hide her sunken eyes and even distract from every visible bone in her chest.

There was one thing they couldn't cover up for this little show Tamlin was putting on before the fleeing crowd: the void in her eyes. She mimicked fear and terror with her face, but those beautiful blue-gray eyes were hollow and dead.

Rhysand's grief was overwhelmed with rage as he forced the mask of the Lord of Nightmares back on. He was done giving that beast Tamlin any more chances. He was done giving Feyre her space in Spring and he was done with that ridiculous policy of non-involvement.

Tamlin had three months to save Feyre, and yet she looked infinitely worse.

He locked eyes with the female he loved so wholly and forced a bratty smile to his lips, "Hello, Feyre darling."

It would take Feyre months to realize it, but as she looked into those violet eyes something pulsed through them both.

Two shattered hearts, beating at long last.

The End.

Special thank you to Urbisie on tumblr for her assistance with the lullaby!