Chapter Text
The party outside of the cave seemed to be off to an auspicious start, not that Feyre had been able to enjoy any of it.
From where she sat in the cave, sitting on a smooth ledge in her gown, she could hear how the drums pounded through the earth like a heartbeat, as if helping to pump magic throughout the land. As Ianthe had led her through the crowd, it had been hard to discern at times whether it was her own blood beating in her veins, or merely the frenzy of the drums. She supposed it hadn't mattered, really, and at least the striking of the drums had helped distract her from her own nerves.
On the walk up to the cave where the ritual would be held, she'd marked how cool it was for an early spring night. Still, the unseasonable weather had done little to dissuade other fae from arriving for Calanmai, many already half in their cups and doing their part to help the magic of the night along before she'd even arrived. The crowd had seemed boisterous tonight, though in fairness, she had nothing to compare it to, seeing as how was her first Calanmai. She'd heard enough about it from Nesta, at least, who'd been sneaking out for years to celebrate, regardless of what their mother had thought on the matter.
The Archerons were high fae by blood, but as a Spring Court family of no real repute, hailing from a small town on the westernmost edge of the court, they might as well have been nobodies. Most fae in Prythian did not hold to archaic standards of chastity, at least not in their part of the world, though some of the noblest families often prized it in young females who were bartered off like livestock to solidify alliances. As poor fae, who usually struggled to make the Tithe, virginity should have been of little consideration for their family. Daughters in such circumstances were often more of a burden than a boon, and for most of her life, Feyre's mother had usually treated them as such.
That was, of course, before Nesta's gifts had first displayed themselves. No Archeron in centuries had shown so much as a drop of power, up until Nesta's had erupted one summer in a blaze of ice cold flames, brought on over an argument about a toy, of all things. It was a miracle Elain had not been burned in the matter, letting go of the carved wooden horse mere seconds before Nesta had erupted, setting their fraying living room carpet up in silver flames.
Elain's instinct to release her grip on the toy had perhaps been a portent of her own gifts, which would reveal themselves a few years later in a far less dramatic and more unsettling manner. Regardless, that afternoon had been the first time their mother had looked at her daughters as creatures to be molded, rather than resented.
She'd pinned her early hopes on Nesta, training her daughter in all manner of dance and etiquette, on the expectation that it would be her, naturally, who married above their station, dragging their family out of the obscurity they existed and into something resembling respectability. Nesta, however, was entirely her own creature, shattering her mother's lofty goals by getting caught with two males, out in the open, causing something of a minor scandal in their small town.
Their mother had been apoplectic in her rage, but Feyre had not missed the near imperceptible way her sister had relaxed as their mother moved her attention on to a more pliable daughter.
She'd found that in many ways in Elain. Elain had been a gentle soul from the moment of her birth, barely even crying as she'd come out of the womb, if her mother's stories were to be believed. She was certainly the most beautiful of the three, with the sort of delicate manners that had most males she'd met infatuated with her after only half an afternoon's conversation. Her dutifulness had been enough to persuade their mother enough into both forgetting Nesta's transgressions while also neglecting her youngest daughter entirely.
Perhaps this gamble might have paid off, had Elain's gift manifested itself with the softness of the blooms she so easily cultivated in their small backyard garden. Powers were coveted in fae wives, of course, but not when they expressed themselves in the form of cryptic and often disturbing prophecies blurted out over afternoon tea. Noble males certainly wanted a wife who would guarantee powerful offspring, though perhaps they did not wish to hear about their own unfortunate deaths over a spread of powdered cookies.
By the time their mother's attentions had turned to Feyre, she was already through her adolescence, still young by fae standards, but already old enough to be married off, should anyone take an interest. By then, frustration was practically her mother's modus operandi. She'd certainly not bothered to fill in the gaps she'd left in her youngest's education, insisting that the ability to read was what had ruined Nesta to begin with. Proper males, after all, did not want females with opinions, though perhaps something could be done with Feyre's skill with art.
It would have served their mother right if Feyre, too, had disappointed her. She'd certainly tried her best, running around like a wild thing, more interested in practicing archery with the village boys than in learning to prepare a meal. In the end, it had been her own expression of powers, not her poor manners, that had finally succeeded in achieving her mother's goals.
A fae female with one gift, after all, was a rare thing. A fae female who seemed to possess a drop of power from every court? Unheard of.
No one could explain where this gift had come from, certainly not considering the source of the bloodline, but it had been enough to draw the attention of a blonde priestess of noble birth, who'd taken one look at the skinny, half feral female and declared she could help her make a proper match with her particular gifts, regardless of any deficiencies in her own manners of behavior.
A proper match was one thing, but when Ianthe, the priestess in question, had brought her and her sisters to the very seat of the Spring Court, she'd nearly balked and run.
Some mornings she still felt that urge. She would wake up in her plush, pillow-covered bed - the first bed she'd never had to share - and her very bones would crave the days when no one paid her any mind and she could do as she pleased. Sure, she might have been neglected, back when she was a nobody, but there had been a certain amount of freedom in that as well.
Such freedom did not exist as the future Lady of the Spring Court. From the moment she'd arrived at court, the tunics and pants she'd favored had been stripped from her in favor of flowing gowns she could barely walk in without tripping. There was never a moment alone, not when she was dining, nor even from the moment she rose to dress. Feyre, who had once taught herself to shoot a bow and who'd snuck moments alone with a farmboy back in her village, had somehow now found herself in a position where she could not so much as wish to take a bath without some fawning attendant standing just beyond the door, in case she needed additional rose-scented soaps on a whim.
At least she had her sisters. Nesta was loyal, if not always agreeable company, though as of late she'd seemed to prefer picking fights with the High Lord's favored courtier, Lucien Vanserra, to sitting with her sisters. Elain moved through court as though she'd been born to it, though she still had a propensity towards outbursts of prophecy that kept her somewhat at an arm's length from the rest of the elegantly mannered court.
The High Lord was kind enough too, she supposed, even if they had little truly in common. When his first compliment towards her had hinged on the cleanliness of her hair, she could have politely chalked it up to social incompetence, though as it turned out, it was simply a sign of how little they had in common.
Over the last few months, they warmed to each other a bit. She could not call it love with anything resembling a straight face, though from what she'd gathered of the noble fae, that was simply not a requirement for marriage. He was generous, though at times that generosity seemed to hinge on her obedience, and outside of a few early disagreements, she'd mostly behaved appropriately. She'd learned to tolerate the fine dinners and frilly dresses, at least, though she still longed for the days when she could simply roam the woods without a full escort of armored guards.
No, she would not call it love, though she found him attractive enough, and from the lingering looks he'd given her as of late, he seemed to have taken more of an interest in her, whereas before their betrothal had largely seemed to hinge on the prospect of what offspring her powers might provide. Spring, while a wealthy court, was a weak one, protected only by a gentler neighbor in the Summer Court and the Autumn Court's internal power struggles. Had they bordered courts like Night, Ianthe had explained long ago, they'd have been overrun already.
All of which made her ability to provide powerful offspring more important. Tamlin was powerful enough on his own, though the murder of his parents and brothers at the hands of the Night Court, some centuries ago, had left them with less protection than they would have liked. Her wedding was still two months off, but as Calanmai had approached, the teal-eyed priestess had declared that Calanmai, the night when Spring Court magic was at its highest, was the ideal night to begin working towards the offspring that would someday help bolster the Court's power.
Tamlin had simply nodded, long desensitized to what the magic of Calanmai would require of him. Feyre, however, had spent the last week waking nightly, vomiting the contents of her dinner as the day had drawn closer.
It was not that she didn't find the High Lord attractive or even pleasant enough. When she was Lady of Spring someday, lying beneath him in the hope of bearing children was certainly the expectation. Still, as they'd gotten to know each other these past months, she'd hoped for some moment when she might feel something akin to desire for him. Perhaps they could get there some day, given enough time to truly know each other, she might even find that she loved him.
Yet as she sat here alone in the cave, entrance sealed until the moment Tamlin arrived, it was dread, not anticipation, that churned in her stomach.
She had no experience with Calanmai past what had been explained to her. On this night, Tamlin would allow the magic of the land to enter his body through a mix of rituals carefully choreographed by Ianthe and her acolytes. Once these sacred rituals were complete, Tamlin would hunt down a sacred stag before returning to the cave as the Hunter, at which point he would claim the Maiden - Feyre. Through their union, the land - and hopefully her womb - would be fertilized with powerful magic that would bolster their union in the coming year.
According to Ianthe, many females had done vicious, violent things in the past to be considered for a chance to stand in a line near the cave in the hopes of becoming the Maiden. This year, it would only be Feyre and she felt nothing but nausea at the prospect.
Her body had been painted in whorls and swirling patterns by priestesses, patterns that mimicked the paint Tamlin would wear tonight. Sacred patterns, the likes of which could be found carved into the walls of their oldest temples. Fertility patterns, she'd been told, to better ensure a fruitful union.
How she longed to take her hands and just smear the patterns, ruining it entirely.
She'd have been inclined to test it as well, before another priestess, perhaps catching something in her gaze, gently explained that the paint was enchanted so that she could not accidentally ruin the designs. Only at the height of Calanmai, when she was joined in union, would the paint smear, a visible marker to all assembled fae that the magic of the year was renewed.
The priestesses all spoke of it as though it were some beautiful ritual that any female was lucky to be chosen for, but she could not understand why it was necessary, why her very body and the proof of what had been done to it should be displayed to anyone. Her people were not bashful about her bodies, this she knew well, but the mere prospect of it, the prospect of being paraded like this for the rest of eternity sickened her.
She felt like she couldn't breathe on the entire walk to the cave, greedy eyes watching her processional. When the cave was sealed, awaiting the High Lord's arrival, she simply sank onto the floor, burying her face in her arms.
-----
Admittedly, crashing his enemy's sacred ritual was a bold move, even for Rhys.
He supposed he could blame Cassian and Azriel as well for the fact that he was here now. When they'd heard that Tamlin would be taking a bride, they'd had perhaps a little too much fun speculating about what poor female had found herself in that unfortunate position.
The information that had filtered back to them had been hazy at best, even with Azriel's excellent sources. The family name was not one they'd heard of, which had surprised him, given that few High Lords married out of the nobler classes unless it was for love (unlikely in Rhys's estimation, this was Tamlin after all) or on account of a mating bond (such as his father).
He didn't know why he found the whole matter so curious. Rhys had been perfectly content to ignore Tamlin for centuries now, given their rather unfortunate history and the animosity that still simmered between the courts. It was none of his concern, really.
Still, something in the back of his mind wouldn't let the matter go.
Perhaps it was the dreams of Calanmai he'd had of late, the sacred Spring Court ritual. All courts had their own version of the Great Rite, though Spring, being somewhat of a more traditional court, still clung to some of the oldest parts of fae traditions to this day.
Rhys found their focus on pageantry a bit nauseating, to be honest, the orgiastic nature of it all reminding him a bit too closely of the darker parts of the Hewn City's own festivities. Rhys's own Rite was a much more subdued matter, usually performed in private with casual lovers he'd established relationships with over the years, rather than simply plucking a random woman amidst a crowd. He preferred his partner to be an enthusiastic participant, rather than some poor female who felt compelled to offer her body to a more powerful High Lord.
He stood on the hills looking down into the Rite next to Cassian and Azriel. The plan, if it could be called that, was nothing more than get a glimpse at the mysterious bride, maybe enjoy some of the celebrations, and return back to Velaris with Tamlin none the wiser.
Still, as he watched the revelry, as the drums began beating louder and louder, marking the start of the ritual hunt Tamlin would be started, he felt something pulling at the center of his chest, some ancient magic summoning and calling to him.
"You two have fun," he found himself saying as hs brother's eyes snapped to him in surprise. "I should go pay my respects."
"To Tamlin?"
He felt a smile pulling unconsciously across his face, something primal and almost predatory as he felt another tug in the center of his chest. Ancient instinct amplified by the magic of the day? Perhaps. But as he felt that tug, he somehow knew exactly where it was pulling him.
He just didn't know why.
No," he said, as he began to step through night to the other end of that thread. "To his bride."
-----
She didn't know how long the male had been standing there, watching her. She'd been listening for the slide of the cave entrance, for the sure sign that Tamlin had completed his hunt, that the magic now compelled him to come claim her. She'd kept her face buried into her legs, knees drawn up to her chest, willing herself to simply breathe, that she hadn't realized anyone was there with her until some instinct, some constriction in her chest, compelled her to lift her gaze into violet eyes that watched her with something akin to curiosity.
Her breath caught slightly as he smiled in a way that somehow straddled an impossible line between gentle and insolent. He was dressed entirely in black, so completely out of place in the array of bright festive colors most wore tonight, and he stood with a sort of stillness that was impressive, even amongst their kind.
He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
"What are you doing in here," she found herself blurting as she scrambled to her feet.
-----
She was somehow nothing and everything like he'd expected.
He'd never laid eyes on this female before, but as she rose to her feet in hasty alarm, he had the strangest feeling that he'd always somehow known her. Her eyes were an ocean of stars, pulling him into some ancient, eternal void. He knew her. He had never met her before, but he on some base level, he knew her. He had never felt anything like it before, never felt with absolute certainty that he was meant to be standing here, on this night, in this very spot, staring at a female with wide eyes that flickered nervously between him and the still sealed cave door.
Her body was painted in whorls that reminded him of the markers of bargains made in his court, and he felt himself inclined to sneer at it, at this Spring Court that had reduced their people's most ancient markings to something to only be trotted out on special occasions as ceremonial decoration, rather than giving them the place of honor they deserved by embracing it as part of who they were as a people.
Even so, some part of him purred to see this beautiful female, looking so much like someone from his own court.
"I said what are you doing here," she demanded, and at her cautious steps back, he snapped out of his stupor, realizing what it must look like to her.
Gently, he raised his hands. "I mean you no harm."
She snorted, an edge of alarm still lacing her scent, though it smelled to him like she'd been in a state of anxiety for some time now. For that was certainly the smell of dread permeating every inch of this cavern, a smell that certainly wouldn't be missed by Tamlin when he arrived, though it was questionable whether the magic that had entered his body this night would allow him to consider why.
Even as this bride of Spring stared at him like the unwelcome interloper he was, he felt some pulse of anger on her behalf, that she'd simply been left here to stew in her own nerves, alone.
"Then why are you here? No one is supposed to be here," she asked, still wary.
"Curiosity," he admitted and again she snorted.
"Curiosity," she mimicked, and he had to smile at the sharpness of her tone. Her eyes flicked up and down, taking in the color of his clothing, the peculiar cut of it. "You're not from Spring," she observed.
"Clearly," he drawled, as she scowled.
"Then perhaps you are unaware that this is a sacred cave," she said, drawing herself up, "and soon the High Lord of Spring will arrive and-"
Her voice wavered slightly, dread once again blooming in her scent and he found himself impudently cutting in, needling at her irritation if only to spare her that anxiety that she'd clearly felt for a while now. "Yes, yes," he said dismissively, "Your High Lord will hunt down a stag with his bare hands in what is undoubtedly an impressive display of masculinity." Her nostrils flared, but it was not anger in her scent now. "And then he will come to see his adoring bride. That's what you are, correct?"
"Yes," she admitted through gritted teeth.
"Then allow me the honor of bestowing my well wishes on the happy couple," he smirked. "I have always loved a wedding. Perhaps you would be so kind as to extend me an invitation?"
"I think not," she said and he laughed.
"Perhaps I will simply crash it then," he said lightly.
"You do seem to enjoy doing that," she observed and he could have sworn that under that irritation there was a note of curious humor there as well. "Do they not teach you manners in-"
She was clearly unfamiliar with the dress styles of other courts, no doubt unable to quite place the cut of his suit. To tell the truth would likely further alarm her, so he simply shrugged and said "I was a difficult child, to my mother's constant frustration."
"Undoubtedly you still are," she said and he couldn't help the wince that crossed his face as the memory of his mother, of her gentle hands and warm face slipped into his mind.
"She's dead," he found himself saying.
She blinked. "I'm sorry," she said, all heat gone from her tone, and he simply waved a hand. He couldn't say why he'd admitted it to her, as he usually simply avoided the subject of his family, even among those he was closest with, but something in him found him wanting to spill everything to her, to sit down and share all the stories of his mother and sister, memories that still lived in his mind as though they'd only happened yesterday.
There was a long awkward pause before she spoke again, more kindly. "You really should go. I don't know what compelled you to come into this cave, whether you're just some bold fool or if you got lost, but you should not be here when the High Lord arrives."
It was touching, her concern for him, even if Tamlin arriving was not something he was particularly concerned about. Still, she was, and he found himself inclined to respect her wishes, even as a part of him did long to needle Tamlin in that way.
He bowed at the waist, all of his elegant lordly manners channeled into the move, before straightening and beginning to fade into mist.
"Wait," she called, and he paused. "You never told me your name."
He wondered what her reaction would be if she told him, whether she'd ever heard his name spoken here in Spring, or whether he was simply whispered about as the Dark Lord of Night. Stepping closer for one last look at her, he opened his mouth to speak.
"I'm-"
Something fractured inside him as they locked eyes, and from the flare of her gaze, she felt it snap between them as well.
"I'm…" The words were a garbled mess in his throat, his nostrils flaring as he stumbled.
Astonishment and fear, real fear now, filtered through her voice. "You're my mate," she whispered.