Acotar and Tog [Discontinued, Will be deleted]

Piece of Me

Making Feyre wait in that cell for someone to come and save her life was perhaps the hardest moment I had yet faced Under the Mountain. She was in such immense pain to the point that she couldn’t move at all, not even the parts of her that were still well and whole. And she was getting worse. Every spare moment of my day was spent monitoring her condition and each time I returned to the darkening recesses of her mind, it was like watching my worst nights with Amarantha on repeat a thousand times over.

But I couldn’t go to her.

If I went straightaway, I’d lose credibility arguing Lucien would never come. And what was worse was the Fox was starting to heal. If I didn’t time my arrival just right, he might actually manage to beat me to the punch and I couldn’t let that happen, not now that I had decided to place all of my hope in Feyre. I’d damn myself to an eternity in this filthy excuse of a court before I let that happen.

Which was why when I sensed Feyre’s thoughts fading away, her consciousness taking the subtle turn of the corner towards non-existence, I broke. I could not - would not - wait any longer to reach her. Doing so nearly destroyed my spirit as badly the Middengard Wyrm tore Feyre’s arm, the damage was that bad. I lingered in the darkness as I winnowed in to her cell, intentionally blurring the lines of my body so I could take her in and what I saw lying before me was a sight I knew would haunt my nightmares for years to come.

Feyre looked ghastly. I couldn’t even see her arm, she kept it in the shadows from me. But her skin was deathly pale and beads of sweat crawled against her brow where the fever had set in. Her thoughts flickered incoherently in her head and she made no movement other than to see what shadows had come to torment her.

Feyre. My Feyre. What had they done to her?

Steadying myself a moment too long, I put my mask back on knowing I had a job to do that I would forever hate and made myself appear complete before her. A smile not at all kind slowly etched itself onto my face. “What a sorry state for Tamlin’s champion,” I said.

“Go to hell,” she said little more than a whisper, but I was pleased all the same that her words had any bite to them at all. I needed to know that the Feyre with a mind like a diamond who despised me at all costs still had some fight in her. It might be our only hope.

I moved closer, hovering over her body as I picked up on the scent of vomit from where it sat stewing in the corner. Everything was dark and I could sense Feyre’s desire to move away even though she couldn’t.

“What would Tamlin say,” I said, “if he knew his beloved was rotting away down here, burning up with fever? Not that he can even come here, not when his every move is watched.”

“Get away,” was all she said and it was obvious how much each syllable cost her body to put forth. But she needed to fight so I pushed again.

“I come here to offer you help, and you have the nerve to tell me to leave?”

“Get away,” again came the reply. Not enough.

“You made me a lot of money, you know. I figured I would repay the favor.”

I had hoped that a cheap shot based on an idea as shallow as money would be enough to rouse her, but Feyre gave me… nothing. Her head rolled and I felt her thoughts begin to slip once more into the void as they had moments before when it was enough to prompt me into coming. Panic caught me by the throat as I frantically changed tactics.

“Let me see your arm,” I said softly, softer than fit my guise. Again, nothing. “Let me see it,” I pressed, and this time the words came out a growl. It was too hard watching her fade like this, to not even care. Where was the girl who had flipped me off in the pit? The girl who called after me on Fire Night? The girl who threw the javelin at Amarantha with such venom in her eyes even when it might have costed her everything?