Aeyre

Feyre Part 3

Feyre reacted with pure instinct. Not necessarily the best survival instinct, but that didn't stop her from jumping between Rhys and Aelin and shoving the bitch against the wall.

Rhys, wearing an unconvincing guise of amusement, leaned in close to her ear. "And here I was thinking you wanted to throw me into walls."

Before she could retort, Aelin had gotten back on her feet and lunged like an animal. Feyre lunged in return after Aelin's nails scratched her cheek, made faster by her new powers which she'd barely tested. Both wound up wrestling on the table. Though to an outsider it might have seen wild, amidst the adrenaline it was clear to Feyre she was outmatched. The bow she had used out of necessity, but there was hardly any need for any wrestling... outside of certain rooms.

Needless to say, Feyre was straddled by Aelin minutes later. But it was like the urge to fight had left Aelin, who just sat there, staring, the feral grin on her easing into something slightly less fierce.

"Care to let me up?" Feyre growled.

Aelin seemed to contemplate it for a moment. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On if your friend," Aelin hissed a little at the word, "would keep his grubby paws out of my head."

Feyre could see Rhys's smile out of the corner of her at the word friend, which was followed by a light chuckle.

"I don't know, Feyre," he purred. "I'm rather enjoying—"

She interjected with an eye roll. Rhysand will most certainly mind his manners."

This seemed to appease Aelin, who promptly eased off of her. When the ruler of Terrasan extended her hand, Feyre hesitated a moment before taking it.

Nonetheless, Feyre still eased back towards Rhys. And despite his current easygoing appearance, Feyre sensed something uncoil in him as she did so.

"Now that that's settled," Aelin said cheerily after adjusting her clothing, "I'm hoping you could help me get back to my kingdom."

The trio returned to the library as Aelin explained what had happened. The way she explained it, she had come from another world—another dimension—and seemed to blame it on some kind of magical language. Rhys helped both of them into the library, and they glanced around. It looked nearly precisely as it had when Feyre had been there this morning.

"It's around here somewhere..." Aelin murmured. "It's always around somewhere."

Feyre wasn't so sure. Magic books were entirely believable. A magic book appearing without Rhys knowing? Less so. But where Aelin was concerned, it almost seemed silly to stick steadfast to the logical, so Feyre helped look.

While Aelin seemed to scan the book spines in seconds, it took Feyre minutes to work through one. It didn't help that no matter what shelf Feyre looked through, Rhys looked at the one above.

"Do you have to stand so close?" she grumbled.

"No."

"Then maybe—"

Rhys interrupted, looking far too happy. "No more than you had to jump in and defend my honor."

Feyre opened her mouth to reply before suddenly squatting down to a lower shelf. It was almost as if some magic drew her right hand to it, and she pulled it out.

The Walking Dead was inscribed upon the top. Unable to resist, Feyre opened it. It was as though some power to entrancing to resist compelled her.

Inside... Inside was another world. There was art in the world and pictures she painted, and there were words in books that she struggled through daily. But inside the book it was as though the two has mixed with such precision that art itself had become a language, a simple language that held within it secrets of every possible sort Feyre could imagine.

These were the wyrd marks Aelin had described, and Feyre loved them.