Divided (Throne of Glass and A Court of Thorns and Roses Crossover)

Chapter 13

The Council had finally adjourned, and Rhysand and Feyre had winnowed back to the townhouse in Velaris. Feyre absentmindedly twisted Rhys' mother's ring around her finger and watched him study an ancient map. 

"Do you need something, Feyre?" he asked. He wasn't harsh, just curious. 

"No. Not really." It must have been the way that she said it because Rhys turned to look at her.

"Is this about Tamlin?" Feyre bit her lip and looked away. Although Tamlin had ultimately sided with them in the war against Hybern, the two of them had avoided talking about the High Lord of Spring as much as possible. It was still a sore spot for both of them, maybe it would always be. 

"Feyre, you can talk to me," Rhys said simply and turned back to the map, giving her time to sort out her thoughts.

A couple minutes later, Feyre replied, "It's not just Tamlin. It's... I feel like something is happening. Like stirring. It sounds dumb, I know, but I feel uneasy and restless. Something is going to happen soon."

Rhysand had gone still as she spoke. He folded up the map and shoved it in the drawer of the desk. Almost like walking wasn't fast enough for him, he winnowed onto the bed beside her. 

"What do you mean 'stirring'? Can you explain it any further?" Rhysand pulled her to him and tucked her head under his chin.

"I don't think so. It's just a feeling I have. I know this sounds strange, but sometimes when I'm just waking up or going to sleep or have been awake for a really long time, like when I'm on the edge of consciousness, I feel like something is watching me. It feels like a rustling of black wings. I know that it might be just because of you or me, for that matter, or even Azriel or Cassian, but I can't shake the feeling. The fluttering makes me restless for the entire day after," Feyre finished. 

Rhys was silent for a moment but managed, "How long have you felt like this?"

"I'm not really sure. A couple days, maybe a week. I didn't want to worry anyone because it was just a feeling, but it's been getting worse. More frequent. It's more than just the fluttering now. It feels like something has been let go or unleashed," Feyre said, and a shiver worked its way down her spine. 

Rhysand worked a hand down her back, rubbing away the tension and the shivers. 

"You're not alone, Feyre. I've felt restless too, and I've felt like this before. When power shifts within the world, other powerful beings can sense it. I sensed it when the High Lords Made you. I sensed it at the final battle. The thing that worries me is that I sensed something a couple days ago too."

"What? What do you mean? Do you think someone is trying to use the Cauldron again?" Feyre asked.

Rhysand furrowed his eyebrows, remembering, "No. It wasn't like that. It was like a small wave as if it were far off, and I was only sensing the refraction of it. Usually, you can trace where the wave starts, but this bit of magic was so small or far off that I couldn't tell where to even start. In fact, I forgot about it until you said something."

"What should we do, Rhys?"

"Well, in two days Cassian, Azriel, Tamlin, and Lucien are going to Hybern so we'll have more definite answers. I'm also going to write to Miryam and Drakon and ask how the Cauldron is faring. In the meantime," Rhys stopped and looked down at Feyre.

"In the meantime?" Feyre asked.

"I'm going to love my mate."

A loud banging roused Rhysand from sleep. One hand went for the dagger he kept beside the bed, the other groped for Feyre. Her side of the bed was cold, and without thinking, Rhys was up and out of the room.

The banging continued, and he probed out with his mind to Feyre. There was no response. She either had her mental blocks up, or she was no longer in Velaris. Rhys hoped for the former. He stalked down the hall toward the farthest room in house. It was the room that Feyre used to paint, where she put her collected art from the street vendors in Velaris. 

Another loud bang sounded from inside the room, and Rhys flung the door open. Dark blue paint covered the far wall, some of the canvases were broken and strewn across the room, and Feyre just sat there at her easel, painting away. She didn't look up at him as he entered the room or even when he stood beside her. 

She seemed calm until she wasn't. A strangled cry came from her mouth as she grabbed up the paint jar and threw it against the far wall. Red paint dripped down it like blood, and a small smile appeared on Feyre's face. 

Rhys gripped her arm and looked into her eyes. They didn't seem to see him. He shook her. He didn't know if she was in a trance or asleep, but she could't hear him or see him or feel him. For the first time in a very long time, Rhysand was scared.

Not knowing what else to do to reach her, Rhys bent her neck to the side and bit it, hoping that the intimacy or the pain would bring her back. 

A second later, "What the hell, Rhys? Did you have to bite me so damn hard?" Rhys let loose a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. 

"What happened, Feyre?"

"What do you...?" She stopped when she took in the state of the room. Broken glass at the bottom of the far wall. Red and blue paint dripping down it. Canvas upon canvas broken or ripped. 

It wasn't the paint or the broken canvases that drew Rhys' attention. It was the subjects of the paintings that scared him. A couple of the paintings were of a small silver mirror. The rest were of a dark-haired woman, blind, with a snarl plastered on her thin lips.

The Weaver.