Answered Dreams (ACOTAR | ACOMAF | ACOWAR)

Chapter ☆ Thirty-One

As soon as they were out of the house, Rhys and Azriel took to the skies. Once they were at coasting high above Velaris, Azriel divulged more details pertaining to the situation at hand. They were on their way to one of the Illyrian war camps in the mountains to ready their troops, secure their army for the next attack, which was an inevitability. Azriel said he'd already told the others. Cassian would meet them there and Mor would go to stay with Feyre and do what she could from Velaris. He'd known Rhys wouldn't delegate his responsibilities just so he could stay with Feyre. Az had known Rhys would be at the front lines with them, fighting to keep their home safe. To keep their people safe. But Rhysand's mind wandered to Feyre for a moment as they cleared the mountains on the far side of the Sidra. Her look of panic as he'd rushed out on her without so much as a backward glance as he rushed from the house. He wished he could have stayed longer, explained what was happening. But there hadn't been the time... and without another thought of home, they flew.

Mor had arrived by the time Feyre finished getting dressed, and when asked about the situation with Hybern, she was merely informed her that they would do better for Rhys here than anywhere else. Accepting it for what it was, Feyre invited Mor to join her in the city, and Rhys' Third happily agreed. They walked the streets together for a good part of the day, exploring the shops and wares that were open in the Markets, stopping for a bite to eat here and there, and as they walked past that damned lingerie store, Feyre finally divulged what had happened - or most of it - once they had left Rita's. Mor's laugh echoed over the City, and Feyre's face heated as she considered throwing her into the Sidra. But at the end, Feyre was grateful for the company, and knew she would be for as long as Rhys needed to be away.

It would have taken hours to arrive at the camp by flight transportation alone, so Rhys and Az winnowed in and hit the ground running. Cassian was already waiting. The general incarnate. There was nothing of his usual over the top cockiness or the grin that usually made Feyre want to smack him up alongside the head. He was all solemnness, the turning cogs in his mind visible on his face. They met in the larger of the cabins with all the war chiefs and generals to discuss a plan. The spent most of the night going over strategies, standing around a large table where a giant map had been placed. Small pieces of carved wood representing advancing armies on both sides, where their known encampments were, the best way to strike, the best places to defend... How thinly they'd have to stretch their resources to cover their asses and make a move on Hybern, simultaneously. They continued discussing as first light broke the next day.

And the days passed. Feyre didn't dare try to send Rhys any notes, and the information Mor provided was few and far between other than letting her know that Rhys was fine. How she knew for certain, Feyre would just have to trust her. One day, while Mor was pulled away to tend to matters of a political nature for the City, Feyre found herself wandering towards the Rainbow. Slight curve on her lips and a flicker in her core allowed her a slight memory of their night in that alley, and she was suddenly missing her High Lord very, very much. Shaking the thoughts away, she wandered into one of the local galleries, just wanting to allow her mind to wander as the pictures and the colors took her away. She considered painting in the gardens while Rhys was away, but found she was unable to focus on anything other than the nagging at the back of her artist's mind about whether or not he was alright. When he returned home, she promised herself, she'd make him cash in on that promise to paint him.

Rhys did his damnedest not to think of Feyre during his time in the Illyrian camp. It was all he could do to keep his focus on the matters at hand. But he succeeded. And the days passed. They were recruiting more and more warriors. And, with Devlon's begrudging cooperation, they began training the females. The females who wanted to join their brothers in arms, that is.

Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel flew from camp to camp to camp, assembling their armies, strategizing with the patriarchy of the particular camp. Rhys spent at least two days at each camp, trying to build moral and make sure his warriors were as prepared as they could be. He and Cassian and Az were always on the move. Sometimes flying, sometimes in the sparring ring with trainees. Teaching them techniques they would see on the battle field. How to counter, when to advance, when to deflect. It was like chess, Rhys explained. You always had to be able to see a few moves in advance and prepare yourself as best you could for your opponent's next move. Protect yourself against it. Find their weak spot and exploit it. Because on the battlefield, it was kill or be killed. Either you held the line or you let it fall. They seemed to understand, but all Rhys could hope was that they'd remember those things when it really counted.

Every few days, Rhys received letters from Mor. Updates on Velaris, Feyre, and the political games she was playing in his stead. He usually didn't have time to even scribble a thank you for her keeping him up to date on what was happening. But that was what was demanded of him.

About three weeks after Rhys left, Feyre became ill. It hit her like an unending wave of nausea when she woke up that morning and barely receded. Perhaps the soup she ate the night before had gone bad before she'd eaten, she wondered as she rested her head against the cool bowl of the toilet. She finally emerged from the bathing room as Mor arrived, and one looked from her confirmed that Feyre looked as bad as she felt, and she informed Mor she wasn't in much of a mood for doing much anything that day, excusing herself as she went back to lay down in bed. And the next day, and the next, she felt like it was a repeat conversation as Mor came in to check on her every morning. Perhaps she caught a stomach illness that was lingering. She'd think about seeing a healer if she didn't feel better in a week, she decided as lay back in bed, closing her eyes and letting the weariness take her over.

All the pieces had been moved into place within the first few weeks. The only meetings Rhys had to go to now were pertaining to the movement of the enemy, questions of where to dispatch what group of their own army to deal with them before they came too close. They sent out scouts daily. Sometimes, they didn't come back. Rhys felt their loss like a physical blow. Their blood was on his hands. But their deaths gave them invaluable information. They hadn't been for naught. And on more than one occasion, they caught their enemy unawares because of such a slip up.

After about three weeks, though, Rhys started getting more frequent letters from Mor. She was insistently adamant that Rhys come home. When he could get away. And after the first few days that Rhys hadn't returned home, Mor's letters still hadn't decreased in their numbers, or their less than subtle urgency. Rhys was in the middle of a sparring match when he received another letter, distracting him long enough to get him knocked him on his ass. Grudgingly, he praised the foot soldier for catching him off guard, praising him for the swiftness of the strike to the side to distract that a swift kick behind the knee to take down before holding him at sword point.

After that, Rhys stalked back to the cabin he was staying in with Az and Cassian, telling them he was going home. That they were to continue their work.

They didn't argue.