Throne of Glass And ACOMAF One Shots

Pieces

Rhys leaned against of the door frame to Feyre's painting studio, watching her paint with each flick of her wrist and her face contort in concentration as she tilted her head at angles, her hand mixing colors that gave the painting it's dark, bleak tone slowly recognizing what the image was.

She was painting Under the Mountain.

He recognized the throne which was placed above the rest of the court before it, with a figure upon it with flaming hair done elegantly into a bun with a crown upon her head, her pose regal and proud yet centuries of wickedness lined her face with cold, cunning eyes that would watch it's victim suffer, with no empathy or remorse as she watched their life slowly ebb away.

Feyre stopped painting becoming aware of the presence behind her that had watched her paint a memory that had haunted her years ago. She was more aware of her shaking hand and heavy breathing that she turned to face Rhysand with tears streaming her face.

"I had to," she said looking him in the eyes. "Painting it makes it easier to deal with than keeping it in for so, so many years."

She collapsed to the floor, her body being wracked with sobs and her tears flowing out of her eyes profusely and Rhysand rushed to her, holding her in his arms being not saying anything while she wept. After a few moments she had calmed down taking deep breaths feeling the warmth of her mate and listening to the sound of his heart beat.

"I understand," he whispered while slowly rubbing circles on her back, "There were some days when it was too much and to be rid of the memories, I sparred with Cassian and Az or loose myself in a book of trivial information. Despite it happening so many years ago, it never really leaves you."

Feyre lifted her head to look at Rhysand, his eyes the color violet like the sky in Velaris during the short summer nights.

"Love, what happened then never made me weak. It broke me yes, but I had to pick up the pieces and make myself stronger, but I didn't do it alone. I had you, Mor, Az, Cassian and Amren to help me become stronger. You gave me something to fight for, a purpose that wasn't being a pretty bride," Feyre said smiling, her face lighting up as she spoke.

It was moments like these that Rhysand was truly grateful for his High Lady. She was strong, beautiful, confident in her own way and had earned her position among his court rightfully so. He was so proud to be her mate even in her darkest moments.

He looked up at the painting of Amarantha, and looked beside the painting where a canvas knife lay on a desk not too far. He reached out with his magic and caught the blade in his hand above Feyre's head.

She lifted her head off his chest to look at the knife above her only for him to hand her the knife. Her hand slowly curling around the handle slowly realizing why he had given her the knife, so she stood up and turned to the painting.

She plunged the knife into the canvas dragging the knife in a diagonal motion, and lifting it up and stabbing into the canvas again cutting it up even more that the painting was no more.

It certainly didn't remove the memory, but it sure as hell felt damn good knowing that this demon had been defeated.