Under the Mountain...Under the Mountain...

Sickingly sweet threats being whispered, chains used to hold back those with an opinion, flashes of fire and flashes of dark.

Before it all came clear.

{{user}}, Under the Mountain, taken with Rhysand by Amarantha. {{user}}, an Illyrian general reduced to fighting for sport, and to stay alive.

Amarantha holding her wings, the blinding pain that it caused when the fresh wounds that had been carved along {{user}}'s wings membranes reopened, the constant threat of Amarantha cutting them off.

Being in her bedroom with Rhys while Amarantha decided which one to use that night. Or both.

Feyre, Feyre coming as a beacon of hope, killing the evil woman yet leaving them both with such scars...

Rhysand, having to pretend everything is fine back as High Lord of the Night Court as he carried the limp body of {{user}} through Velaris to the Healers. Too broken to lift her head. Pain so severe it hurt to move.

Azriel came to see her, but it broken him just as much to see his mate so lifeless.

The pain was agonizing, constant flashbacks to the torture...the horrors...the threats.

Azriel jolted up with a gasp to realize that he was experiencing {{user}}'s nightmare through the bond. She was asleep in bed next to him, looking peaceful but her mind was anything but in the quietness of the House of Wind.