#IT WAS TAMLIN THAT KILLED AMARANTHA NOT YOU AND RHYSAND SO HOW FUCKING DARE YOU SAY WE

[thefatesofspring]

For the longest I’ve been saying that Feyre was having an emotional affair with Rhysand from ACOMAF & she does what a typical cheater does when they stay with the person they don’t want to be with & cause issues for no reason & cause the person they don’t want to be with to be reactive from their/her antagonism (minus Tamlin not listening to Feyre saying she was drowning) & in ACOFAS Feyre literally confirms that she wanted Rhysand from ACOTAR!!! From when he was abusing her UTM!!!

OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!!!!!!!!

But at the same time you can tell Sarah Janet Maas retconned the fuck out of the series because the curse would not have been broken if she was wanting Rhysand whilst claiming to love Tamlin.

I can only imagine how Tamlin would feel if he ever heard that Feyre never really loved him🥺

Not only that but imagine him hearing that Feyre is taking the credit for killing Amarantha & also trying to give Rhysand the credit too🤮🥴🤢

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

In Love and War (6)

Author's Note: This came out angstyyyyyyyyyy, I'm sorry idk what happened. It's gotta get worse before it gets better, I guess.

Content Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Azriel using Truth-Teller, Mentions of Abuse/Death

Chapter 5/ Masterlist

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I can’t breathe. The walls of the tent close in, the dark leather pressing in closer and closer. If the ground were to open up and swallow me right now, I wouldn’t even have the presence of mind to scream. The fall would be a welcome reprieve from the roaring of my heart in my own ears.

What does he mean our fathers killed each other?  

It’s wrong. He’s wrong! He’s lying. He has to be lying!

I roll over so I can face him, so close on this small mat that our noses brush. His violet eyes glow in the darkness of the tent. “What do you mean?” The panic that edges my voice makes me sound shrill, even in my own ears.

I don’t want him to answer, but I desperately need him to tell me everything all at once. The wine threatens to come back up in a rush as his hand skims up my side to cup my cheek, “Tamlin didn’t tell you?”

How dare him touch me while we have this conversation; what is so broken and wrong inside of me that I let him? I know that I am shaking in his grip and when he starts rubbing calming circles into my cheek with his thumb I lean into that touch like it might give me one last life line to cling to.

“He said you killed my father.”

He stills, wings fluttering; I feel it pass through him like its own little draft, skittering across his wings. A dark mist follows, seeping from his skin. 

I know we’re not supposed to be talking about this, but the words are already out, whether from the wine or by the sheer desperation I feel crawling beneath my skin. I need to know! I need to know that everything I had believed was true. That all that I was doing this for was not based on a lie. 

He brushes his nose over mine, lips ghosting over my forehead. “When I see what they have done to you, I wish I had killed them both.”

My stomach twists. No. No. This can’t be happening!

“But no, it was my father, in retribution for what they had done.”

But I saw him holding the sword! I saw him leave the tent! I never saw his father’s body and Tamlin had always said he arrived too late to save any of them, that all he could do was fend Rhys off to keep him from slaughtering what was left of us. 

The confusion must be evident on my face, because he asks, “You really don’t know, do you?”

It’s more than a little patronizing but I don’t even have the energy to be angry about it, because my whole life is a lie! I’ve spent decades hating him. I just offered up my body and possibly my future to destroy him for nothing? For something his father, who’s long dead, did?

“Maybe we should talk about this in the morning,” he suggests and it’s definitely because I’m crying now and not because he’s trying to avoid it. 

My throat feels like it;s closing. “No!” And it’s then that I feel the faintest prick of fangs growing behind my lips. “Please just tell me.”

His thumb soothes over my cheek again, like he can feel the sudden shift in my being. I don’t know where that rush of power comes from. Maybe it is some sort of effect of being so close to him while he repairs the wards. 

“Rhys!” It’s always Azriel that interrupts us somehow, the shadowy male hurtling into the tent with that wicked looking dagger in hand. “We’ve got movement in the hills.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Now? Of all the Cauldron damned times for Amarantha to show herself, it has to be right now?!

Rhysand is on his feet in an instant, reaching for my discarded chest piece and ushering me into it, our conversation forgotten. “How many?”

I wish I could say I possess his ability to compartmentalize tasks, but despite the worst possible danger knocking on our unguarded and unwarded doors, all I can think about is how desperately we need to finish this conversation. 

“Five, a scout and four chargers. I’ve got Nox and Avos on their trail, but I don’t see any marks yet.” Azriel continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

Rhysand slings my quiver and bow over my shoulders again, checking all the straps to ensure they’re in place. He’d never taken his own armor off, only the belt for his sword, he uses a tendril of shadowy darkness to strap it into place while he finishes with me. “Stay with her.”

Azriel eyes me like I’m a pile of shit he accidentally stepped in, but I’m too busy trying to wipe my eyes on my sleeves to care. “You might need me out there,” he protests.

“Might,” Rhysand counters, stalking out of the tent in search of his horse. “But I definitely need you here more.” He grabs the reins on his horse, the mount still saddled, just in case we’d needed to leave in a hurry. Dinner threatens to come back up as I watch him slide into his cloak. I’ve spent my life hating that triple star pattern that will sit over his eyes, cursing his existence, wishing him every pain and misery imaginable for ruining my life and it wasn’t even his fault?

The ground is unsteady beneath my feet, I feel myself stumble and sway and I can’t tell if it’s the wine or the reality of the situation that makes my legs feel like jelly. 

I want to go home! I want this to be a bad dream. 

For a moment, I think he might simply toss the cowl over his head and mount up, leaving me to sit here in the misery of our half finished conversation, but he comes back a moment later, hand sliding into my hair as he tilts my head back and kisses me swiftly.

He should taste as bitter as the wine we’d shared. I should feel nothing but misery when he slips his tongue behind my teeth, but when he has me like this, nothing else matters. There doesn’t have to be anything between us. I do not feel like some broken, wretched thing.

“Don’t leave Azriel’s side,” he says as he pulls away. “We’ll finish our conversation when I return, I promise.” Then he mounts up, calling for half of the men as he goes. The thundering sound of the horses hooves as they race down into the grassy hills beneath us makes it feel like we’re standing in the center of an earthquake.

There’s enough moonlight to watch them go, their mounts and flowing capes in the wind making them appear like wraiths racing towards the enemy. 

With half of the men gone, and two scouting, that leaves Azriel and four other men to guard camp. None of them look too happy about it, least of all Azriel, who keeps watching me out of the corner of his eye like he thinks I might disappear at a moment’s notice. I remain next to him, anxiously shifting my weight from foot to foot, hoping the chill on the wind might wake my dull senses up.

Shadows drift off Azriel’s shoulders, but unlike Rhysand’s that always stay curled around his body, Azriel’s drift off like inky tendrils, testing the wind around him. Some slither along the ground like snakes, searching through patches of grass for an unwanted scent, others drift away, testing the wind for him. One remains perched over his ear, and I hear the faint sound of whispering like the shadows are reporting what they find. 

We can no longer see the others, and I spin slowly around in a circle, taking stock of my surroundings. We’re a little higher than the base of the mountain, perched on a cleft in the rock for a better vantage point. The ward remains behind us, I think, without the trail of Rhysand’s magic, I still can’t see or feel this one. To the left and right, the rocky base of the mountain is dotted with ancient trees, some thicker than a house, but the coming winter has stolen their leaves, no vantage point for archers to be had there without being sitting ducks. Beneath us, the rolling hills of grass stretch far out of sight. If Amarantha brought an army behind those first five riders, she’s hidden it well. Still, the thought makes a chill run up my spine and I keep a hand around the hilt of my dagger, just in case.

Azriel does nothing to quell my nerves, just stands there, still as a statue, listening to his shadows, eyes glued to the horizon. I can’t help but wonder if his shadows show him things as much as they tell him. Can he see Rhysand right now?

My stomach twists at the thought. I can’t see him. I can’t hear if he’s ok. There’s nothing in my arsenal to tell me that he’s coming back. And Cauldron boil me, I want him to come back. If he dies without finishing our conversation, I might never learn what happened. Whether it’s the truth or not is yet to be seen, but Tamlin’s account and his account are different, and I will be damned if I don’t get some answers from someone. 

The hand not holding my dagger reaches up to rub at the scar above my ear, hidden under my hair. Tam and I had been fighting that day, he’d been on edge about something and when I’d pushed too hard he’d shoved me right into the corner of a table. I’d been in the healer’s tent getting stitches; all these years I’d thought it was the Mother looking out for me, that little accident might have just saved my life. But looking at it now, I can’t help but wonder if it kept me from seeing the truth. 

I shift my weight again and Azriel’s gaze flicks back to me once more, irritated, like I’m somehow distracting him. 

“Sorry,” I mutter, locking my knees.

I can stand still, it’s fine. I force myself to focus on my breathing, but in the silence there’s one nagging thought that eats at me: Do I really believe Rhysand is telling the truth? I take him to bed one time, accept a couple gifts from him, and what? Believe everything he says as truth? Are claims of a mating bond really enough to make me believe he’d be open and honest with me? A mating bond certainly hadn’t saved my mother.

I close my eyes at the thought of her, chest aching. Did I believe Rhysand was right about that too? That my father had used her powers to try and breed powerful sons, not because he’d loved her? I’d certainly never seen my parents be affectionate towards each other, not even in the way Rhysand was with me. They’d never held hands, never ridden out together. He’d kept her clothed and fed, sure, and entertained her obsession with fairytales when it suited him. My mother told me, on one of her days of clarity, that he’d carved her rocking chair for her when he’d found out she was pregnant with Tam. But I never saw him be warm with her. I’m not even sure I ever saw them kiss, even on the cheek. But a lack of affection in public didn’t mean he cared so little about her he let her, supposed, powers drive her insane, did it?

“A scout’s coming back,” Azriel says, breaking me out of my thoughts. 

My eyes snap open as the rider crests the hillside and comes into view. Illyrian mounts really are beautiful, all sleek muscle and rippling midnight black manes. Together they make a lot of noise, but alone, they’re pretty damn quiet until their hooves hit rock.

Azriel motions me to follow him as he goes to the edge of the cleft in the rocks and waits as the scout approaches. “Well?”

“Not Amarantha,” the scout says and I let out a breath of relief. 

“Who the fuck would come out here then?” Someone behind me challenges. 

“Spring,” the scout says and all the blood drains from my face.

Azriel glances at me, but there’s pity in his hazel gaze this time. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. Not now, I’m not ready to see them yet! 

“What do they want?” I’m having a hard time processing that Tam would waste resources looking for me, especially when we’ve barely had horses to spare to move camp, let alone ride all the way out here.

“Proof you’re alive,” the scout says, holding out his hand.

It’s Azriel that smacks his hand away. “She only rides with me or Rhys.”

The mount shifts beneath the scout, his hood falling even lower down his face. Something feels off about it and I glance at Azriel for confirmation I’m not alone. He nods at me as he steps closer, hand on the small of my back as he leads me to where his own mount chews on a dying patch of grass. 

“Be ready,” he says in my ear.

The scout fidgets in his seat like he’s not used to riding in one and it’s that more than anything that has Azriel’s shadows flying off his shoulders to grab the rider by the wrist and yank him out of the saddle. He slams into the ground with a scream, the sound of bones crunching against rock so loud I wince as Azriel hoists me up into his saddle. 

I grab the reins to keep the horse steady, trying desperately to remember where Rhysand had held his hands when I rode with him. 

Azriel stalks over to the male, wings flaring as he knocks the back of the hood back with the tip of his dagger. Even in the moonlight, I know what swatch of dark hair and golden eyes. One of Tamlin’s Wolves, Andras. Of course he wouldn’t know how to ride, we’d survived a lot of skirmishes over the years because Tam had used his shapeshifting powers to change the men into beasts to fight. 

Azriel crouches in front of him as Andras grips his clearly broken shoulder. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Andras’ gaze flicks to me first. Thankfully, Azriel’s horse is a lot more patient than the others and my own nervous energy hasn’t caused it to run off. If anything, I think the animal cares less about my presence than its usual rider, because it goes back to eating.

“Your whore of a warlord-” that’s as far as Andras gets before Azriel slams the hilt of his dagger into the other male’s throat.

“Start like that again and I’ll make sure you never use that shoulder,” Azriel threatens with so much venom, I shiver. 

Andras coughs, good hand reaching for his throat and Azriel slams the blade clean through his forearm, pinning him in place.

I look away as Andras screams. He is not my friend, I can do nothing. I have always done nothing. The males have their fights and their quarrels and I have always stood on the sidelines waiting for the violence to pass like a good girl. 

“Ok! Ok!” Andras rasps. “I had orders to get into the camp and get Y/N, that’s it!”

But wasn’t being tired of standing on the sidelines that prompted me to stay here in the first place? Wasn’t I trying to make things better for my people? How was sitting here helping them?

“What about the others?” Azriel questions. 

“I don’t know! Lucien was supposed to handle that.” Andras replies through gritted teeth.

Do I even want to help them? If Rhysand was telling the truth, whose side am I even on? My head hurts from the questions, my stomach still churning end over end. I don’t know what to do.

“Where’s Tamlin?” Azriel asks as he rips the dagger out. 

Andras screams, the sound echoing off the rocks. “There’s only five of us! Tamlin never left camp.”

Of course he would send Lucien and not risk coming out here himself. That would put him face to face with Rhysand and he’d lose. And looking at it now, I realize that he knows it. He’s always known it. I rub a hand over the scar on my hand. Did he know about the bond too? Had that been why he was always so sure that I knew Rhysand was the enemy?

Azriel raises the dagger to make another cut and Andras screams, “I swear I’m telling the truth!”

“Azriel,” my voice is steadier than I feel and all eyes suddenly turn to me. I need to get answers. I need to do something. “Take me out there please.” 

“No.”

I tighten my grip on the reins. I’ll go out there myself if I have to. “If it’s Lucien, then it’s not a fight they’re having. Let me diffuse this.” I’m not sure I mean those words; I’m not sure I have the power to do anything but watch horror after horror unfold around me, but I know that I have to try. I have to attempt to put my life back together. I have to find some bit of order or I’ll go insane. Besides, this is Lucien we’re talking about! Surely he could see reason, right?

Andras is looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. 

“Tie him up,” Azriel says to one of the others as he stands and wipes his blade on a cloth that hangs from his belt. “I’m not done with him.”

“But I don’t know anything!” Andras protests as two men haul him to his feet, wrenching his broken shoulder in the process. Blood drips from his forearm, down his fingers. Regardless of the confusion I feel swirling around inside me, he’s still a part of my people. Lucien is still family. If I can keep any more bloodshed from happening between our two people I will. 

“I can work this out. Not everything has to be a bloodbath.”

Azriel swings himself into the saddle behind me and steals the reins. “If I so much as hear an arrow being fired, we’re turning back around.” He snarls.

“Fine,” I concede, because at least it meant I tried. 

“Rhys is gonna kill me for this.”

----

I’m not convinced Azriel’s horse isn’t a wraith. It’s almost completely silent, save for the softest hint of breathing imaginable. When it breathes, little wisps of shadows escape out its nose. I wish I had time to ask him about it, but there’s none, not as we race over the hills, fast as the wind. 

No arrows rise up to meet us, so at least I’ve been, so far, correct about Lucien not leading an ambush. Their scout must have taken down one of Rhysand’s and stolen his mount and cloak to look presentable. At least, I tell myself it was just that and not that Lucien ordered a man killed to try and get to me. Lucien, who would sneak me snacks and who secretly taught me how to fish; Lucien who used to braid my hair for me while we sat on the creek bed, making jokes. Lucien who had always been a spot of sunlight in my world, who looked after me like a brother, and promised to scare away any suitors who made me uncomfortable. Lucien was a good male; the best of us, even, the thought that he might be capable of such violence makes me nauseous. I have had too many life changing questions hurled my way tonight, I cannot bear another one, especially not about him.

We crest a particularly large hill and finally get a glimpse of the Illyrian riders. They’re not fighting. In fact, they’re just standing there, in formation behind Rhysand’s horse. The warlord himself stands in front of it, shrouded in that heavy cloak, facing off against Lucien and his three dismounted riders. They’re all armed, but no one is actively fighting each other, I take that as a good sign.

Though Lucien doesn’t look particularly pleased to see me riding with Azriel, nothing but unbridled horror crossing his scarred face as we approach. 

When we get to the bottom of the hill, I jump off the horse, much to Azriel’s dismay. 

Lucien takes a step towards me, but growling, Rhysand steps in front of him. “Touch her and you’re dead, Vanserra.”

The men move to let me pass through and I focus all my energy on breathing evenly as I walk towards them. Does Lucien know? Did he hide this from me too? Or was he just as blind as I was?

“Y/N, are you all right?” Lucien asks, his metal eye whirring as he looks me over. 

My chest feels like it’s gonna rip right down the middle and spill my heart right out onto the floor. I don’t know who to believe. I don’t know who I want to believe. This is Lucien we’re talking about, he would never willingly hurt me. He comforted me when my entire world fell apart, he helped Tam and I bury them. I want so desperately for all these onlookers to leave, so it’s just the three of us and the truth, but the way they all stand there, armed and ready tells me that’s not happening. There hasn’t already been bloodshed here, because Lucien was waiting for Andras to give him some sort of signal that it wasn’t necessary. Because he was expecting to be able to just kidnap me.

Why do all these males constantly treat me like I’m just an object to be snatched up on their whims?

Rhysand’s hooded head is angled in my direction, watching my approach through the stars in his cowl. I don’t like that I can’t see his eyes. He doesn’t look like the Rhysand who’d just been holding me. He looks like the male I remember from my nightmares.

And Lucien looks like someone I don’t recognize at all.

How am I supposed to make sense out of any of this? Seeing them doesn’t make it easier. 

The Illyrians shift behind me, horses snuffing in agitation, kicking up loose strands of grass. I feel their unease as easily as I can see it in the males behind Lucien. Maybe this isn’t the time for answers, maybe all I can do right now is keep them from killing each other. Regardless of who’s right here, I don’t want to see either males hurt.

“I’m fine,” I lie as I come to a stop at Rhysand’s side. His gloved fingers brush mine like he might take my hand, but he doesn’t. 

Lucien stares back and forth between us. “I wouldn’t call being kidnapped fine.”

Rhys growls again, the sound skittering over my spine, “But you’d call letting her starve to death on a solo hunt fine?”

Lucien’s mouth pulls back in a grimace. “Tam made a mistake, he admits it-”

“He admits it?” His wings shake behind him, darkness drifting in waves from beneath them until it shrouds him more than the cloak. There’s so much of it Lucien retreats a step. “How brave of him to admit he fucked up and yet he still let it go on this long before someone came looking.”

Lucien keeps his gaze on me. “It won’t happen again. We’ve talked about it. Trust me, next time-”

“There is no next time,” Rhysand snarls. “She’s not going back with you!”

Lucien’s hand falls to his sword hilt, but his gaze remains on me. “Let her come home. Let this be settled and done. Tamlin sent money-”

A whip made of starlight appears in Rhysand’s hand, knocking the bag of coins Lucien pulls off his belt from his hand and scattering it across the grass. All of the men with Lucien draw their swords, even as the redhead tightly grips his own. Rhysand can easily kill him here and he will if Lucien keeps talking. I need to diffuse this, I need them all to leave each other alone. I’m not done here, and even if Lucien won’t understand it, I can’t bear to see him get hurt.

“He’s my mate,” I say and the words taste like a betrayal.

Lucien’s face twists in a mixture of horror and disgust.

“No one is keeping me here against my will.” Well, mostly. It’s not like I’ve put that to the test, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“That can’t be true,” it comes out like a whisper, as if he doesn’t want to believe it. I suppose, if our places were switched, I wouldn’t want to either. “You did something to her.”

Rhysand huffs, “I didn’t and I wouldn’t.”

“Like you didn’t slaughter thousands for Amarantha?” Lucien snarls.

Rhysand freezes, still as death beside me.

Azriel, silent in the grass, has come up behind me, his presence a steadying energy amidst the chaos I feel swirling around us. What does he mean he killed for Amarantha? Isn’t he trying to kill her?

“That’s enough,” Azriel hisses. “The lady told you she doesn’t want to go back with you. Respect that and go.”

Lucien doesn’t move. “He didn’t tell you that, did he, Y/N?”

“Leave!” Azriel snarls.

“I’m sure he didn’t tell you how he whored himself out to her either. Why do you think the Illyrians have so much land?”

Azriel steps around me, shadows swirling, dagger in hand, but it’s Rhysand, who’s now almost wholly surrounded by a dark mist, that puts out a hand to stop him. “Everything I did, I did for my people,” he says in a voice that’s so low I almost can’t hear it over the wind. “Everything Tamlin is doing now is for himself.”

“How noble,” Lucien snarls. “If your intentions are so pure, let her go.”

Rhysand turns to look at me, pushing the cowl off his head so I can see his face. The moonlight doesn’t hide the shadows under his eyes, or the weight I see crushing down on his shoulders. It’s impossible to miss the way his wings droop behind him. My chest aches at the sight of him, something clawing in desperation beneath my skin begging me to find a way to take that burden from him. 

“Do you want to go back with him?” He asks.

I don’t know if what he’s said tonight is true or a lie, but I know here and now that if I said yes he’d let me walk away. No strings attached, if I took Lucien’s hand and got on that horse, he wouldn’t fight me.

I don’t know what I want any more. I don’t know who I am anymore. Everything I have built my life on feels like it's crumbling beneath my feet. And everyone is just standing there watching it happen. 

No one has ever offered me a choice like this before. My whole life I have been told where to go and who to be and given one taste of freedom I had still followed exactly what was expected of me, hoping that it would finally make me feel at peace. But I haven’t felt a moment of peace in all of it, except when I was in Rhysand’s arms. It’s impossible that he of all people could make me feel like that. It shouldn’t be this way. 

And Lucien, who I always considered another brother, who shared food at my table and always made me feel like I wasn’t a waste of space, was now someone I didn’t recognize. There is no sign of Rhysand’s missing rider among them. I don’t know if he’s dead or not, probably, judging by the way Lucien keeps looking at Rhys like he’s an animal. 

It’s a startling sight, not because I would have looked at him like that myself a couple days ago, but because that’s how Tam always looked at me. Like I was some thing that was so inherently wrong; some creature that needed to be tamed and bridled. Those pointed tips of the fangs I felt try to make an appearance earlier have come back, poking into my lower lip. I feel something shifting beneath my skin, a beast awakening from some deep slumber. My hands open and close reflexively at my side. The stirring feeling is strongest in my chest, right where I sometimes feel that weird pressure that’s somehow tied to Rhys.

“No, I don’t want to go back with him,” the words are steadier than I feel, my chin raised. I do not cower from them, or the fact that I mean them. Even though Lucien looks like I’ve punched him in the gut. I can’t go back. Not until I have the truth. Not until I can make sense of all this mess I feel in my head and in my heart. 

“Tamlin won’t take me back anyway,” I pull the gaps in the arms of my sweater down, so he can see the stars inked across my skin. “Nor do I feel like being tossed out again.”

“Y/N…” Lucien shakes his head, auburn hair flying around his tan face. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Rhysand won’t stop staring at me. I think he’s waiting for me to change my mind. 

“Please leave, Lucien,” I say, only looking at Rhys. I’m a terrible person, because there is so much unbridled hope in his eyes, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, waiting for me to take my chance and run; I’d been playing games this whole time, he hadn’t.

He hadn’t been playing games. 

I’d used him, taken what I needed, and had planned to throw him out when I was done. Even if he had killed me father, I was still… I was still just like my own father. The realization nearly knocks me off my feet. What have I done?

“This isn’t the end of this,” Lucien hisses as he backs up, never leaving himself exposed, even as he reaches for his mount. The horse is old, it’s mane patchy and unkept, I’m not sure how it carried Lucien here, let alone how he expected it to carry the both of us. “Tamlin will consider this a breach of your agreement.”

“We agreed not to kill each other,” Rhysand returns. “If he comes at me now, then he’s the one that broke that agreement, not me.” 

Lucien swings into the saddle with ease, mount shifting slightly beneath him. “What of my scout?”

“What of mine?” Azriel returns.

“Food for the vultures,” Lucien snarls and my heart sinks even further. What if I’ve been wrong about everybody, not just Rhys?

“Then so is yours,” Azriel returns.

Lucien leaves with the remainder of his men, no further fight for Andras life to be had. Rhysand watches them go, wings still drooped behind them like they are impossibly heavy. I should try and comfort him, as that thing in my chest demands, but I can’t. My limbs refuse to move, feet rooted in the grass. What have I done? Where did I go wrong in all of this? I was just trying to do what I thought was right, but I’m not sure I know what that looks like anymore.

“Are you all right?” Rhysand asks once they’re gone. On instinct, he’s throwing his cloak around my shoulders again, cocooning me in that blissful pocket of warmth that smells like him. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of his kindness. 

“I don’t know,” the words slip out of me. I can’t think past the roaring in my ears. What have I done?

His hand falls to my back, gently leading me back to his horse. 

“For the record-” Azriel starts, but Rhysand cuts him off, “I know, Az. Thank you for staying with her.”

I think, even as we mount back up to return to camp, we would have all been better off tonight if this had been a fight with Amarantha.

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[nikalaeva]

ACOTAR Villains, Part 1

Continuing the series of posts "SJM and her poor imagination" (sorry, can't see the bottom of this pit yet).

Today I am writing about Amarantha. Of all the things she did, the only understandable thing was her hatred for Jurian and Feyre, but obsession with Tamlin and violence against Rhysand - there is no basis for this. "Well, she's just a crazy sadist" - no, it doesn't work like that. Either Amarantha has fae schizophrenia or BD, but then her thinking and behavior should match to the symptoms of a decompensated disease. Or she is sane, but then there must be a cause-and-effect relationship. Like, with Jurian: the dude killed her sister - he deserved hell, for Amarantha this is justified. And Feyre is a human, lower wretched thing.

Tamlin

Her obsessing love doesn't stand up to any criticism, so readers seriously speculate they were mates. Btw, this is a feature of ACOTAR - four thick books have so little information that it gives a huge space to many theories with which readers, consciously or not, fill in the gaps.

Okay, let's say Amarantha really was struck by the curse called "love". A cruel, cold-blooded villainess unrequitedly loved a man, and chose the path not of redemption. Why Tamlin? It could be anything: Amarantha was a fan of fae selection ("I'm strong, you're strong, our children will be three times stronger") or she saw him as the only one worthy of her precious cunt (I know, then the whole point of fucking Rhysand would be lost).

I'd rather show the power of fairy deals: for example, Tamlin and Amarantha's fathers made a deal for them to marry, Amarantha was okay with it, but Tamlin didn't, so when the time came, Amarantha developed an irresistible obsession, Tamlin started losing physical and magic power, and these consequences led to the fall of Prythian.

But even that's not necessary - it's enough to write that Amarantha (like all fairies) values ​​promises very much, and she was offended that Tamlin killed his father, so she decided to punish him. The politics, personal principles, fairy culture - just one idea enriches the narrative (if your head isn't full of bit-dicks).

Rhysand

Again: I liked ACOTAR Rhysand and admit his SA, my only criticism is how SJM wrote the aftermath of such trauma in a disgusting way.

So, I don't get why Amarantha did this. Was she compensating for her feelings for Tamlin? Rhysand is the complete opposite of Tamlin, that makes no fucking sense. Testing how far Rhysand will go to prove that he's her ally? Amarantha is a general, and I can't believe that instead of offering Rhysand chance to gut the HL's families or bring his friends, she chose to... fuck him? Gosh, it's pathetic. Did she want to humiliate Rhysand, break him? Like, in the patriarchal fae society, licking pussy is a disgrace, so you, Rhysand, will never wash away this shame? Amaranta's status is too high for consider this humiliation (except for the Illyrians, but who cared about their opinion).

Then SJM exploits this part to press on pity, not to explore the topic of male SA, btw, underestimated. If Rhysand initially offered himself only as a servant, and then Amarantha decided to publicly rape him and portray him as her whore, that would be fae level of cruelty. First, reputational destruction. "Look, friends, the dreaded Night High Lord wiggling his ass, begging me to shove my fist in there" - after that, I think, Rhysand would have to terrorize Illyria and the CoN to maintain his power. Second, influence over Tamlin. "Look, Tamlin, haven't you ever dreamed of stomping on him?" - anyway, Tamlin and Rhysand were friends, and this situation would make it clear they both were victims again. Third, the punishment for Rhysand's hubris. "You think I'm going to buy your double game? You, a half-Illyrian dog, son of a low-born bitch, dare to think you're worthy of serving me?" - it fits in with the further statement that Rhysand is not accepted as a HL 'cause of his heritage.

Feyre

Amarantha was to remain Feyre's main fear and moral benchmark for all eternity. The fear of quietly going mad with love, of losing yourself in the pursuit of a man, of losing your head over high status (ironic, right?). Amarantha was the one Feyre was supposed to see when she came to Bone Carver, her reflection in Ouroboros.

Amarantha was supposed to be the reason she broke up with Tamlin. Not because of his anger issues, but 'cause of Feyre's fear that Tamlin, clinging to their broken, initially forced relationship, would turn into Amarantha. That fear isn't necessarily justified, but it would've been a good way to show how deeply Feyre has been scarred. As for the romance with Rhysand, which should've been giving Feyre the fucking "I have a panic attack just looking at him" Vietnam flashbacks.

Tell Feyre from Tamlin's (or Lucien's or Ianthe's) perspective that Amarantha held Rhysand by the balls, and that's not something you'd wish on your worst enemy.

Let Feyre know that Rhysand, humiliated in front of all of Prythian, is no longer a threat no matter how hard he tries to prove otherwise.

Show that due to different coping mechanisms, Tamlin can't help Feyre, 'cause he is in denial and repressing the trauma, while Feyre and Rhysand want to overcome it and believe they can. And for god's sake, no chapter-long heartbreaking "woe is me" bit. Rhysand needs understanding, not Feyre's pity. He needs to be shown that 500 years of experience doesn't save from mistakes, but makes its consequences a disaster. And he tormented Feyre 'cause he lost hope and broke down, and now he is ashamed, and that proves Rhysand still didn't pass the point of no return, like Amarantha.

Summing up, as you can see, it's not so difficult to make an interesting, UNDERSTANDABLE villain, leaving the plot without much change. Amarantha laid the foundation, and how her "work" was picked up by Ianthe, I will write next time.

Thank you if you read my verbal diarrhea to the end.

[separatist-apologist]

You Painted Me Golden

Did you know that while your mate was warming Amarantha’s bed, most of our people were locked beneath that mountain?

Did you know that while he had his head between her legs, most of us were fighting to keep our families from becoming the nightly entertainment?

SUMMARY: Eris Vanserra never wanted a mate, never wanted a wife. When a chance meeting in Day Court alters the course of his life, Eris will be forced to acknowledge both. But a new threat is looming, and an old foe has come back to Prythian.

And it will take more than luck for Eris Vanserra to keep himself and his family safe when he's dragged beneath the sacred mountain

Read on AO3

Fifty years.

Fifty fucking years trapped under that once sacred mountain, hoping and wishing and praying Tamlin would be able to break the curse. All he had to do was convince one stupid, sniffling human to love him. A task any one of them could have done with both hands tied behind their backs. Could he not be charming? Clever? 

Had he tried at all? 

Amarantha swanned through the court that evening, draped in glittering black jewels that sparkled beneath the twinkling fae lights overhead. Tamlin stood impossibly still, cheek a little bruised though fading with each blink of the eye. His clothes were worn, his hair limp. Standing before the other six courts, Tamlin was a defeated male.

He’d been their only hope. 

Eris wanted to kill him. 

He wasn’t the only one. Standing beside him, Beron Vanserra radiated hatred, though anyone looking at his face might see nothing but faint amusement. They’d played their parts—all six High Lords had put their own masks on, had danced and drank and bowed to Amarantha’s whims, all under the hopes Tamlin would succeed. 

“Did you try?” Amarantha asked, voicing the question echoing through the room. Even Rhysand looked as though he were in a dark mood, those typically taunting eyes of his more storm cloud than anything. Had he, too, banked on escaping? Had he been counting the minutes, too? Their eyes met and Eris, pissed and wanting to hurt the High Lord where it hurted, dropped his mental defenses for only a moment.

Where is Morrigan, Rhys?

Rhys’ eyes widened, his body going taut like a bowstring. Eris slammed them back up just as he felt the kernel of Rhys’s power batter against his mind with brutal force. Eris turned his eyes back to Amarantha, watching those long, blood red nails of her scrape beneath Tamlins chin.

“This has been such a little game between us,” she crooned, that voice dripping like syrup. 

Was it wrong to be relieved Tamlin, at least, would take her attention off the rest of them. How long before she just killed them? Eris felt desperation claw at his chest. They’d put off all talks of escape, but now…

What was left? Better to die on their feet than slaughtered like animals. Right? 

Eris didn’t dare look to his left where his mate stood, her face ashen with fear. He couldn’t protect her anymore. If Amarantha decided to make her dance until she dropped dead, he’d simply have to clap and laugh with the rest of them. He wanted to pull her against him, bury his face in her hair, and promise he had some grand plan to get them out.

Beron would kill him if he tried. 

Maybe it was worth it. He knew if he brought the idea to Arina she’d say yes—she’d tell him to leave his family behind and escape with her like so many others had done when Amarantha first arrived on their shores. He had once thought them all cowards, too afraid to fight.

Now he thought they’d been smart—they’d seen the writing on the wall. 

“It’s done,” Tamlin said, eyes pinned on Lucien’s brother. The mask was still over his face, a gold eye where his russet one had once been. Eris hadn’t seen him in fifty years, either. He didn’t need the whispered order from his father to know they weren’t to speak with Lucien…and still his eyes strayed to Helion against his will. The newly crowned High Lord simply looked bored, goblet hanging from two fingers with lazy arrogance. Oh, how he’d taken to the power. And now the only heir to his throne stood twenty feet away, blissfully unaware of his indiscretion given form. 

His mother, though, looked as if it was taking everything in her to keep from going to her youngest son. Eris simply couldn’t hate her for it—not then, anyway. Maybe he would later when the rest of his emotions settled and there was room to feel resentment, too. She’d always put Lucien first, just like she’d always risk everything for Helion. She simply could not help herself, even when it killed her. 

Eris didn’t know if he’d ever loved anyone as much as his mother loved Lucien and Helion. It was well trodden territory to wonder why she didn’t love him that way—why he was the acceptable collateral damage. Was it his face? Did he look too much like Beron, which made him too hard to look at? Eris had once examined his features in a mirror and had found too much of his father staring back. 

Beside him, Arina bumped into him with her shoulder, reading his mind. She looked up through dark lashes, reminding him that at least he had her. He thought he would have shattered into a thousand pieces had she not been with him, that his mask would have fallen away years before leaving nothing but a hollow husk in its wake. 

The throne room melted away, leaving nothing but soft, swaying grass and falling leaves in their wake. He could almost pretend they were home again, could see it so clearly every time he looked at her. She blinked and the onyx stone returned, forcing Eris to stand in his reality.

Tamlin had failed.

They were all doomed.

It’s done. 

They didn’t have to stand in watch—they did because there was nothing else left to do. Every amusement had been done a million times before. Some filtered to their usual places, dropping into chairs to drink themselves into oblivion, even though Amarantha had ordered they celebrate this night. She’d be planning a wedding by the end of the month and Eris wanted to claw his eyes out.

What was her endgame goal? Surely it couldn’t be this. The once terrible, feared general reduced to little more than a babysitter? There had to be more than just this. Eris didn’t believe for a second she wasn’t just as bored as they were. She seemed like she was having fun, circling Tamlin like a vulture over a corpse. Tamlin didn’t put up a fight at all, eyes glassy as though he’d retreated somewhere private in his mind. He was a coward who had likely quit well before that moment, and Eris hated him for it.

He turned, making his way back to the table his family sat at, grateful Arina immediately turned to come with him. She caught his pinky, letting him half drag her to that wide chair before yanking her into his lap. It was supposed to look possessive, though over the years they’d learned it was simply the easiest way to talk without anyone catching on.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” she murmured, turning her head as though she might kiss him. She wouldn’t—not in here. 

“He was never meant to be a High Lord and it shows,” Eris hissed in response. That was a rumor he’d heard from his father when Lucien had joined Tamlins court. Eris had once dismissed it at the time, but now he was inclined to agree with Beron.

“What now?” she asked him, betraying her fear for only a moment. It seemed strange to remember she’d once been engaged to Helion—that had they never met, she’d be across that wide room with Helion himself, a stranger to Eris. Now she seemed Autumn born, cunning and clever and every inch a princess of his court. It was unusual to see her mask slip—perhaps she did it purposefully to let him see how afraid she was.

Eris reached for her fingers, brushing a kiss along her knuckles. “We bide our time and wait. For now.”

Amarantha had what she wanted—Eris had no doubt she’d get Tamlin into her bed, too. Perhaps there, Tamlin would wield the little influence he had to free them all. Already, Amarantha was making him pretty promises in front of them all. Rhysand still watched from the shadows, eyes narrowed as he took it all in. If Eris didn’t hate him, too, he might have asked what the High Lord of Night made of it all.

Perhaps he was simply jealous he’d been replaced. 

“For how long?”

“Not here.”

Arina pressed her lips together before reclining back, fingers tapping alongside the thrumming beat of the music. He couldn’t join in, couldn’t make himself seem as easy going and unbothered as she did. She’d join the revelry, dancing with his brothers and drinking herself silly, cheeks flushed and eyes bright as she did so.

And Eris retreated into himself, moody and angry with no outlet to release any of it. He spent too many nights taking it out on her body, fucking her into sleepless oblivion in an attempt to relieve himself of his feelings. It worked in the short-term—Eris always started his day too exhausted to be anything but quiet, but eventually it all came roaring back like burning flame. Sometimes he felt like a forest fire and nothing could put him out.

He was going to destroy them both someday.

Arina’s fingers moved from the arm of the chair to his thigh, just high enough to recapture his interest. Eris had long stopped wondering if it would always be like this—if he’d always be so obsessed, if he’d always want her. The answer was an unequivocal yes. What he felt bordered on obsession, and sometimes he’d catch himself staring at her the way he’d often seen his own father watch his mother.

The impulse was there, though—to lock her up where no one could see her, to keep her all to himself. He told himself it was simply their circumstances that made him feel that way, but deep down, Eris wasn’t so sure. He could see himself confining her to his bedchamber once they returned, guarding her jealously the way a dragon might guard treasure. 

He didn’t want other males to look at her.

Amarantha made a whole show of crowning Tamlin in spiky onyx adorned in blood red rubies before seating him beside her, declaring him her consort. Eris hoped that night, when Amarantha dragged him to her bed, that he staked her through the heart. Judging by the stone with which Tamlin imitated, though, Eris doubted he’d try.

All he’d ever had to do was try.

It was a miserable evening. No one could pretend amusement and it was lucky Amarantha was too distracted trying to tempt Tamlin into her bed with all kinds of lurid promises. Arina listened, ears sharp, as Eris tried to contain his fury. Power, position, riches— things that could save them all if Tamlin would merely accept.

He swore, were it him in Tamlin’s shoes, he’d have done it. Gritted his teeth and swallowed his revulsion, but he would have. For even a fraction more of his magic back? Eris would have gotten on his knees and done whatever she asked.

Tamlin said nothing at all.

Eris nearly dragged Arina back to their designated space, not bothering to look at his younger brother at all. Not that Lucien looked at him, either. He’d be forever complicit in Jesminda’s death as far as Lucien was concerned. Nevermind that he owed his life to Eris—it had been Eris who’d warned Tamlin, after all. Lucien didn’t know and he never would. It had bothered Eris, once upon a time, when Lucien turned up his nose the first time they’d crossed paths. I did everything for you!

Now he felt nothing at all. If Eris allowed himself to feel, the dam would crack and water would come flooding in. He left Arina to change for bed, pretending he wanted to talk to his father and brothers. 

Eris didn’t— he just wanted her to be asleep by the time he came in. 

Eris dropped to a dust coated sofa gracelessly, watching as Beron paced the room. “Nothing changes,” Beron said, face purple with rage. “We will continue on as we’ve been.” No one dared to say a word. The air was so tense, Beron so irate that it was simply a game of pick-up-sticks to decide which of them would be on the receiving end of his wrath.

One of them would sacrifice themselves to spare their mother. Glancing toward his brothers, their faces dripping with dread, he decided it might as well be him.

Why not? 

“For how long?” Eris heard himself ask, voice dripping with disdain. “Shall we die down here?”

Beron spun, eyes locking on his eldest son. Heat crawled up Eris’s throat, choking the words from his lungs. He’d been on the receiving end of this punishment before and though it wasn’t as brutal as it would have been had Beron been at the height of his power, it was still enough to burn the tender flesh of his mouth and throat.

Against his will, he reached for his neck, coughing violently as he attempted to suck in a breath. “I don’t remember asking you, boy,” Beron hissed, pushing that flame deeper into Eris’s gut until he felt the blood bubble in his veins. He would have preferred a beating—that would have been better than this slow, miserable death.

Beron wouldn’t kill him, though. The heat extinguished, leaving Eris with the taste of blood dripping into his mouth and a sweat soaked body prone on the cold, stone floor. Through the roaring in his ears, he could hear his father continue speaking, ignoring Eris laying there trembling at his feet. 

At some point the voices stopped and Eris slipped out of consciousness, back to the forest he’d grown up in. The air was cool and sweet—like vanilla. He could feel the air caress his face before rain droplets penetrated the heavy, multi-colored canopy overhead.

“Eris,” the trees chanted, their voices a soft, sweet lullaby. “Come back to me, Eris.”

Eris’s body healed that evening, just like it always did. He woke in a tub of cool water, Arina asleep on the floor beside him, hair floating beside him.

Come back to me, Eris. 

He couldn’t even wish he was dead. Not when she was still alive. Not when he knew she wouldn’t follow him. Eris had no capacity for hope anymore.

Arina carried it all in his stead.

ARINA:

There was a human standing in the throne room. Arina was certain she was hallucinating from all the wine she’d been drinking lately. It was the only way to cope with their circumstances. Eris was merely a shell of himself, going through the motions without any interest in being alive. She didn’t know what he clung to anymore—it certainly wasn’t her. She’d tried, those first few days. Arina made her jokes, she stripped him naked, she danced, she laughed and Eris merely watched. He did whatever she wanted, but his soul was locked away somewhere she couldn’t reach.

Whatever had happened between him and Beron was a mystery to her, even now.

But the human—she was real. Skinny, with eyes a tad too big for her face and sharp cheekbones. Her golden brown hair was braided down her back and she’d equipped herself with a bow and a dagger, both of which would be taken from her before she was killed.

Eris leaned forward in his chair, eyes sharpening. 

“I’ve come to claim the one I love,” the human woman announced, eyes looking at Tamlin.

The room sucked in a collective breath. For days, Amarantha had tortured a human woman now pinned up on the  throne room wall, forcing them all to watch the girl swear she’d never seen Tamlin while Rhysand swore that was the human he’d seen in the manor. 

Arina had thought him a gutless coward for it, but now…had he been protecting someone? Even Amarantha seemed taken aback, stunned that this secret had been kept from her. Arina, already standing, looked around the room at the potential players on the new chessboard laid before them. Rhysand stood like a black knight, hands jammed in his pockets and an expression a little too innocent to be real. 

On the other end, Tamlin—the golden king, clenched his jaw and declared he’d never seen that woman in his life, a lie if Arina had ever heard it. Amarantha sat as queen on the same side Rhysand was on, though she seemed more undefended than she’d ever been. She’d been caught unawares and that gave the human the upperhand.

All seven High Lords were suddenly put back into play and they knew it. Arina saw Beron Vanserra inching closer to the front of the gathered crowd, his eyes cunning and clear. Helion, at the far back, clasped his hands behind his back with a look of contemplation she’d seen many times before. Thesan and Tarquin, both separated, watched impassively though their courtiers had begun to form a ring around them.

Kallias, too, returned to his table, every inch the bored nobleman save for the icy in his pale blue eyes. The wheels were turning, now. Everything hinged on what Amarantha decided to do next. If she was smart, she’d kill the woman immediately and use it as leverage over the endlessly silent Tamlin. 

But Amarantha had never once revealed herself to be smart. Only cruel. And as the woman spoke, it became clear to Arina that Amarantha saw this as a moment to finally teach Tamlin a lesson. 

Arina hadn’t prayed since Eris had arrived in her life. Everything seemed so unfair, so stacked against her that there was no point in asking the Mother to intervene. But right then, Arina begged.

Please spare this human. 

She wasn’t the only one who did so. Across the room, she swore she felt a hundred identical prayers whisper upward to the heavens. If Amarantha spared her, they had a fighting chance, something they could rally around. She was nothing, truly—so fragile it was almost laughable, her heart fluttering up against her pale, translucent skin.

But she was hope. 

Arina was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Eris come to stand beside her until the smell of him slammed into her. Looking up at her husband, her mate,��she saw something like life crawl back into those amber eyes of his. His mind was turning itself over with the possibilities of what might happen next.

Fifty years of nothing…and now this. 

She reached between them for his pinky, afraid if she took his hand he’d withdraw again. Eris didn’t react at all, eyes pinned on that human as Amarantha proposed her deal. It was a foolish bargain she almost certainly couldn’t win—solve the riddle, or play in three trials in three months, all of Amarantha’s choosing.

The alternative, of course, was death.

If she won—and she almost certainly wouldn’t—was freedom for the Spring Court. They only needed to free one High Lord to free them all. Whatever magic Amarantha commanded must be weak, if she had any at all. In the fifty years they’d been locked beneath that mountain, Arina had never seen a whispering of it. 

Solve the riddle and free Tamlin right then and there—no strings attached.

Compete in the trials and free them after. There was a trick they were all familiar with, one that no one would abide by should the human win. The mood in the room had shifted, was sharper, crueler— excited. Everyone wanted to exact their pound of flesh for the horrors inflicted upon them and the people they loved. 

The human couldn’t guess the answer to the riddle, and when the room laughed, there was no amusement behind it. No genuine mirth. They laughed because Amarantha demanded it—laughed because she was so stupid, so convinced of her own invincibility, she couldn’t tell every single person in that room had just silently vowed to do everything within their power to see that human survive no matter the costs. 

She looked tired. Defeated. Whatever she’d seen in Tamlin, he was not the same male under the mountain and she was too focused on trying to get him to admit he knew her rather than focus on what was important. She hadn’t come to save any of them but Tamlin and hadn’t asked to be their unwitting savior.

But as Amarantha had the attor beat the girl into unconscious sleep, she was their savior. Something to rally around. She was dragged away, leaving Amarantha to laugh.

“Oh, Tamlin,” she crooned, leaning over the arm of her onyx throne so her breasts spilled from her dress. “What were you doing all those years? Surely not… that slip of a thing?”

Tamlin said nothing. 

Eris reached between his body and Arina’s, lacing their fingers together before bringing her hand to his lips.

“The answer was love,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against her knuckles. Arina’s body ignited with heat better suppressed before everyone around them was gagging. 

“No one is to tell the human the answers,” Amarantha ordered, using the stolen power of the High Lord to bind them all.  “If you try, I promise you will not like what happens.”

So they couldn’t tell her the answer. They weren’t forbidden from helping her. Everyone in the room had caught this error except Amarantha, who wore her anxiety all over her expression. So Tamlin had managed to convince a human to fall in love with him and his silence had a purpose. She’d thought him easily broken, convinced to take her as a lover with the right combination of words.

But if his heart belonged to another, well…

Arina turned to Eris, heart thudding. Are you awake again? She didn’t dare ask. 

“Father will say we need to wait this out,” he whispered, guessing her thoughts before she was able to voice them. “But I’m tired of waiting.”

“What would you have me do?” Arina breathed in response, though she knew. Eris would want to know what the other courts were planning—none of whom would think to include them. They’d spent five decades play acting that they were enjoying themselves. And Beron would sell his co-conspirators out to save himself. Everyone knew that. 

“You know.”

Arina hadn’t talked in Helion in years . She didn’t dare—not with Beron watching them all so closely, and with the Lady of Autumn still sneaking around to see him. Beron wouldn’t kill his wife, but he would kill Eris’s. If she had to choose, it was an easy one—she’d always choose Eris. Even if it meant lying to an old friend. 

Arina pressed a swift kiss to his cheek, the wheels turning in her mind. She’d need to be careful—Helion wasn’t stupid. He’d know what she wanted, just as he’d know Eris had sent her. Arina needed to lean into his assumptions and instead convince him that he could trust the pair of them.

Eris glanced at her again, something dark crowding his gaze. She didn’t ask, instead making her way toward the long table laden with food. Every time she saw the spread, she knew it was their people who’d toiled to make it. She’d heard rumors of cells crammed to the brim with the lower fae, though she’d never seen it. 

But some, surely, were still outside Prythian made to work. Her people. However trapped she was had nothing on what was going on with them. They hadn’t tried hard enough to free anyone. She was certain it wasn’t just her court wallowing in self-pity. Least of all, the High Lord of Night. As Arina approached, she saw him down his goblet of wine quickly, red forming at the corners of his mouth as he struggled to get all the liquid down quickly. 

He’d poured another before she reached him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you felt guilty,” she hissed.

“Good think you know better,” he replied, rounding on her so quickly that drops of wine splattered against his inky jacket. She might have believed him had she not been married to a rather clever liar. She knew that haunted fog creeping into his eyes. 

“She should have killed the human,” Arina heard herself say as she poured her wine, not bothering to look at Rhys at all. She didn’t need to. His black mood spilled out of him like shadow, seeping from the cracks he couldn’t keep patched. “Maybe Amarantha will pin her body up on the wall, too.”

There was nothing to gain by provoking Rhysand besides her own death. And when she dared to look at him, she saw he desperately wanted to end her life. 

“I didn’t realize you’d become so blood thirsty.”

Arina shrugged. “What’s the point of giving her hope when we all know how this ends.”

Rhysand took a step toward her. From the corner of her eye, Arina saw Eris pivot, watching the pair of them without moving. 

I don’t need your help, she thought, tugging gently on their shared bond. 

“And how does it end?” Rhysand murmured, daring her to say another word. It was stupid to provoke him—if he killed her, Amarantha was likely to reward him. Eris couldn’t stop him even if he could get close enough to put himself between the pair of them.

“How does it end, lordling?” she heard herself whisper. “You knew that wasn’t the same human from Spring.”

All at once his features shifted, rearranging themselves into boredom. “They all look the same to me.”

He tried to turn, but she grabbed his arm, stopping him. Rhysand looked down, a cruel smile curling over his face. “I can appreciate the interest, lady, but I’m not interested. As fun as it might be to show you how a real male—”

“Oh, gods,” she interrupted, pulling her hand away from him. “We’re even Rhysand. You know something about me, and I know something about you.”

“You know nothing—”

Arina interrupted him once again. “I know you were supposed to be in Spring for Calanmai. And I know you were watching Tamlin. You must have seen her face at least twice.”

“As I said. They all look the same to me.”

Arina glanced at the decaying corpse of the other human. “I don’t think you forget a face like that.”

Arina turned, heart racing in her chest. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. She’d turned her brain off to talk to him, but as she walked back to Eris, her good sense came flooding back to her. Rhysand was terrifying and she’d just called him a liar. Worse, she’d betrayed that she didn’t care for Amarantha. He could saunter right up to their High Lady and tell her everything. He didn’t owe Arina anything. No one would believe her if she claimed he, too, was conspiring. 

Rhysand poured himself a third goblet of wine, downing it before he stalked off, a trail of shadow following in his wake. He didn’t look at her as he vanished from the room, off to do whatever males like him did in their free time. Sulk, most likely.

But he wouldn’t rat her out. 

“What was that about?” Eris breathed, pulling her close when she was in grabbing distance. 

“Just doing what you asked,” she replied with what she hoped was a pretty smile. Amarantha may be distracted with her court, but the rest of the people were not. Eris wouldn’t have been the only person watching—wondering. 

“We can’t trust someone like that,” Eris informed her, gripping her elbow to lead her from the Throne Room. His father was already gone, leaving his brothers behind. As they left, Arina caught sight of Tanewen shamelessly flirting with one of the new Spring courtiers wearing a pretty, jeweled bird mask. 

It was probably the only court he hadn’t fucked by then. 

Inside their corner of the mountain, Arina could hear Beron berating a silent Amera from behind closed doors. 

“...hear that you even looked at him, you will not leave this mountain—”

She didn’t want to listen to it. She’d heard it all before. They all knew Beron was never going to kill her, just as they all knew his wife would never love him the way he wanted. Only Beron seemed to think otherwise. 

Eris, too, ignored it. He’d been ignoring his mother a lot lately. How many beatings was he supposed to take on her behalf? At least his brothers sometimes put themselves on the line to spare Eris, too—it was a reciprocal relationship, though Eris tended to take the most. Arina resented her, perhaps unfairly. Her life wasn’t of her own design—but she owed her children something, at least. 

Locked in their bedroom, Arina turned, excited to start plotting with Eris once again. It had been so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to listen to him talk. Eris reached for her, eyes gleaming and oh. 

She didn’t protest when his mouth collided against her own, teeth clashing violently. For months it had been her coming on to him. Her unbuttoning his jacket, her falling to her knees until his eyes closed and he left her fully. She’d wondered, on occasion, where he went. Did he dream of someone else? 

If she didn’t touch him, he didn’t reciprocate and for a moment, it felt good to be held in his arms again. Her relief was beginning to crack, letting her anger and resentment fill in the gaps. Hands flat on his chest, Arina shoved a little just as his teeth sank against her bottom lip.

Blood flooded her mouth as they pulled apart. Eris wiped it from his lower lip with his thumb, eyes wild with warning. He wasn’t taking no for an answer tonight, which only made her want to punish him more. 

“You left me,” she hissed, holding his gaze.

He tried to prowl forward and dismiss her, but Arina darted around the bed. 

Eris watched, head cocked like a predator. He was enjoying her resistance, the utter bastard. 

“Come here,” he growled, but when he tried to step around the bed to snatch her, Arina leapt up on the mattress. There really was no good place for her to go and he knew it. Eris snarled, spinning on his heel to catch her around the waist and drag her to the floor. With her face buried in his shoulder, Arina’s scream was muffled, though loud enough anyone nearby would have heard it. “Why are you mad now?”

“You left me,” she repeated, twisting in his lap to look at him. She wanted to hit him, to scream at him, to vent all her fear and rage out on him until he felt as badly as she did. “I’ve been here the whole time but you…”

Eris exhaled a breath, some of the animal winking out of his expression. “I’m sorry,” he told her, his grip changing. Stretching out his legs, Eris nestled her between his thighs, arms pinning her back to his chest before he rested his chin atop her head. “I don’t want to die down here.”

Arina felt his fear grip her throat as though he’d wrapped his hands around her and squeezed. 

“There’s no way out,” he added, before kissing the top of her head. “And now…”

“Now she’s distracted,” Arina murmured. 

“How much do you know about the first war?” Eris asked, his voice still low—intimate. The erection he sported, once pressed roughly against her spine, was softening as he spoke. Arina was grateful for it. All she wanted was to hear him talk to her again.

She shrugged. “I was a scholar, remember?”

She felt him smile into her hair. “Of course. Then you remember the whole business with her sister? Falling in love with the human Jurian only to be butchered in the end? Amarantha never thought much of humans to start with—they’re only good for slave labor, even now. But when Jurian killed Clythia…it was personal. She’s still wearing his eye, has bound his soul to that ring and she’ll torment him forever for his audacity to think he was ever better than her.”

Eris took a breath. “Now a human has declared her undying love for Tamlin and Amarantha has to be thinking of her sister. She’ll drag this out to prove this woman is no better than Jurian. All we have going for us is for the next month, she’ll be distracted.”

“You don’t think she can win?” Arina asked, thinking of that thin woman with the big, blue eyes. 

Eris snorted. “I’m sure whatever Amarantha is devising for her will obliterate her in moments. 

“So we have a month?”

“Maybe more if she gets help, which I’m sure she will. Everyone will be working on a loophole to tell her the answer to the riddle. We don’t need to the help the human, though. We only need to help ourselves.”

“How?”

“What magic does Amarantha command?” Eris murmured as though he were genuinely answering. “Beyond our own.”

“None.” When he kissed the top of her head, Arina felt like the teacher's best student all over again. Only, back in school, she’d never wanted to undress any of her instructors with her teeth. 

“Exactly,” he breathed, adjusting his hold to pull her tighter. “We won’t be the only ones conspiring to kill her.”

“And your father won—”

“Fuck him,” Eris murmured under his breath, lethally soft. Twisting her neck, Arina looked up at him. 

“Are you…are you sure?”

“Eight hundred years is enough,” he told her, voice so soft it could have been a dream. “And if we’re very, very careful…we can have both.”

“You know that I’m with you, right? Until the very end,” she swore. “Just don’t shut me out. Not again, not ever.”

“I swear,” he promised, swallowing hard. “I swear.”

[msshadowqueen]

I wrote a little Rhysta.

@ennawrite @kateprincessofbluewhales

Rhysand woke up with a stinging pain around his neck. He lifted his hand towards the source of the pain, then found something that felt distinctly like a knife digging deeper.

His eyes flew open, and for a wild moment, he thought it was Feyre standing before him. But no. The face that surveyed him had stronger features. Eyes just a little more grey, lips a little more full, brows quite a bit more angular, her gold hair a tumble of waves down either shoulder. A cunning face-calculating. And one that held a knife to his throat.

“Wake up,” she hissed. Rhysand blinked blearily, trying to focus on her. Despite being human, he found her to be prettier than the cursebreaker. He could only imagine how devastating she would be as a faerie.

“What?” Rhysand croaked, not daring to speak too loud else that dagger pierce his skin. How in Prythian had this human girl got a hold of an ash knife? What was with this family?

“I want to know what exactly you’re playing at,” Nesta answered, her simmering glare branding him even in the dark. Rhysand’s heart rate kicked up; was it more or less embarrassing that it wasn’t from fear?

“Nothing. I’m just here to protect Prythian and the human lands from Hybern’s corruption,” Rhysand said mechanically.

Nesta snorted delicately. “Spare me the bullshit. Even if Feyre bought into that molded loaf of bread, I am not so gullible.” She bent closer to him, her tantalizingly soft hair brushing against his cheek. “Or did you use your faerie magic to hoodwink her? For the Feyre I know would not change her loyalties so fast, and last I knew, she was in love with Tamlin.”

Rhysand tried to swallow a couple of times before she gave up. “Tamlin treated her poorly. So she left.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I was mean to her for years and she never wavered in her loyalties. So tell me what you’ve done to her, High Lord.”

Rhysand stared into her silver eyes, the loathing palpable in them at the nearer distance. How should he answer this? The truth? He imagined that wouldn’t go down very well with her. With lies? She didn’t seem the least bit fooled by them.

“Nothing. It was Tamlin who changed her.”

Rhysand didn’t have time to react before Nesta drove the knife into his shoulder. Too much in pain to even scream, all he could manage was a pitiful whimper. God, he had forgotten how much ash stings. He hadn’t encountered such weapons since the war centuries ago.

“You really think you can fool me, Amarantha’s whore?” Nesta demanded.

Rhysand stilled at the nickname. “How did you-?”

“Feyre told me everything that transpired between her arriving in Prythian and when she came back. You were what prompted Tamlin to send her away. A loyal servant of that bitch who tormented Prythian for decades.”

“You don’t understand. It was all an act-“

Nesta twisted the knife in his shoulder, and Rhysand let out another pained moan. Blood was all over his shirt, his skin sticky. “Killing twelve kids isn’t an act, you coward. I already told you I won’t be easily fooled.” Nesta bared her teeth, looking every inch the faerie Feyre could never be despite her super strength and pointed ears. In spite of the blinding pain, Rhysand breathed out a laugh. “Oh, pity you aren’t the Cursebreaker. You’re a lot more fun than the huntress.”

Nesta wrenched the knife out of his shoulder, causing even more pain as she returned the knife to his throat. “And I’m about to be a lot more fun if you don’t tell me what you did to Feyre in the next thirty seconds.”

Gods, she was magnificent. Well, Rhysand could offer a partial truth that would hopefully appease this powerful woman.

“I forced Feyre into a bargain in exchange for healing her under the mountain.”

Oh, the scent of Nesta’s fury was delicious. Rhysand gloried in the smell as he sensed Nesta trembling with rage. “I fucking knew it. You faeries and your bargains. I’m assuming it’s this mark right here?” She dug a sharp nail into his arm, and Rhysand yelped, jerking away, which only caused more blood to ooze from his shoulder wound. “How did you know?”

Nesta shrugged. “I guessed, since Feyre has an identical one on her own arm.”

Cunning, furious, and observant. A crying shame this queen would only live a mortal life. “Get her out of the bargain,” Nesta whispered.

Rhysand chuckled. “Or I could just break into your mind and be done with it.”

“You can try,” Nesta seethed. “But not even a High Lord’s glamour can work on me. Tamlin tried and failed already.”

Rhysand blinked. Nesta…possessed the true Sight? Some mortals were gifted with the ability to resist nearly all kinds of Faerie magic in a way that even most powerful fae have difficulty with. Jurian, of course, was one of them, which was how he’d led the humans to victory all those years ago. Immune to daemati and glamours, this woman could be exceptionally useful.

Rhysand reached for her mind anyway, finding that she was just as immune as she had claimed. The eldest Archeron didn’t mess around, clearly. She possessed walls more fortified than the Cauldron itself. Mother above.

“I warned you,” Nesta snapped. “Break the bargain.”

“And what will I get in exchange?” Rhysand crooned. “Surely you understand I cannot release her without getting something in return.”

“I could just kill you and be done with it,” Nesta mused. Rhysand smirked at her. “True, but think: I am a High Lord, and a major asset in the war against Hybern. Without me, your odds lower significantly.”

“You can be replaced,” Nesta drawled dismissively. “Not me.” Nesta spat on his face. “You faeries are even more arrogant than we were taught to believe.” She smoothed down her nightgown with her free hand. “Take me instead.”

Rhysand blinked. “Really?” That was exactly what he had been hoping for. Nesta would prove to be far more useful than the illiterate one. “On the condition that you will never physically or sexually harm me, nor will you use your magic against me in any way, nor will you allow any of your cronies to do it in your stead.”

Rhysand could not say yes fast enough. “Yes, I promise. It’s a deal.”

Nesta and Rhysand stared at his arm, watching as the tattoo disappeared. They both waited for a new one to appear, and when it didn’t, Nesta began her venom again. “You fucking liar, I will slit your thro-“

She stopped, and Rhysand knew why. He watched as whorls of paint wrapped around Nesta’s forehead like a crown. An identical one must be present on his own.

They surveyed each other for a moment, this new bond that had just formed between them tugging them closer together. At last, Nesta let the knife drop.

“Welcome,” Rhysand murmured, “to the Night Court, Nesta Archeron.”

[highfaelucien]

Heyy

90. Dance for Rhycien?

Please send me whump Prompts

(Heck yes, it's time for The Gay. Have some Under the Mountain Angst. Slight warning for mind control/influence (Rhys to Lucien) It's short-lived, demanded by Amarantha, and doesn't last long)

Old Time's Sake

"Ah, Lucien, nice of you to finally join us," Amarantha drawled from her place upon the carved throne, sitting above the writhing fae bodies, watching with that grim pleasure Rhys had come to loathe so intensely.

Turning, he spotted Lucien, long red hair gleaming in the dancing faelight, barely concealed loathing etched in every line of his angular face.

The exiled Autumn prince hadn't been seen for several days now. Not since the brutal whipping at Tamlin's hand that had left him unconscious and, if rumours were to be believed, near death.

From the look of spite in Lucien's remaining eye, it seemed he had spat in death's face for the simple pleasure of being able to glare at Amarantha once more.

"You're looking a little grim there, princeling," Amarantha crooned, "Why don't you join your little human friend? Dance with her."

She gestured towards Feyre, who had drunk the wine Rhys had provided her and accompanied him to the dance as he did each night. Her body moved with surprising grace, considering she was human.

A muscle feathered in Lucien's jaw as he watched Feyre. He turned that simmering hatred on Rhys instead, fire blazing in that russet eye. Rhys just smirked at him and winked. Lucien's hands balled themselves into fists at his sides.

It was clearly an effort for him to project even a facade of civility as he turned his gaze back to Amarantha and said, "I fear my skills are not equal to those already here. I wouldn't like to offend you with my display, lady."

Amarantha tapped one sharpened nail on the arm of her throne. Few caught the suppressed flinch in Lucien's body at the sight of it, but Rhys saw, and looked away, disgusted.

"You will offend me deeply if you refuse me again, Lucien," she said, voice soft and dangerous now.

"I'm sure we both know how much I'd hate to do that," Lucien growled, and Rhys found himself closing his eyes.

Lucien never had learned to keep his mouth shut. There seemed to be some self-destructive part of him that enjoyed snapping at those who could snap him in half with a wink.

Silence enveloped the hall for a few, pounding heartbeats. Then Amarantha turned her head sharply, all the false air of a pleasant queen amongst her court banished.

"Rhysand," she said, darkly, "Make him dance for me."

"It would of course be my pleasure," Rhys said smoothly, nudging Feyre to one side and rising from the plump cushions he'd been reclining on, keeping an eye on her as she reveled blindly.

Lucien turned to him, his jaw set, his eyes hard. There was no fear in those eyes. Many here underestimated Lucien, as he didn't possess the same power as his father or brothers. Rhys thought they were fools. It took an extraordinary level of strength and courage to face him that way. Not to mention his return here in the first place.

"Little Lucien," he clucked, aloud, shaking his head, "You know it's not polite to refuse a lady."

Inside his head, he murmured, I'm sorry.

Lucien's eyes flashed, almost giving him away with his moment of confusion. Then Rhys swept away his will, and forced him to perform for Amarantha. Just as he was forced to perform for her.

At once, Lucien's face contorted with pain. He shouldn't have come here tonight. Tamlin had no doubt ordered him, the cowardly bastard, unwilling to come himself to see Feyre. Lucien's magic had been suppressed, and he had been denied any kind of healer. His body had been forced to heal at the rate of a human.

It didn’t take long for the wounds to re-open, blood staining the handsome tunic Lucien wore.

Amarantha underestimated Lucien, too. Rhys could sense he would refuse to give out until this killed him, just to spite the bitch. But she wouldn’t know that. Once Lucien was breathing heavily, and finally cracked to let out a whimper of pain, Rhys enveloped his mind in darkness and allowed him to slump to the floor, unconscious.

“Pathetic,” Amarantha hissed, as Lucien’s brothers, clustered around her throne as usual, sniggered and jeered their approval.

She waved a dismissive hand at Rhys, “Get him out of my sight,” she commanded, already bored, turning away to watch Feyre with amusement.

“At once, lady,” Rhys said.

Snapping his fingers, he lifted Lucien’s limp form into the air then carried him down to the cells, where he would return Feyre to in a few hours.

Setting him down far more gently than he would have dared to under Amarantha’s watchful gaze, Rhys gazed down at the fae male he had almost let himself love, once upon a time.

His fingers traced the scar over his eye with sadness. Then gently unbuttoned the blood-stained, ruined tunic, and examined the mess of his back. Torn, raw flesh, weeping fresh blood once more after Amarantha’s forced dancing.

It would have been worse if you hadn’t put a stop to it when you did, he tried to tell himself. Anger flared as another thought crept into his mind, And it would have been a lot better if Tamlin hadn’t sent him to that fucking party.

The High Lord of Spring had to know how much Amarantha enjoyed using Lucien as her plaything. Torturing him was becoming something she enjoyed almost as much as she enjoyed torturing him.

Sighing, Rhys reached out a hand, magic flaring, but-

Slim, hot fingers wrapped around his wrist, surprising him, which was impressive in itself.

Lucien, remarkably, had fought his way back to consciousness.

Stupid, stubborn bastard, Rhys thought, with fondness.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Lucien demanded, spitting blood from a bitten tongue out of his mouth at Rhys’s knees.

“That’s really no way to speak to a High Lord of Prythian, Lucien,” Rhys said, tutting, “I see you haven’t improved your manners since last we met.”

“I see you haven’t stopped being a prick, either,” Lucien shot back, weakly.

“I’m overwhelmed by your wit,” Rhys said sardonically.

“Fuck off and let me bleed, Rhys,” Lucien muttered thickly, body starting to tremble with the pain.

“Is that what Tamlin would do?” Rhys asked, unable to stop himself picking at that old wound between them.

A muscle feathered in Lucien’s jaw, but for once he restrained himself from answering. Perhaps Amarantha’s eye gouging had changed him, after all.

“No,” Rhys continued, folding his arms across his chest, “No, Tamlin doesn’t even know your bleeding out down here for his foolish command. Or, more appropriately, he doesn’t care.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Lucien snapped, some of that fire flaring in his remaining eye again.

Rhys still wasn’t used to the mechanical one. He’d spent a long time, previously, getting lost in that blazing gaze before. It wasn’t the same now.

Rhys tutted idly, rocking back on his heels, peering down at Lucien, “He doesn’t deserve your loyalty, you know.”

“And you do?” Lucien shot back, an awful disdain twisting his face.

Rhys’s jaw tightened, “I didn’t say that,” he said, smoothly.

Lucien laughed bitterly, even though it made him convulse with pain, “You meant it, though.”

He rolled onto his side, snarling with pain as he did, so that he could look Rhys full in the face as he spoke. Lucien had always been far too skilled at reading him, and he looked away, unable to bear that burning gaze.

“He didn’t deserve the sacrifice you made to stay with him,” Rhys breathed.

“Sacrifice?” Lucien repeated, “You mean you?” He laughed, the sound raw and humourless, echoing in the cavernous cell around them. It degenerated to coughing before long. “I owed him. I still do. He saved my life. He took me in after Jes. I pledged my fealty to him. You thought I’d turn away from that for your fucking dick?”

Rhys met his furious gaze once more as he said, softly, “I thought you might have turned away from it for the chance at happiness.” He rose to his feet, staring down at Lucien, something tightening within him, “But you could never let yourself have that, could you? It’s always been your most fatal flaw, Lucien. You don’t know how to let yourself be happy.”

“And you do?”he shot back.

“I could have learned,” Rhys said, very quietly, and he knew Lucien felt the sincerity in it, “For you.”

That actually shut Lucien up, for once. The only times he’d managed to achieve that before had been with decidedly more creative applications of his tongue.

“Don’t return to the party tonight,” he said, “I’ll be back here in a few hours with Feyre, and you can visit her yourself. Lie there and try not to drown in your own blood until then, won’t you?”

He turned, cloak covering Lucien in black for a moment, before pulling away, leaving him trembling on the cold stone floor.

Despite the anger that pulsed in his chest, he couldn’t leave him like that. He waved an idle finger, and Lucien’s wounds sealed themselves. Not fully. Not enough to leave Amarantha suspicious, but enough to ease his agony for now.

Lucien blinked and sat up as Rhys turned away again.

“What will she do to you if she learns of this?” he asked, very quietly.

Rhys forced himself to smile, “I doubt she’ll think of anything new. She’s not particularly creative, you know.”

“It’s still a risk,” Lucien said, gazing at him with suspicion, as if he expected some bargain, some demand for recompense.

Rhys shrugged in response, “Perhaps I think it’s worth it.”

“Why the fuck would you think that?” Lucien asked, sounding genuinely, heartbreakingly, bemused.

“Maybe I think you’re worth it,” Rhys said, more softly still.

Lucien eyed him for a long moment, pregnant with heavy silence, words they’d never spoken to one another echoing up through the lonely decades they’d spent apart.

“I’ll never understand you, Rhys,” he muttered finally, shaking his head.

“Isn’t that part of my enigmatic mystique and irresistible air?” he replied slyly.

Lucien smirked at that, “Enigmatic ego and insufferable ass, more like.”

“You found my ass quite sufferable, if memory serves,” Rhys smirked.

Lucien grinned. For a moment they weren’t trapped in this foul pit of a place. They were on the borders of Spring, Lucien’s mouth hot and insistent against his, fingers roaming beneath dark Illyrian leathers with surprising knowledge of buckle placement.

“Thank you,” Lucien said, a little too stiffly.

“I do believe that might have caused you more pain than the whipping,” Rhys quipped.

“It certainly is now, with you gloating in my face,” Lucien scowled in response.

“Take care, Little Lucien,” Rhys said, waving an idle hand back towards him as he moved to the door of the cell.

“And you, Rhys,” Lucien said, very quietly.

There was such emotion in that deep russet eye of his, that Rhys forced himself to winnow back to the party, before he did something incredibly stupid. Like kissing him.

***

Thanks for the prompt!! I hope you liked it!

[solaceinprose]

Spicy Takes: A Court of Mist And Fury

What up, gang?! It’s been a long hot minute of me posting anything here, and I’m truly sorry. I’m trying to get back into the swing of things, so what better way to dive back into Tumblr than talking about my latest read, a novel that is no stranger to most Booklr folks: A Court of Mist And Fury. I was a bit hesitant to say anything negative about this book because it’s pretty loved (at least based on all the fanart and other stuff I’ve seen posted on here), and I really do not want to invite a lot of yelling. But hey, this is my Tumblr, I can write what I want to write, so fuck it, let’s do this. 

It’s gonna be messy. Hang on tight.

Let me preface this to say that I had neutral feelings about A Court of Thorns And Roses. I had no opinion of Tamlin, had become slightly warmed up to Feyre, and really enjoyed Lucien’s wit. I’ll be the first to admit that I wanted to set Rhysand on fire, especially over the fact that he forced a kiss on Feyre. I tried to remain open minded when the book ended, and it was going to be pretty obvious that I was going to have to deal with Rhysand for book 2. I glanced at the monstrosity that is ACoMAF, took a deep breath, and dove in, head first.

Woo, what a mistake.

I would really love to sit Sarah J Maas down, look her right in the face, and ask, “Do I look stupid to you?” That is the only reason I can ascertain as to why, WHY, she felt I needed to be manipulated as a reader into thinking that Feyre/Rhysand were The Ultimate OTP.  I have never seen an author try to shove a ship down the readers’ throat as I did with Feyre/Rhysand. Woo boy, did she shove.

Now, SJM could have had F/R be end game from the beginning. I don’t read about her, I don’t read about her books, I don’t care. What I choose to believe is that while she was writing Book 1, she started creating Rhysand, went, “Oh, I like him so much better”, and decided that Feyre needed to be with him. And you know what? I would have been absolutely okay with this. I didn’t care about Feyre/Tamlin as a couple so no love loss there. If they had merely realized that they didn’t actually love each other (LMAO AT AMARANTHA BEING SO FUCKING RIGHT), promised to be friends, Feyre decided to keep her bargain with Rhys and slowly (slooooooooooooooooooooowly) started falling in love, I’d have been like “AH WHAT A FANTASTIC FUCKING BOOK.”

That is not what SJM did.

Instead, she decided to butcher TWO characters for the sake of propping Rhys up on this pedestal of “Perfect Mate to Ever Have Mated” and how he was so perfect for Feyre. Instead of acknowledging that Tamlin went through some shit, SJM just goes, “Hm, you’re a dick now. You, too, Lucien.” And then we’re left with the shitpile of the first few chapters of Mist and Fury only to think and believe that the rest of the book was this gradual build up to the Epic Romance of Fay-Ruh and Rhys.

The comparing between Tamlin and Rhys by Feyre was SJM’s sleight of hand into making the reader believe that it only ever made sense that R/F end up together. Tamlin never let her leave the house. Tamlin never listened to her. Tamlin never helped her when she was puking her guts up. Tamlin *HORRIFIED GASP* locked Feyre in the house! HOW FUCKING DARE HE. Don’t get me wrong, this was absolutely 100% shitty of him, but this is was the choice that SJM decided to go with his character. Instead of touching on his own trauma and PTSD, she just obliterated him in the single stroke of a key.  

In comes Rhysand. Rhysand listened to Feyre. Rhysand let her do her own thing. Rhysand let her train. Rhysand soothed her while she was puking her guts out. Rhysand never locked her up and let her be part of the plans. Oh, look at how broke both Feyre and Rhysand are that clearly their broken piece are meant to be together! Isn’t that just the fucking sweetest thing ever?!

And them being a bonded pair?

Give me a goddamn fucking break.

Also, SJM, if you’re going to have Feyre discuss how she probably jumped into a thing with Tamlin based on her trauma history, having her “fall in love” with Rhys within two months of her experiencing even more trauma is lazy writing. Is lazy and clearly biased writing, and I’m not here for this.

I’m going to give Book 3 a shot (how the fuck is it even longer?!), but I’m pretty certain that the only beings I’ll care about are The Inner Circle and Rhys (barely).

Feyre can go jump into the same pit she killed the wyrm in.

[msshadowqueen]

That Solstice scene :(((

@zenkindoflove I'm sorry for this one... @achaotichuman will probably love it though. Lucien closed his eyes shut, trying to shut down all the feeling in his body, his mind. But he felt everything, as if someone were poking him with hot iron rods. He writhed in his bed, trying to control the urges his body were feeding him. His hands clutched the covers, his teeth gritted with the effort to stay in bed. It took every bit of willpower he'd ever had in his life to resist the urge to storm into that hall and rip Azriel to shreds. He knew he would win. He knew Azriel was terrified of fire, and his mated rage would do the rest. But he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't hurt him, even though his body screamed bloody murder. He would endure, as he'd endured every time he'd come across that slimy worm Graysen in the human lands. He'd swallow his screams because he was a gentleman. But sometimes he was so tired of being the nice guy. Sometimes, he longed to do something crazy and rip people to shreds, like he had done that day in Hybern when he'd rushed to see if Elain was ok. But his crazy had only done him a disservice with Amarantha. His eye. The stinging crack of the whip as Tamlin was forced to hurt him. And as he sensed her arousal, he couldn't control the low growl that slipped from his lips. He was going to feel it; every moment of her fucking that Illyrian brute, and he'd have to stay silent because he knew she needed space, not an overbearing mate snapping at her not to do whatever she pleases... He entertained himself by imagining himself destroying Azriel, tearing his throat out with his teeth. His entire body heated up, and got up, realizing he'd burned his sheets to cinders. He couldn't endure this. He had to winnow away before he folded to his instincts and ripped Azriel's heart straight out of his chest. But then... He felt Elain's hurt and embarrassment, heard the murmured conversation and realized something had stopped them. Not something-someone. Lucien gripped his face so hard that it was miracle his skin didn't peel off. He'd wanted to kill Azriel for daring to touch Elain, and now he wanted to kill him even more for daring to hurt Elain's feelings without apologizing. He slipped out of his room, following the scent of the shadowsinger. Lucien's anger faded slightly, replaced by surprise at Rhysand scolding Azriel. Rhysand had always seemed as if he barely tolerated him, but perhaps this...meant he was warming up to him. "You believe you deserve to be her mate?" "I think Lucien will never be good enough for her, and she has no interest in him, anyway." Lucien laughed under his breath. He always knew that Azriel disliked him, but this was downright pathetic. Lucien had nothing and no one. He had a mate who avoided him at all costs, and even that Azriel wished to take from him. News flash, Azriel: Lucien might not be good enough for her, but neither was he. "I'll defeat him with little effort." Good lord, did he truly believe that? Did he forget that he fears fire? Did he forget the strength of a mated male's rage? Did he forget what Lucien had survived? "So you will leave Elain alone. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her." Lucien bared his teeth in a feral smile, some savage part of him quelled thanks to Rhysand's interference. And that line...Lucien couldn't have said it better himself. How dare he treat Elain like a prostitute? No one understood the pain Lucien was in better than Rhysand himself. Perhaps, at last, he was beginning to sway the members of the Night Court to not treat him like dog shit. He tried not to think about Elain, resisting the urge to rush to Elain and make sure she's ok, to embrace her and kiss her troubles away. He'd endure this, just as he'd endured Beron, as he'd endured Amarantha, as he'd endured Tamlin, as he'd endured Ianthe, as he'd endured the Inner Circle.

[separatist-apologist]

Ohh i saw your reblog on Jurian, Miryam and Drakon thing. Yessss, I love him. Like he is a general, he had lives long enough and actually see the rest of the HL grow old and almost half of them were barely in their 20s, 30s when Jurian were in the war and the whole Cythia thing. I mean, the respect he had gained during that time? And his name must-have pass among human as a legend? Come on, give this human a lott of credit and respect. He deserves it and to have his lover TURNED her back from him. Lord, this man got patience. As he lives with lucien as the band of exile right, I wonder if Lucien went dumbstruck one day and be: "Couldron, this must be one reason why this old man is kept alive 500 years" and secretly respect him. I cant with Jurian, it is so sad and tragic. He is the man that has live too long to be consider as human and nothing about him fit as a fae.

He lost his lover, the people he had love were no longer exist, trapped as a ring, raised from the dead and brought again to life. I mean, if i am him, I will carry a small calendar with me to remember this is no longer 500 years back when humans were slaved then slapped anyone dared to say no to me.

I think what annoys me about the Jurian narrative is the framing. All humans are slaves or slave adjacent when Jurian is born. He stages a successful uprising and is actively fighting back and keeping the worst of Hyberns commanders at bay with no magic.

Myriam comes to him when he's out in the Dead Lands or whenever. It's not like Drakon did her any favors by freeing her. He's just like, good luck. Whats stopping anyone else from harming her? Enslaving her? It's not as if she has any true rights.

She joins the army as a healer. Other Prythian territories, like Beron Vanserra (known terrible person) + Rhysands father (also known bag of dick's) are in this war. Spring is aiding Hybern, you have to assume the weren't the only ones. Day Court was also on the side of humans but the rest? Unclear.

And what irks me is that the slavery + war is written to show Rhys is a good person without confronting how utterly horrific the whole thing is to start with. Look at this good dude fighting for liberty. But SJM has effectively centered the oppressor in her own fight and demonized Jurian for what?

Killing slave owner Clythia? I wish he would have killed more. Myriam encourages him to do it, which I imagine felt akin to selling your soul and while he's trying to fight a war, Drakon has arrived. Not because it's the right thing to do but because he can't stop thinking about Myriam. She's his mate and now this has another fucking layer of terrible to it.

Myriam is very clear she ends things with Jurian before running off with Drakon and Jurian is suddenly the Tamlin in the Feysand retelling, only if Tamlin had been fighting to keep monsters from enslaving everyone and now Feysand is mad about his methods.

The last time anyone sees Jurian, he's taking on Amarantha on his own. Drakon and Myriam LEAVE. Close their borders and just go. And when Jurian returns, everyone is so worried he's gonna be mean to her like idk I think Myriam deserved to hear some criticism for her choices, if nothing else. They got painted as friends and for what? Having to be begged to do the bare minimum AGAIN? Lucien Vanserra had to drag them kicking and screaming out of their fucking hole and they get to lecture people on morality?

Part of it is just SJM does not think about the indications of this sort of shit which is why I LAUGH when people are like, there are breadcrumbs HIDDEN like baby this isn't a TSwift album. She doesn't even flesh out her magic system and routinely paints her rebels as the villains if they hurt their oppressors feelings (crescent city).

Look. If it were me and the dude who'd been a magic ring for 500 years were brought back by the same people who trapped him in the ring, I'd be fucking suspicious that maybe he was mad. MAYBE he was up to something. Maybe they were not pals.

And literally everyone in ACOWAR was like "Jurian is helping Hybern, makes total sense"

In what fucking world?