#❛ human heart ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron body claim. )

[starseternelle]

" the legends will sing of the first high lady of prythian. cursebreaker, huntress, human. "

[ non-mutuals and personals do not interact ]

[ircnwrought]

f.eyre tag dump

❛ high lady of the night court ❜ ▬ ( freya mavor as feyre archeron. ) ❛ stars eternal ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron aesthetic. ) ❛ the dreams that are answered ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron desires. ) ❛ human heart ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron body claim. ) ❛ the huntress finds her mark ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron meme. ) ❛ if she dared ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron headcanon. ) ❛ darkness stared back ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron appearance. ) ❛ beating drums lead home ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron music. ) ❛ survivor ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron musings. ) ❛ master of everything ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron gif. ) ❛ clothed in stars ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron wardrobe. ) ❛ whisper of darkness ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron quote. ) ❛ city of starlight ❜ ▬ ( feyre archeron world. ) otp: the wait was worth it (rhysand x feyre) otp: thorns and all (tamlin x feyre)

[separatist-apologist]

Amber Skies

Summary: Feyre Archeron has watched her sisters find happiness with creatures she once believed dead and has decided she doesn't want it.

Her mate intends to change her mind

Part Four of the Dragons Series | Read on AO3 | Wonderland | A Mythical Thing | A Fragile Little Flame

-

Feyre wrapped a blanket around her body, wishing someone would come and light the fireplace. In her mind, she could see her parents moving through the once opulent bedroom, fussing over the flames while a servant slid a warm bottle of water beneath the sheets to ensure she stayed warm at night. Feyre used to kick at the blankets—careful not to let her bare toes touch the heated water—as she insisted she didn’t mind a little cold.

She minded now. Just like she minded the dark and the silence. Elain was gone and Nesta, too, though Nesta came by more often than Elain. Their meetings were fraught and tense, leaving Feyre more determined than ever. It was that determination that had convinced the blue scaled dragon to bring her back.

Just for the night, she’d lied. If he’d known, he hadn’t said. He’d merely nodded, shifting into a massive, scaled creature and bowing so she could clamber awkwardly onto his back. If he’d come back, Feyre didn’t know. The moment her feet had touched the ground she’d gone off running for the house. Everything was locked, the curtains drawn tight, though Feyre knew that wasn’t enough to stop someone.

How long before they found her? Before they found Tamlin’s body and realized who it must have been that killed him? The humans would be in an uproar made worse if they realized it was her sister, emblazoned with red scales, that had done it.

Better she take the fall. Let Nesta live, let her sisters be happy. They’d make an example of her, lock her away for the rest of her life but Feyre could handle it. She would handle it. There had been enough horrors enacted against her family in the last year and Feyre was ready to see it end. 

Curling tighter in her chair, Feyre wished she could sleep. The looming ax over her throat made it impossible for her to relax. Every creaking board, every rattling window betrayed the violent mob that was approaching, determined to see her suffer.

The wind ghosted against the house as the steps outside her bedroom groaned softly. Beneath her blanket, Feyre held a sharp blade so tightly her palms sweat. Feyre might have written off the sounds of the house as just old bones rattling had something—or someone—not crashed loudly against the wall just beyond her bedroom door. A rough, masculine voice swore softly, betraying his presence.

Feyre sighed. “Go away, Rhysand.”

Feyre drew the blanket closer, hoping to hide the arm marked with the scrawling black magic that marked her as thoroughly as any scales might. It was inhuman and therefore other—something Tamlin would have noticed had they ever been married. That wouldn’t matter, now.

Feyre kept waiting for the grief of his death to hit her.

It never did. 

Even as Rhys stepped into the dark, half obscured by shadows, Feyre felt nothing at all. No sadness, no anger—just a cold numbness that threatened to overwhelm her. Feyre did wish Rhys would leave, if only because she knew what he was looking at. As those violet eyes pinned her in place, she knew he wasn’t seeing just his supposed mate, but everything else, too.

And it angered him.

Jamming his hands in his pockets, Rhys murmured, “I was told you were in Windhaven.”

Feyre’s heart picked up, just a little. “I was,” she replied, her voice flat and toneless even to her own ears. 

“Azriel said you didn’t meet him when he came to bring you back,” Rhys continued, his own voice carefully neutral. “He was concerned you were injured.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Rhys replied, daring a step toward her. “You’ve decided to stay in this rotting house? Is that it?”

Was hatred an emotion? Feyre felt it right then, looking up at this supposed king, this man who had a claim to her before she’d ever gotten a chance to get to know him. There was no escaping him—Feyre knew it. 

“Go away.”

“You and I have an arrangement, Feyre darling,” he replied smoothly, coming closer still. 

“Rhys—”

“I’m calling it in.”

“It’s one week a month,” Feyre hissed, scrambling out of her chair just as Rhys lunged for her. She was too tired to truly fight him even with her knife, of which he removed rather easily. The metal clattered to the ground as Rhys hauled her against his chest, his heart pounding hard enough she could feel it against her spine.

“You don’t eat, you don’t sleep,” he growled, sounding less like the composed man she was used to and more like a beast, “you refuse safety and warmth and now you sit in this rotting house waiting for certain death—”

“That’s my right!”

“It’s not,” he replied darkly, lips pressed to her ear. “I won’t allow it. I’m calling our bargain in now.”

“I’ll be back in a week,” she spat, twisting until she managed to elbow him in the stomach. Rhys exhaled roughly but didn’t release her.

“I said one week for the rest of your life, never when those weeks had to happen,” Rhys replied with a savage looking smile. 

“I might die tomorrow—”

“You won’t,” he replied, cracking his neck, “because you’re going back to Windhaven. There is nowhere safer in the world.”

“I’ll run away again—”

“Oh? Will you? Because I think a light breeze could blow you off course. Where are you going, Feyre? The treetops?”

“I hate you.”

“So long as you’re alive, I don’t care what you feel for me.”

“That’s not what you said—”

“I know what I said,” he replied, his words low and lethal. “I meant every one of them. Now. Are you going to come willingly, or are you going to give me the excuse I’ve been looking for to destroy this house.”

“I’ll never go anywhere with you,” Feyre lied. It was a lie the minute she spoke them, one she knew Rhys clocked the moment she said them. His grip shifted, more gentle than before, hauling her up so she was curled against his body. 

“I’d put you on my back but I’m afraid you’d let go,” he whispered, his expression creased with concern. She knew what he wanted her to say—that she’d hold tight, that he could trust her. But the truth was Rhys could not trust Feyre anymore than she trusted herself. Sometimes she thought it would be better for everyone if she did just let go.

Rough fingers found her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Don’t you ever think that,” he whispered, his anger a blazing inferno. “Not for one second.”

All the fight rushed out of Feyre, leaving her exhausted instead. It was tempting to tell Rhys she wanted to go home—wherever that was—and she was terrified of where he’d take her. Some horrible cell where he locked her up and did whatever he liked with her, most likely. That’s what had happened to Elain and Nesta, wasn’t it? They’d never admit it, of course, but she’d watched Elain hauled away only to return pregnant and preaching the good word of these monsters.

Nesta, too. But Feyre had seen Windhaven—a veritable paradise in comparison to the lives she and her sisters had been living—and she knew the truth. They’d hidden until it was convenient and when it stopped, they’d return to their utopia once again.

Rhys sighed, pulling her from her thoughts. A moment later Feyre was tucked into a large, taloned hand as Rhys threw out dark wings to shield her from the raining debris of stone and wood.

“Rhys—”

He gave her no opportunity to speak the rest of her words. Rhys pushed off the ground, taking the roof with him as they soared into the air. Feyre twisted as the house beneath her began to cave in on itself, reduced to little more than thorny rubble. It had been the jewel of her family estate, the once proud Archeron family now nothing more than dirt and weeds. Feyre had to look away, hiding her face in her shoulder as though that would keep the tears from falling.

Their family was little more than faded ruined memories. Elain was never coming back and neither was Nesta. It had been a fool's hope to think she could keep her mothers memory alive. That she could marry Tamlin, merge their homes, and somehow keep it all going. Feyre knew her parents would be disappointed by what they saw, were they alive to see it. Her father would be wrecked to learn the life Elain was living. No longer the pretty society girl he’d raised her to be, but chasing after chickens and sewing pants for a man who routinely forgot to put them on.

And Nesta, who had been raised to marry a great lord—maybe even a prince—with some warrior creature more at home with weapons than courtly dance. 

No one could say Feyre hadn’t tried, though.

Though she was certain they would.

RHYS:

He could smell the salt in the air, could feel the warmth of Feyre’s tears dripping against his leg. Rhys was desperate to set her down anywhere and wipe her face, to hold her in his hands and demand to know who, exactly, had caused those tears and then rip them apart with his teeth. 

Rhys didn’t stop flying, flapping frantically to put as much distance between himself and the humans as possible. And he didn’t try to console her, either.

After all, he was the reason for those tears and he knew it. He could hardly rip himself apart, as much as she might enjoy it.

As much as he might deserve it. 

Rhys considered taking Feyre to Windhaven before he thought better of it. Nesta would be there, and though Feyre might take comfort in her sister's presence, she might also just find another place to hide. Rhys was far too selfish to pretend her happiness was all that mattered to her.

Nesta had killed a human—that was going to be blamed on them. But Feyre didn’t have to know that. 

Let her think they were looking for her just long enough to heal and rest. Rhys could figure it out later. He needed…he needed to go somewhere else. He’d sworn to bring back that missing princess, why not start there? Rhys knew Eris was likely half way back to his own kingdom by then and catching him was likely to result in a brutal and bloody fight. 

He could lie, though. 

A pang of fear bolted through his stomach. Cassian. Cassian would not forgive another lie and Rhys didn’t have it in him to lie to his only friend in the world. He was close enough he could send a message.

Feyre is safe. I’m taking her with me to find that princess. Keep the palace in order while I’m gone.

There was a beat in which Cassian absorbed the words. Breathlessly, even in his mind, Cassian agreed.

Are you okay? 

Rhys didn’t want to think about why he was breathless so late. Rhys only felt jealousy. All the others had found their mates and made them theirs but he…he couldn’t make it work. Peering through the darkness, he saw how Feyre curled around herself, careful not to touch him except where she had to. She didn’t want him and maybe she never would.

I will be.

That was it. Cassian wished him luck before pushing him out and Rhys was happy to let him go. He didn’t think he would be fine if, at the end of this excursion, Feyre still hated him. If he couldn’t pull her out of the horrible place she’d sunken into—one in which she loudly wished she wasn’t alive.

Rhys’s heart thudded wildly in his head as he turned away from the forest route that Eris had almost certainly taken. He wasn’t going to stop him—that was a war Eris could fight on his own. Rhys had been trying to make peace happen, to do what no other dragon had been able to do before him.

But maybe his soldiers had a point. Maybe Cassian had a point. After all…look at what they’d done to Feyre. Had any human females escaped their violence? Rhys tried to wrack his mind, but none came to mind. 

“Where are you taking us?” Feyre shouted, her voice clear over the wind. Rhys could hear the words echoing in her mind as they sailed over the inky, violet sea. He knew she didn’t want him in her head, and yet he couldn’t stop himself.

Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. 

That’s all he’d tell her for the moment. She was already frustrated with him, her thoughts bouncing between abject hatred and not caring at all. Hatred was an emotion, was proof that beneath all her grief, Feyre was still in there somewhere. 

Still fighting. 

His relief loosened the knot that had formed in his stomach, silencing some of his fears. The day Feyre no longer had the energy to hate him was the day he needed to be worried. For now, all he had to do was bring her back to life—just enough that when they returned to Velaris, she wasn’t willing to roll over and show her belly to some flat faced male. 

Feyre writhed in his foot, her thoughts swinging wildly from fear of falling in the water and frustration he was taking her somewhere and wouldn’t tell her where. Rhys merely listened to the bouncing thoughts as he sailed through the chilly air, wishing he’d brought a blanket for her.

He didn’t dare tell her, but Rhys was taking her to the very place his father had once hidden his mother. It was a beautiful, elaborate prison. Meant to hide his female from the rest of the world, to keep her from experiencing the same fate so many others had.

It had, ultimately, failed. His mother had left on the same wings that had brought her to the island, afraid for the young son she’d left behind. Rhys had been fine, paraded about as a human boy that would one day rule humans as their king. 

She’d been slaughtered in front of him—he hadn’t been able to help even if he’d wanted to. He’d been restrained by his fathers magic, forced to watch the spectacle while his father warned him that this might be him should he intervene. 

Coward.

He’d screamed it in his mind then, and he thought it now, too. Rhys knew, if it was him, he’d have risked everything for his mate. He’d never wanted to rule so desperately he’d watch Feyre die. Maybe some of this was their fault—maybe the males of the past hadn’t loved their females as much as they claimed.

He couldn’t prove that. Maybe his father had merely been forced between his son and mate and had made the agonizing choice between the two. Rhys didn’t want to imagine that—what he’d do, who he’d let die. Was he an option? 

Rhys banished those thoughts from his mind, instead sending a trailing of magic ahead to ignite the palace that lay dark in the distance. Feyre’s mind silenced for a moment, her wonder filling his chest as she took it in.

I never knew there was this kind of beauty in the world, she thought. She hadn’t meant to send it to him, but she had. It was a violation of her will and he knew it, and yet Rhys couldn’t help but send some of the music that had once played there back when it was fully staffed. Let her imagine it as it once was. How he wished it still was.

Feyre relaxed against him, pressing her temple to his foot. While she daydreamed, Rhys began to bring them closer, wings sailing against the wind until he could smell the loamy earth beneath. Rhys was gentle, landing one legged so he couldn’t accidentally crush her. He released her, then, into the damp, slightly sandy earth just outside the courtyard. The garden within would be dead—no one had been inside the walls in centuries, and he rarely came anymore.

Too many ghosts wandered the halls. 

He was himself a moment later, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket while Feyre looked around. Her hair was a wild mass of tangles and curls framing her gaunt face, hollow eyes almost bright enough to drown out the stars above. Pale, pink lips parted as she turned, looking into the distance at the tall peaks of the jagged hillside.

There had been life here, once. Dragons who preferred life far away from the bustle of Velaris or Windhaven—who liked how life moved slower out in the Illyrian Islands. They’d lost so much and there were so few left who remembered—even Rhys scarcely did, and he’d spent the first ten summers of his life in this place. 

“This way,” he said, opening a rusting gate that bore two large dragons just on top of its iron arches. If Feyre looked, Rhys didn’t notice—he was trying hard not to pay close attention, to see if she noticed the things he loved. How she viewed them. He’d already shut her out of his mind, pulling the walls up so tight that no one and nothing could get past.

It would break his heart to hear she hated this place. 

The lights offered a little respite from the gloom, though it also made the shadows come alive. Every ruined tree with its spindly fingers and long, twisting arms, seemed to reach for the pair of them. Every shattered window, every creaking hinge was an omen spelling out his doom.

You shouldn’t have returned here.

There was nowhere else to go.

—

Feyre didn’t want to admit she liked the sprawling, dilapidated palace Rhys had brought her to. He clearly didn’t, if the frown gracing his features was any indication. They weren’t permitted to stop and look at any of the features she found so charming. Was this one of his homes? His original home, perhaps? 

Everything smelled old, though not in an unpleasant way. Rather than the scent of death and decay, it merely had the touch of something ancient and forgotten—like a lost library, perhaps. She’d never seen anything like it—from the intricate carvings worn away by time to the stained glass windows half ruined from the weather—and despite how much she disliked Rhysand, this place made the yawning ache in her chest feel less hollow. 

She hadn’t wanted to leave the house she’d been born in. Feyre felt like she deserved to die there, too. She felt closer to her mother there, and the promise she’d made—and ultimately failed to make good on—all those years ago. Elain and Nesta were gone, happy in their new, strange lives.

Tamlin was dead.

She couldn’t go back. Even if there had been anything waiting for her, Feyre couldn’t. Not without submitting herself to the same justice that had begun this civil war—human men, bent on both punishing women and appeasing the old gods, and their warped sense of righteousness. She’d be found responsible for Tamlin’s death as his soon-to-be-wife. 

Maybe that’s what she deserved.

Rhys didn’t bother giving her a tour. He was silent, his boots hitting the stone in a rhythmic pattern, creating a steady beat in which her heart seemed to match. He paused at the end of a long hall—one of the nicer ones they’d walked down since arriving—and pushed open a door that featured a dragon shaped door handle.

“Your room,” he said, revealing a space so lovely and grand that Feyre nearly choked on her own spit. The windows were all intact, the large bed seemingly mostly dust free, and the ornamentation inside still in good condition. Feyre turned to say something to him, but he was gone, vanishing into mist and shadow before a kind word could escape her lips.

That was for the best, she decided as she stepped into the brightly lit room. She knew she wasn’t going to say anything kind to him. Feyre latched the heavy, golden bolt on the door before turning around to really drink it all in. There were little cobwebs in the corners, and the desk set against one the arching windows had such a thick layer of dust covering it that it took three passes with her finger to see the gleaming mahogany beneath. Opening the drawers, Feyre found old ink pots, their contents dried and flaking inside, and feathered pens that were ruined by time.

A chamber beneath the last drawer revealed a false bottom and a little latch that had likely been hidden once upon a time. Feyre pulled it, her curiosity getting the better of her, to find a worn, leather bound book.

She had no right to read it, of course…and yet she took it out, not unwinding the ribbon that kept the two covers together, and slid it beneath one of the ivory covered pillows on the bed. She’d pour through it later and find all Rhysand’s secrets she could leverage against him should she ever need to. 

There were no clothes in the drawers or the empty armoire, which did hold several sets of silk sheets and blankets to change out the bed with. She found clothing in a silver trunk at the end of the bed, carved with more figures of dragons taking flight. Unlatching the ruby clasp, she found beautiful dresses that must have been hand sewn with intricate beading and lace work. They’d been protected from the gathering dust and elements, and when Feyre pulled out the top gown, she nearly wept at the easy beauty.

Who had made them?

Where had everyone gone? 

Was it truly so easy to wipe out an entire species? The dragons seemed so terrifying to her, she couldn’t imagine any of them losing a war to humans. Even knowing there were so few left, Feyre believed they must have just left it all behind and started somewhere a little more hospitable.

She hung the delicate gowns up on satin covered hangers, admiring each gown like it was a priceless piece of art. The colors didn’t exist in the fashion color palette anymore—moody blues and icy grays coupled with buttery yellows and floral pinks and purples mixed with mossy greens and wine red maroons. Every season hung in that armoire, the gowns ranging for those fit for a queen to the everyday garb. 

Feyre took out a lacy night dress and hung it over her shoulder as she made her way to the bathing chamber. The tub overlooked the same sea her bedroom did, and as she waited to see if the water would heat itself, having washed out the tub as best she could with her hand, she opened a window to listen to the waves crash against the shore. 

She sat naked on the lip of the tub, thinking of the last trip her family had ever taken to the beach. She barely remembered it—she couldn’t have been older than four or five. In her mind, the echoes of Elain’s screeching laughter and Nesta’s bossy tone demanding she stop running so far into the surf bounced around her skull. She could remember her toes in the sand. 

Feyre wanted to feel it again. 

The water was lukewarm at best, and still better than the frigid ice water she’d been using back home. There was no soap, so Feyre merely rinsed herself off as best she could before air drying in the cool night. She flung on the dress and then practically ran from the room. Did she remember the way back out? No, Feyre didn’t. She took a wrong turn down one of the dimly lit halls, her bare feet silent against the moonstone below. Pushing open a door she hoped would lead her outside, Feyre, instead, found herself in a strange room. It was nearly dark, though she found a dusty candle that smelled faintly of vanilla, and managed to lift herself up high enough to ignite the wick with one of the sconces in the hall. From there, Feyre went candle to candle until the room was better lit, though the long shadows of the furniture, covered beneath white sheets, seemed to stretch in every direction.

Weaving in and out of the furniture, which seemed to have been shoved in haphazardly at a later date, she found easels. Pulling the white sheets from them, Feyre was delighted to find artwork peering back at her. Most of it were pastoral scenes—rolling hills framed beneath stormy skies or wide beams of light reflecting off the expanse of ocean below.

But others were of him. A little boy with inky hair and golden brown skin. With those unmistakable, violet eyes, peering back at Feyre seriously, not a laugh line to be found. There was no joy on his face, none of the mirth she could find even in her own childhood. Just a boy, often alone with no background to anchor him. It was as if the artist painted him from memory, and every memory they had was of a sad child.

Feyre dug around, her excitement overwhelming her. If there had been an artist, then surely they’d left behind paint? She couldn’t remember the last time she had any—it must have been years. Before Elain had been stolen away and the dragons had come, at least. Everything before that had been about survival. 

Taking her candle, Feyre moved around the piles of boxes and sheets until she found the tins she was looking for. They’d dried out over time, but a little water extracted from her own bathroom brought them back with relative ease.

“Oh,” she whispered softly, dipping her finger into a pot of red paint. It was diluted and not as vibrant as she would have liked. A little chunky, likely expired and still…better than anything she’d seen in a long time. 

Was it wrong to finish the portrait of Rhys? A defilement of the original memory? Wind flooded the room for just a moment, rustling the canvas and her hair as if to say, do it. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. Maybe Rhys would see it and be irate she’d dared. She kept waiting for that flash of temper, for his raised voice, his bruising knuckles kissed over her cheek.

After all, Tamlin had once wanted to take care of her, too. 

She lost track of time, using her dull colors to try and draw some emotion out of the sad boy. The background became as moody as his morose expression, anchoring him in his grief. What had happened to him, she wondered? Was this after he lost his family? When he’d decided to pretend to be a human, reshaping the reality of the people around him to forget what he was and that he’d ever truly existed?

Feyre felt pity in those final strokes. The paint was streaky, with little droplets staining his jacket and face. In a way, it looked as if the whole world mourned with him. Though it wasn’t her best work, it was the first bit of painting she’d been able to do in a long time. She’d get better with more practice.

The joy she’d felt while painting had brought back all the pain she’d been squashing. Feyre rose, the emotions sloshing around her chest. It was too much—the feeling of being a failure, the broken heart of loving a man who’d never loved her back, of losing her sisters when she needed them. All of it came crashing against her, nearly toppling her with its ferocity. 

Feyre stumbled into the hall, trying to catch her breath as panic began to set in. She was still alone, still isolated and now she was trapped with a man who’d stolen her away with ease. There was no escaping, and the thought of spending her time here made her way to scream.

She turned, finding herself face to face with the very man himself. Rhysand halted, eyes round and wide as he took her in. He…he wasn’t wearing clothes, she realized. She’d never seen the purple marks inked along his skin. They swirled along his broad shoulders and down his toned chest before making their way over his biceps. What did they mean, she wondered? 

Feyre had forgotten what she was doing as her eyes dipped down the muscular plane of his stomach, following the inky trail of hair just beneath his navel to what hung between his legs.

That was inked, too. 

Oh.

“Feyre,” Rhys said, his voice strange and hoarse. Her eyes immediately found his face again, embarrassment crawling up her neck. “You’re awake.”

“I…” she didn’t know how to tell him she hadn’t been sneaking out, but merely exploring. He took a step toward her, hand outstretched and Feyre panicked, scrambling backward so quickly she slipped on the slick floors and fell on her ass.

He stopped. “You have paint on your cheek,” he whispered. Her fingers flew upward, likely smearing it over her skin. 

“Oh,” she whispered again. “I…don’t have soap.”

He nodded, running a hand through his thick hair. Did he notice he was naked? In the vague recesses of her mind, Feyre seemed to remember this was part of their culture as explained by a furiously blushing Elain. He held his ground as she stool back up, fingers balled to fists at his sides.

Was he angry? Feyre couldn’t tell. 

“I’ll…I’ll get you what you need,” he said, eyes still lingering on her face. Feyre forced herself not to look at any other part of him, slipping around his body. He didn’t touch her, rigid as she went. She couldn’t explain why, but she’d expected him to—had waited to feel his hands grab her, to pull her against him and force her to look at him.

When she looked over her shoulder at the end of the hall, Rhys was gone. She still locked her door that night, but in the morning when she woke, bleary eyed and exhausted, all she found was a basket of toiletries.

And tin, upon tin, of fresh paint.

—-

Rhys couldn’t get the painting out of his mind. His mother had painted in her final lonely year, her hands arthritic from all the sewing she’d done. He didn’t know if painted helped with that—if it alleviated any of the ache or merely exacerbated it. Once she’d died, his father hadn’t been able to stand looking at them and had it all covered. 

Seeing Feyre with a smudge of blue on her cheek had reminded him of his mother. He hadn’t even known she liked to paint, let alone that she had any skill. She’d taken his mothers grief and anchored it into reality, making him feel real rather than a specter.

He wanted to tell her that, but when he’d reached out his hand toward her the night before, Feyre had gone flying back, eyes wide with fear. Better to just show her what it meant to him. He couldn’t sleep, besides, so he’d flown back and ransacked a local artisan, leaving gold coins behind so the theft wasn’t felt so heavily. 

He’d spent the rest of the night trying to clear the cobwebs from the palace. How had Lucien done it, he wondered? He’d built a whole house with his bare hands, but Rhys could barely work a broom. It irritated him. He wanted to be useful to his mate, but all his skill lay in governing rather than building.

He was going to have to ask for help, and the more people he brought to the palace, the more people and places Feyre would have to hide. For now, he’d simply have to figure it out. There was a library, after all, containing all the knowledge his people had left behind. Their stories, their craftsmanship, their politics—all lay in the still intact library in the east wing of the palace. 

He’d gone looking for help cutting glass and had fallen asleep sprawled out in a chair, basking in a beam of light like he was more lizard than man.

Maybe he was.

“Do you ever wear clothes?” Feyre’s voice pulled him from sleep, her outrage almost pleasant. More emotion, which was better than no emotion at all.

“When I’m forced to,” he replied, not bothering to open his eyes. He liked her eyes on him and wished she’d take her clothes off, too.

Or, that’s what he thought until he finally opened them. Feyre stood, arms crossed over her chest, wearing a mossy colored dress his mother had made. He knew that style of beading, remembered how fashionable a tapered waist and flared sleeves had once been. Feyre was just a little too thin for it, collarbone jutting just above the neckline as the heavy fabric hung from her frame.

She needed to eat. 

The hollows and shadows in her expression made Rhys wonder if Tamlin had done more than hit her. Would Nesta have told him if he had? Rhys didn’t know how to ask, though he did understand how casually cruel human males could be. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, rising to his feet. He kept his desire leashed close so his body didn’t betray him. Feyre’s eyes drifted just as they had the night before, gaze lingering on his cock just long enough to make him think she lacked experience. Rhys’s relief was palpable, though he wouldn’t totally relax until he heard her speak the words from her own lips.

“I…” pink flooded her cheeks. “I’m lost.”

“Ah. Well…how about a tour?” he suggested before the sound of her stomach reminded him that his mate needed to eat. “After breakfast.”

“I’m not eating with you,” she said sharply. Rhys knew an opponent when he saw one. She wanted a fight, did she? He’d give her a fight.

“Who else would you eat with?”

“Alone.”

“Oh, what fascinating company your thoughts must be,” he practically purred, brushing a magical talon against her mind. Feyre stiffened but didn’t move, eyes pinning him in place. Did she know he’d grovel at her feet if she asked? All to see her smile? Just one time—just once, and he’d leave her alone. 

She didn’t smile, which meant he didn’t need to leave her. “They’re more interesting than you.” He pressed a hand to his chest, letting it slide down to his stomach just so he could watch her gaze trail after it. 

Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react—

“My thoughts don’t irritate me,” Feyre informed him.

“I didn’t bring you here to eat alone,” he said, trying to tamp down the desire he felt. Was this why humans insisted on restrictive clothing? Rhys had never understood their version of civility—he’d merely played along. It occurred to him right then that trousers might hide his excitement, allowing him to feel desire without Feyre being immediately aware of it.

A few deep breaths left him totally flaccid and able to walk her through the palace to an area he’d cleaned out the evening before. The little balcony overlooked the water and was set up with food that a few bees were currently feasting on. Rhys waved his hand, scattering them before pulling out a white chair for Feyre to plop into.

She was going to make the most wonderful queen, he decided. Feyre would be his final compromise with the humans—they could be ruled by one of their females, or they could suffer the same fate his people had. The idea struck him just as the clouds parted, bathing her in warm, golden light from dawn. She looked regal—exquisite, even, and Rhys knew he needed to give her peace, even if it meant his hands were always coated in blood. 

Still, when the nobles saw how little manners they had, Rhys knew there would be multiple conversations about her suitability. Perhaps he’d eat one of them simply for suggesting it, just for fun.

Cassian might finally forgive him if he did. 

Rhys sat gracefully, making a show of putting his dusty cloth napkin over his lap. He swore her mouth twitched just as the corners. He’d get her. 

“Eat,” he urged, not wanting to admit that he’d stolen most of it. She didn’t ask, perhaps assuming he has some magical ability to conjure it. He could do a fair amount with his magic, but he wasn’t a god. Rhys was still forced to procure things just like everyone else.

Feyre took a bite of a waffle, eyes fluttering shut at whatever she tasted. Rhys held his breath, fork speared against a piece of fruit, as he waited. The noise she made was barely audible—the breathiest moan that shot straight to his cock. She liked it.

Thank the stars, he thought with relief. She took another bite before he did, reaching for a piece of cooked ham and scooping fruit onto her plate. She was merely starving out of necessity and not some deeply held principle. Rhys could live with that, though just barely. 

Rhys ate slowly, watching each piece that went into her mouth. She didn’t seem interested in eggs or bread and seemed to truly enjoy the sugary waffles and donuts. What did he care what she ate, so long as she ate something? He’d get more of it, until he knew exactly what she liked. 

“Would you like–”

“No.”

Feyre set her fork down, one hand on her stomach. Rhys raised his brows, trying to swallow his disappointment. “No?”

“I don’t want to do anything with you.”

Ah. 

“The grounds are yours,” he said as if it didn’t hurt his feelings. Feyre shot him one last look before she rose, brushing non-existent crumbs from her lap. He watched her go, long hair swinging down her back. She was beautiful, he thought to himself as he banished his disappointment. She merely needed time to see he wasn’t like the other males. He could give that to her.

Rhys would give her anything she asked for.

[moonfawnx]

Hands touching, fingers entangling

Nyx Archeron x reader

Chapter 1

Nyx stared at her.

She stared right back.

“Take her to Azriel- she needs to be questioned” his father ordered the two guards.

His heart faltered.

Would they take her to dungeons? Put her in a cell?

Gods she was so small, she couldn’t be older than 25 if she was a human.

“Father” he interrupted them talking.

His father’s eyes met his own, as the narrowed.

A silent question, he realised.

“I can speak to her, instead of Azriel” he spoke, as bis eyer went to his mother, who was looking at him confused.

But as she saw his expression, one of stubbornness and surprise, she understood.

“But-“ his father tried to object, before he was silenced by the high lady.

“Rhys darling, our son is the heir- he needs to learn how to handle this stuff. Let him.” she smiled at her mate.

The pair seemed to have a silent conversation, before Rhys sighed and nodded, before Feyre winnowed him away.

Nyx ordered the guards away as well, claiming that he could handle the girl in front of him.

Or maybe he couldn’t.

As soon as the guards were out, before he could even register what was happening, she had landed a punch straight on his face.

“Were you the one to tell them?” she asked angrily “Were you the reason they caught me?”

Nyx held his nose, a shocked expression on his face as he stared at the female in front of him, scolding him as if he wasn’t the prince.

“I have no clue of what you’re talking about, my lady” he tried to contain his small grin at the human’s fierce.

She was silent as she looked around, inspecting every single detail of his home. Now that he was given a closest look at her, he made sure to admire all of her features, from her shiny hair, to her deep green eyes, her delicate hands, and very, very short legs. Probably due to humanity.

And then, just like that, she turned around and started walking away from him.

“Um, excuse me?” he rushed to her side but was given no attention “My lady, you cannot-“

A frustrated sigh left her lips as she turned and looked at him.

“Respectfully, prince”she gave him a tight smile “i do not wish to be chewed out for sneaking here”

“you won’t be” the words left his mouth quicker than he’d ever imagine. “I mean- it was wrong of course but…”

“But what?” her eyebrow rose, giving him a curious expression.

“But it was also very impressive. And you must have some guts to do that” he breathed out, as he finally really thought about what happened.

A human, that didn’t even reach his shoulders in height, whom looked no more that two decades old, had somehow managed to sneak and twist his father’s shields?

How was that even possible, and why was no one else freaked out?

She opened her mouth, to speak again, but a loud crush interrupted her.

Both their heads snapped towards the direction where the sound came from, only to come face with a very bloody Amren, surrounded by broken bottles, leaking of blood.

“Oh my gods” The girl breathed out, staring at the creature as if she’d seen a ghost.

Nyx quickly remembered, that not everyone was used to his blood-drinking aunt and her unnatural looks, especially not a young human girl who probably didn’t even know the name of the high lord.

But before he even had the chance to explain to the girl the speciality of his aunt, her body was on the floor, passed out.

-

It was hours later, that Y/n woke up in a strange bed, worryingly huge. Her eyes fluttered as she eyed the area around her, noting the dark walls, but the richness evident.

She heard a sound, coming from the door across the bed she was laying in, and then the beautiful man from later, headed towards her, giving her a slight smirk.

Worst of all, the closest thing to garments on him, was the towel wrapped around his waist, as droplets slid through his skin.

“Well, look who’s finally awake” he grinned, fangs flashing.

“Where am i?” was all she answered with.

“This is my bedroom” He replied simply, as if it wasn’t weird how a stranger was in his bed.

Without another word, Y/n was up, heading towards the door, before the princeling stopped her by grabbing her wrist softly.

“And where do you think you’re going beautiful?” he shamelessly grinned at the girl in front of him.

“Three seconds” she only said.

His grin turned into a look of confusion.

“What do you mean”

“One” she started counting, as Nyx looked at her amused.

“Two” she continued, giving him a stern look.

“Three!” the heir finished her counting for her. “What does this even mean-“ he tried to ask, but was too late, as the girl quickly grabbed one of the plates on his near night stand, and smashed it on him.

Absolute wild eyes stared at her, appalled by the hit, and even if he would never admit it, mad that he did not predict that.

His hand rubbed his nose, scrunching it in pain. “Now what was that for”

“Do not touch me again” she sais dryly, completely unaffected by the smack she had landed on him.

“And you couldn’t just say that?” The heir asked bewildered, and for whatever sick reason, felt a soft attraction towards the girl in front of him, due to her obvious to everyone beauty.

“I-“ she started, but instantly paused as her eyes landed on something behind Nyx, towards his balcony.

He turned to also understand what she was looking for, and came across a bloodied Cassian and Azriel sparring.

“My god-“ he heard her mutter, and a few seconds later, she was falling, having fainted again,

“Fucking gods” the heir mumbled, as he once again placed the girl on his bed and-

And fucking headed to take care of his stupid bloody nose she had given him.

-

A/N i am aware this is a very short chapter but trust me, the fun starts by the next chapter!

Taglist: @acourtofsmutandstarlight @writeroutoftime

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part III

Find Part I here :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge, huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who literally deserves all the credit and whose post inspired me to start writing this. I could not stop thinking about this head canon, and it was so kind of you to let me try and make a story from it :)

Tag List: @anishake

Part IV >>

The smell of copper, bitter and sharp, lingered in the air. 

It took Elain a moment to realise that it was blood, and it took her even longer to realise that it was her own. She released a shaky breath, loosening her clenched fists. Her nails had cut into the skin of her palms, perfect crescent moons, already healing.

The suite was poorly lit, as the whole of the Hewn City seemed to be, but in the dim faelight, Elain could just barely see her blood. Her brown eyes tracked the scarlet drops as they left small trails along the inside of her hands. 

Elain frowned as she watched the skin on her palms knit back together, her pain muted, unnatural when compared to her human aches and injuries. Elain was still in the Night Court, and already she was feeling incapable, useless. 

Eris had been very clear in his assertion that no other member from the Night Court would be allowed to join her, certainly neither one of the Archeron sisters. It had been enough for Elain to reconsider leaving with the Autumn prince, but she had not voiced her doubts out loud. 

“You can just as easily change your mind,” Azriel said gently. “No one would think any less of you for it.” His wings were tucked close to his body, making him smaller, less threatening. Concern was evident in the pull of his brows and in the tension of his shoulders. 

Azriel’s words were meant to be a comfort, Elain was sure, but the suggestion was enough to annoy her. She flashed him a friendly smile, her response simple. “I know.” Elain could tell that it was what he wanted to hear, that Azriel wouldn’t push her to further explain. 

“Why are you pacing?” Nesta asked from the Illyrian’s side. The tone of her voice was somewhat reproving, like she was catching her younger sister in a lie.  

Elain froze, pausing her movements. She hadn’t even realised she’d been walking in a constant back-and-forth. She straightened the fabric of her gown, settled her nerves. “I’m not pacing,” she argued. 

“I don’t understand why all of this can’t just be resolved with a letter,” Nesta snapped, her arms crossed, not convinced by Elain’s reassurances. She was in her fighting leathers, Ataraxia at her back. Elain knew Nesta wouldn’t hesitate to use the sword on Eris if he provoked her. Nesta had been the one to help Elain pack for the trip, and then she had insisted on waiting with Elain in the Hewn City until Rhysand and Eris arranged her departure. 

Elain turned to face her eldest sister,  “Probably because it’s all very complicated.”

“I think it’s very simple,” Nesta’s words were sharp as a knife’s blade. “Lucien is our emissary, Autumn has no claim to him.” 

“Blood means nothing to you, Nesta?” Azriel asked. Elain could hear the ghost of amusement in his voice. 

Nesta responded, but Elain missed it, her whirling thoughts a storm within her mind. Elain knew she owed Lucien nothing, that no one expected her to uproot her life in Velaris and run to his side, but she had become tired of all the bloodshed. The war had drained her, she told herself, she couldn’t bear another death, another loss. 

What did it matter that Lucien was her mate, Elain had declared as she and Nesta packed away her most beautiful dresses, she would do the same for anyone. She was worried, of course, but only in the sense that Lucien was Feyre’s friend. Feyre had hugged her tightly back home, close to tears. Elain knew her sister was grateful, but she wished Feyre would have come to the Hewn City to see her off.

Elain breathed a sigh, her shoulders raising in a shrug. She was about to respond to Nesta, to once again try and persuade her sister that she knew what she was doing, to have Azriel understand that she was confident in the choices she was making. Elain was growing tired of the constant coddling, how everyone in her family just assumed they knew what was best for her. 

A spark of anger, resentful, came to life inside her, and Elain was glad the doors to the suite opened and Rhysand entered. He had been the only one who hadn’t questioned her decision, who had understood Elain’s resolve from the start. It had come as a surprise to Elain, but she was grateful for whatever support her sister’s mate offered.   

Rhysand, though, had not come alone. Walking a few careful paces behind him was a woman, dressed in Night Court black. Elain took in her simple and modest attire, and she raised a brow in question. 

The woman didn’t respond, her dark eyes flashed to Nesta and Azriel before she clenched her jaw and stared straight ahead. 

Elain would have spoken to her if Rhys hadn’t captured her attention instead. “You’re ready?” 

As soon as the sun’s last rays disappear behind the horizon, I’ll return for you. 

Eris’s last words to Elain rang clear in her head. She glanced to the window, to the quickly setting sun as the sky turned a deep violet, a pink hue still visible behind the mountain range cutting across the territory. 

Elain placed her hands in front of her, fingers laced so that no one could spot the nervous tremors. She nodded once in understanding, “I am.” Her voice was firm, convincingly unafraid. 

Elain wondered if Rhysand was looking into her mind, searching for answers that she would never freely give. She snapped out of her thoughts when Rhysand spoke to her once more. “Allow me, Elain, to introduce you to your lady’s maid,” he gestured to her with his hand, “Cora will be with you for as long as you’re in Autumn.” 

The woman, Cora, didn’t even bother looking at her. Elain questioned if it was because she had not wanted to join her, or if it was because that was to be expected of the woman’s position as a lady’s maid. Elain knew very little, still, about Prythian and its people, but she could have sworn that the woman was Illyrian. If not for her lack of wings and sharp ears, Elain would have bet on it. Her beauty was shocking, enough to give Elain pause so that she could admire the other woman. 

Her focus once more entirely on the High Lord of Night, Elain could feel as her back tensed, unsettled by the obvious disregard for her opinion on the matter. “I thought maybe one of the twins—”

Azriel interrupted Elain in the middle of her sentence, his words suggesting the decision was final. “Nuala and Cerridwen are needed here.”

Elain hadn’t even gotten the chance to say goodbye, and while she was irritated, she chose to respond in a pleasant voice. “Then tell them both that when I’m back in the city, I’ll be expecting them to pay a visit to the River House.” 

Azriel offered her a small, genuine smile in return. His expression was quick to turn serious, though, as his shadows whirled from their hiding spots to his shoulders. 

It was then that Elain glanced at the arched windows on the room’s opposite end. The sun had finally set and stars now seemed to wink at her in the distance. Elain faced the doors, expecting them to open, but she gasped in surprise as Eris neglected to use them. 

The heir to the Autumn Court stepped into the room as though he were entering into the small space from a rip in the fabric of the universe. The flames in the fireplace flared at his presence, whether he had done so on purpose was unclear to Elain, but he definitely seemed like the type.  

“Not a moment past the agreed time,” Rhysand drawled 

“I’m nothing if not punctual,” Eris barely looked at the High Lord in front of him, choosing to bow slightly at the waist in Nesta’s direction. “Lady Death,” he greeted. 

Nesta merely glowered, her eyes flashing silver. 

Eris did not seem afraid, but rather impressed at the swirling flames in Nesta’s gaze. He was quick to turn his attention to Elain. “Last chance to change your mind.” A dare, like he was expecting her to be inconstant, unreliable.  

Elain could see why Azriel disliked Eris so much. She looked straight at him, “My mind won’t be changing.” 

Eris flashed her a grin, “Good.” 

“You can winnow more than one with you to Autumn?” Rhysand asked, and Elain nearly sighed in relief when embers came to life in Eris’s observant eyes and he paid her no mind. 

“Why?” Eris questioned, so much distaste in that one, simple word. 

“Elain will be needing a lady’s maid,” Azriel bit out. 

Eris hummed in response, facing Elain once more. “You’re bringing a friend?” 

“Will that be a problem?” Elain lifted her chin, ready to argue on Cora’s behalf. The woman took a few small steps closer, her black skirts brushing Elain’s light blue ones, as though she too was ready to make her case. 

Eris frowned, “My father won’t like it.” 

“You can’t expect me to go alone,” Elain snapped, not bothering with upholding pretences any longer. 

Eris raised his auburn brows, amused. He took a moment to inspect Cora, seeming to examine every inch of her. His eyes trailed assessingly from the fabric of Cora’s dress pooled along the marble floor to the elegant braid of her dark hair twisted in a crown. “At least she’s nice to look at,” Eris finally commented, a dismissal. 

Elain knew it was an understatement, that Cora was lovely, but now that Elain had gotten what she wanted, she kept her mouth shut.   

Cora scowled, but she did not utter a word either. Elain gave her a look that she hoped suggested that they were now in this together. 

Elain watched as Eris raised his hand, beckoning the two of them closer. Elain’s eyes flicked to his palm as she raised her own hand tentatively. 

Eris’s nostrils flared with his next breath, flames flaring in his eyes. Elain wondered if he could smell the dried blood on her palms, whether he would remark on it, but he remained silent. 

Elain’s hand shook as she placed it in Eris’s much larger one, and quick like the harsh strike of lightning, her world went dark.

[confused-as-all-hell]

Rhysand

“There are different kinds of darkness. There is the darkness that frightens, the darkness that soothes, the darkness that is restful. There is the darkness of lovers, and the darkness of assassins. It becomes what the bearer wishes it to be, needs it to be. It is not wholly bad or good.”

Rhysand, proud and arrogant and grinning. The Lord of Night, Death Incarnate, Night Triumphant. A male who donned the mask of a monster to save his home, who fought for his family with his final breath, who whispered to his unknowing mate, “You are my salvation.”

Rhys gave the dregs of himself away; his body to the lady of the mountain, his power to a city shrouded in the night, his heart to a female with stubborn blue eyes. 

Though beloved dearly by his Inner Circle, Rhys views himself as a monster worthy of only hatred. He has not bothered to conceal the bitter edge to his nature, the creature dwelling beneath his skin. Time and time again, he has said he is unworthy of affection, said he does not deserve his fortune. He has claimed himself a beast.

From the start, we knew Rhys would do anything for our Feyre. They saved each other, not just from blades and curses, but from a darkness that was very different from night. His devotion to her went beyond words, and he made it no secret he would raze the earth for her. 

And it’s not just our High Lady. Rhys surrendered his sanity, his pride, his own safety for the family he left back home.

Home.

His city, the townhouse tucked within, a maelstrom of light and laughter and teasing. Rhys must have risen every morning, still shaking from his ordeal the previous night, and thought of his Inner Circle. He must have recalled their messy breakfast, a collection of sweets and eggs and toast and tea and whisky. He must have dressed, the memory of Mor lingering in his mind, how she would stride into his room and leap on his bed like a child. 

He loved his family, so, so much. His first thought was always of their safety, their comfort. Sometimes it was the little things, like tucking a blanket over Amren nervously, or tending to one of Cas’s sparring wounds; sometimes it was giving up himself so they might live, and know peace within that sheltered city.

Should Rhys have protected as many lands as he could? Yes, of course.

But you all forget Rhys cast that enchantment hastily, with barely seconds to think. In that moment, he wasn’t a seasoned High Lord. He was a terrified  brother and friend and cousin. He was human.

Under the Mountain, when Feyre Archeron made herself, did he have any right to give her the faerie wine? No. It was wrong, and it doesn’t matter if it was for her benefit.

But, for fuck’s sake, Rhys never said it was right. You are allowed to think this was off-putting, but know Rhys never brushed it aside. He never insisted it was for her own good. Rhys, even though he couldn’t have cared less for Feyre, was always mindful never to touch her beyond her arms and hips. I am not making his excuses: I am simply pointing out Feyre was not unwilling, and we should know, as we were inside her head. She looked to numb herself with the wine, sought the haze of intoxication. 

Rhys never claimed to be a saint. He never called himself god. He was a male struggling to climb out of his trauma, and he made a poor choice, but not an unforgivable one. 

Then came Nesta Archeron, who truly turned the fandom against our Rhys. She hated him, he hated her. 

Did it begin this way? No.

Most people fail to recall the Inner Circle extended their hands to Nesta, when they first met.

Amren was civil and brutally honest.

Mor complimented her dress, and she was shamed for her own in return.

Cassian tried laughter and banter, his way of saying “I’m friendly, I won’t hurt you.”

Rhys tried to be civil to the woman who had abused his mate, to the woman who detested his kind. He was forced to watch as his family was cut down swiftly. 

Nesta’s “talent” is finding weak spots and exploiting them. So she slut-shamed Mor, ridiculed Cassian’s status, showed Feyre nothing but scorn. Nesta was not trauma-ridden, back then. She was just cruel.

So, how am I supposed to hate Rhys for defending his family?

He is allowed to feel fury as Nesta does without being detested. He is allowed to try and protect his Inner Circle. He is allowed to hate the female who made fun of his brother, abused his wife, shamed his cousin, hurt his friend. 

Is Nesta entirely in the wrong? No.

Is Rhys entirely in the wrong? Absolutely not.

Even when he kept the secret of Feyre’s pregnancy from her, he was not so at fault. It was bitter of him to keep such a danger from his mate, but I can understand why he did so. He was trying to keep her happy and carefree. As we know Fae pregnancies are delicate, so why would he want Feyre to feel so much stress and terror and misery when that could risk the child’s life? I do think he should have told her, but again, it’s not impossible to get why he didn’t.

If we are going to blame Rhys for keeping Feyre’s risk quiet, why not blame the others in on it? What about Amren and Cassian and Azriel and Nesta? They are as equally responsible. Even if it was a bad choice, that’s okay. Everyone detested Rhys for being the “perfect” character, and now we hate him for fucking up. He is allowed to make mistakes. I don’t know who told you he can never do wrong. 

Rhys is a monster, the unforgiving darkness and the merciless cold. He has never claimed otherwise. He has done awful things, yes, but he aspires to be better. He cares about working through his trauma, because he wants to be a good male for Feyre, for his family, for his son. 

He was betrayed and raped. His little sister was brutally slaughtered by an old friend. His mother was tortured. His mate was killed, and his Inner Circle hurt time and time again, and he has never known a moment’s peace. 

He isn’t perfect, but he’s learning. He’s learning and working every day. 

Rhys may be the Lord of Darkness, but he is not incapable of light.

[unhealthyfanobsession]

jealous cassian but this time instead of competing with high lords and sons of high lords what if it's a general from another court... this general could also be a lover of romance books and sweets ;)

I had a lot of fun with this one and I may have fallen a little bit in love with my own OC 🤷‍♀️

Nesta Archeron was not a force of nature. People loved to describe strong women as forces of nature, but that wasn’t her. That was Feyre. Feyre was brash and wild and unpredictable as a tsunami or an avalanche.

Nesta Archeron was a collection of cosmic power held tight and controlled beneath iron thick magic-infused skin.

Which made her an amazing general. All of that power and her amazing control. That was what was required to lead a legion.

Contrary to popular belief, Cassian was not a wild thing. He was not a good general because he was wild and elemental. He was a good general because he was in control. Because he woke up every morning and he didn’t flash his siphons around and try to beat anyone into submission. He trained. He fought. He lead by example. He flew at the head of his legions. He showed them the he was the best.

Mates were equals. It should have surprised no one that Nesta wanted to raise an army.

And she did. Oh she did. Nesta Archeron went to every court in Prythian and she picked up women who wanted to fight. She went down into the Court of Nightmares and took any women who wanted to fight with her. Freed them. Liberated them. Nesta planned on a small unit of females. By the time she was done she commanded thousands. It was the second largest military force in Prythian. Right after the Illyrians. Which was a nightly topic of debate. When she would surpass him. Cassian would be pissed if it happened sooner than a century.

Nesta was determined to make it happen by the end of the decade. Which was why she had set up this meeting with the new general of Spring.

“General,” the tall, pale man inclined his head, light brown hair falling over his brow as he did. “General,” he said it again, inclining his head in Cassian’s direction now. Lips tipping up in an amused smile and pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having you both here?”

Nesta adjusted the knife strap around her thigh and moved into the room ahead of both males. “Cassian has decided to high-jack my meeting because he is intimidated by my success. His official reason, however, is that you are new and he comes to speak on behalf of the Night Court. To ensure that your goals are aligned.”

“Hmm, and you?” The general pulled out a chair at the head of the table and gestured for Nesta to take it. His breath tickled her neck as he leaned in to push the chair in after she sat. “What are your interests, Nesta Archeron.”

“Romance novels and chocolate cake, mostly.” Cassian laughed.

“Good taste,” the general smiled. “Hadley Minn?” a well-know romance novelist from Dawn. Sweet stories of proper young ladies falling in love and having missionary sex.

Nesta smiled just a little. “Sellyn Drake.”

He whistled low under his breath. “I like your style, Archeron.”

Cassian’s eyebrows drew together as he watched this male look over Nesta with a new type of appreciation.

“My name is Malakai.” The general reached his hand out first to Nesta, holding on a little too long and then to Cassian. Who squeezed his hand harder than necessary. The general just smiled broadly. “Call me Kai.”

“Well Kai,” Cassian leaned back in his chair, wings spreading out behind him. “What can you tell me about the Spring Court’s forces now that your court has got its army together enough to have a general?”

Kai just kept smiling. Kind and open. “And what would you tell me about your forces, if asked?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Cassian admitted.

“So no disrespect general, but…”

“I told him this was pointless,” Nesta rolled her eyes. “I, on the other hand, have something of actual use to discuss with you.”

“Happy to be of service,” the Spring general winked.

Cassian tensed up in his chair. arms crossing over each other and face going stone hard.

“Excellent. Now, I know your High Lord is a chauvinist, but I’d like to start by asking if you are too, because that will determine how I approach this conversation.”

The air tensed for a second. Cassian prepared to jump in between his mate and this male. Insulting someone’s High Lord… he’d be surprised if the male managed to just kick her out and not attack like a feral animal.

“Is she always this direct?” Kai’s smile never faltered. Not for a second.

“Talking to him instead of me answers that question,” Nesta muttered. “So, here’s what you’re going to-”

“I did not mean to offend you, General. I assure you it is my sincerest belief that females are just as militarily capable as males.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes. “So you plan to train females along with males in your new army?”

“Of course I do,” Kai shrugged. “Who would be stupid enough to give up half their military power because of their sex?”

“Spring is a small court,” Cassian said. “You only have one army. It gets more complicated when there are several. In the larger territories.”

“I see.”

“What he means to say is that significant parts of the Autumn, Night, Day, and Winter courts do not train their females to fight. Their main armies might, but different territories in the courts run that way. And actually Night and Autumn even their main armies don’t train females.” Nesta glared at her mate.

“They do now.” Cassian sighed, not needing to be reminded how long it took to reach this point.

“Ah,” Kai nodded, “you’re here to see if I planned to train the females and to take them with you in your liberation march if I said no.”

“I run an army that trains those other courts reject.”

“So I have heard, an extraordinary feat from an extraordinary woman.” His teeth glittered as he smiled, eyes entirely focused on Nesta. “I know you have your reasons for distrusting my High Lord, but he is trying. Trying to return this court to what it once was. I’m a part of that. Our army will train anyone who wants to fight. And it will protect the human/Fae border.”

Nesta blinked. That was…

“I fought in the war,” Kai nodded to Cassian. “I always admired how you fought at the front of your legions, General. You are the legend everyone claims you to be, but I have to admit…” He turned to face Nesta. “I accepted this meeting so that I could meet you.”

Cassian growled low in his throat. “How does this keep happening?” He muttered under his breath, low enough for Nesta to hear but not Kai. Cassian loved Nesta with his entire being. Heart, body, and soul. The problem was that, apparently, so did every other male in Prythian.

Nesta smirked, subtly reaching her foot out under the table to kick him in the shin for being a possessive brute.

“I met with Eris Vanserra last week. He commands Autumn’s armies.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Cassian said that one loud enough for Nesta and Kai to hear.

“I mentioned I was meeting with you. I knew about your army, of course. But I asked him what to expect meeting you. And instead of answering he told me what you said in the High Lord’s meeting. About humans. I’m pretty sure his point was that I should prepare myself if I was trying to go up against a female who paused seven High Lords in their tracks, but… it is rare to meet a Fae who cares about humans. Truly cares.”

“Well I was one.” Nesta stared forward, unsure where this conversation was going.

“I know. Cauldron born. Phenomenal cosmic powers. Ability to bring us all to our knees if you wanted to. But instead you choose to defend humans and make an army of Fae the courts have cast off.”

“Nes knows how amazing she is,” Cassian cut in. Two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Could you get to the point please?”

“I want to work with you.” Kai said, point blank, staring at Nesta.

“I bet you do,” Cassian muttered.

“I have my own army, general. I’m not interested in working for anyone else.”

“Not for. With. I want… my forces are beaten down. Their morale is weak. Faith is low. I… you brought the High Lords to heel and you started an army from nothing. I’d like your advice.”

Nesta swallowed. She’d accomplished amazing things. So many amazing things, but still… no one had ever asked her for advice. Help. Expertise. She was the novice. She… he wanted her help.

“My army is from all over Prythian,” Nesta said. “We train in the Night Court because the territory is massive and that’s my home, but… Spring doesn’t have the manpower to protect that border. Convince Tamlin to let me bring in some of my warriors to protect the human border and I’ll help you with whatever you want.”

“Deal,” Kai smiled, reaching out his hand.

Nesta shook it.

Later, after they took off and she was wrapped up in Cassian’s arms as they flew back to Velaris, her mate was stone faced once again.

“I swear to the mother, Nes, if he proposes to you I’m going to make what Feyre did to the Spring Court look like a Sunday walk along the fucking Sidra.”

[onceupona-chaos]

SJM AND FORESHADOW

Foreshadow = indication of what is coming in a story.

SJM said once we get to the end of the book, we will know who the next one will be about.

She plucked another figurine from the mantel: a rose carved from a dark sort of wood. She held it in her palm, its solid weight surprising, and traced a finger over one of the petals. “He made this one for Elain. Since it was winter and she missed the flowers.

Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer.

Her father had died for her, with love in his heart, and Nesta held love in her own heart as she pulled the small, carved rose from her pocket and set it upon the gravestone. A permanent marker of the beauty and good he’d tried to bring into the world.

This right here is foreshadow in its finest. The carved rose represents Elain, this is basically SJM reminding us to keep Elain is mind.

There's a reason why the book ended with the Archeron sisters:

All three sisters were now High Fae with considerable powers, though only Feyre’s were let loose. Even Amren had no idea whether Elain’s and Nesta’s powers remained.

Because these books are about them, human women tuned Fae that now have mighty powers. Being Made is essential in the ACOTAR world, because it allows you to do things the others can't, like finding the Trove, locating the Caudron on and on.

So now that Feyre's and Nesta's powers were "let loose", it means that we have yet to see Elain's. Let me remind you that the Fourth Trove was heavily hinted at in the last book, and:

Only a Made character can find it

Nesta saw it through someone else's vision.

If only we had a Made character from the original trilogy with powers related to visions that we don't know much about... like, you know, a Cauldron-Made Seer, that is coincidentally discussed in one of the bonus chapters.

ACOWAR:

Elain faced me. “Do we help her?” (her = Nesta)

“Yes—but not today. Not tomorrow.” I loosed a breath. “When—when she’s ready.” When we were ready, too.

FEYRE'S BONUS CHAPTER:

Let's focus on helping one sister before we start on the other.

Feyre's bonus chapter only confirmed what was foreshadowing in the book: SJM is telling us with all the letters that once Nesta story ends, Elain's will begin. This is how she does foreshadow: who is the next character that we are going to "help"? Elain.

Other characters might need help too, but they are not the ones SJM said with all the letters that are going to be "helped".

BEING HELPED = HAVE YOUR JOURNEY TOLD

Claiming the bonus is Feyre's and not Elain's doesn't change what is written: a whole discussion about Elain's character and what is coming in the series. Most importantly the bonus just CONFIRMED what was already foreshadowed in the actual book.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: the pilgrim soul in you (1/1) | Lucien x Vassa

Summary: A missing-moments Vassien fic covering ACOWAR, ACOFAS, and ACOSF, in which, after a while, Lucien and Vassa fall in love.

A/N: I teased this for a while, and it's finally here. Additional notes and tag list at the end. I hope you enjoy 🧡

Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.

-- T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

The best story: that Lucien first sees Vassa at the lake, swooping over the water. That he’s entranced by her at this first glance, dazzled by the bird of fire, that he can sense the woman within nearly bursting to get free. Even in the form she was cursed with, Lucien might say, something about Vassa beckoned him from the first glance.

But Vassa would never let Lucien tell this story, because it is untrue. They first meet as the evening darkens, when Lucien has found the fire made by the Prince of Merchants. Before he spots the father of the Archeron sisters, he sees the strands of Vassa’s hair glowing red and golden in the firelight, generously curled and falling to the middle of her back. Then there’s the blue of her eyes, as bright and dangerous as the center of a flame. Her golden-brown skin, a shade or two darker than his own, luminous in the combined light of the fire and the stars, so that he can’t help but imagine how it would feel under his fingers.

His breath catches in his throat at what wells up in him, a feeling that is bright and dangerous.

Of course, she spots him seconds later, and then there’s a dagger at his neck, and Lucien is mercifully distracted. Vassa might be a young queen, but she’s clearly had experience with would-be assassins.

“I was sent by friends at the Night Court to try and break your enchantment,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm, but not so calm that she’s suspicious.

“I didn’t need faeries to set me free.” Her voice is lower than he’d expect, a rich alto, the words lilting with a musical accent. She does not growl the words, only tucks his hair behind his ears with her free hand, revealing the delicate arches, a gesture that lays him bare. But he does not think about his vulnerability. To do so would only increase the possibility of pain. Instead, he thinks that he’s surprised to feel callouses on her fingertips, decides to ask what would roughen a queen’s fingers at the nearest opportunity. Even then, he’s planning for a long string of moments with Vassa. “You aren’t the only beings who care about the saving of this world.”

At this point, Gabriel Archeron steps into the circle of light, and the resemblance to Feyre and Elain and Nesta is strong enough that Lucien blurts out their names, claiming he has news, and eventually the knife is removed from his neck.

Lucien makes himself a mix of charming and sorrowful as he tells the Prince of Merchants all that has happened to his daughters, trying to find a sufficient level of honesty that will not provoke unpleasant revelations later, while still convincing them to let him travel in their group. When he has finished and Gabriel has blinked away tears, which Lucien pretends not to see, he turns to Vassa.

“I was sent to make an entreaty to you,” he says. “My land will soon be at war, and the situation is grave. Hybern has been massing its armies for decades, and their spells are as formidable as the magic that binds this world together.”

“If your faerie armies can hardly withstand this onslaught,” she asks, in that thrilling tone that seems to emerge from deeper within her body than ordinary speech, the perfect ideal of a queen’s voice, “why do you expect that my human armies should go willingly to their own slaughter?”

“In my country, the High Lords and generals do not lead from the back of their armies. They fight on the front lines.”

“They have their own power to shield them.”

“Your armies would not battle on the front lines, majesty.”

She smirks at him, her teeth little moons in the firelight. “You sound quite naive when you speak on the workings of battle, emissary. You’re lucky that I have already promised my armies to your friends’ father. We ride to meet them at the coast.”

Lucien shoots a glare at Gabriel, who is smiling at the glow of the dimming fire.

“Queen Vassa flies by day, of course,” he says, the dry humor in his voice so perfectly balanced with graciousness that Lucien understands the reasons for his reputation. “Her wings are swift.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucien sees Vassa’s shoulders stiffen ever so slightly. Surely as a queen she is used to adulation.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to keep the enchantment?” Lucien asks the queen, as he turns back to the fire, trying to rile her a little further. Let her know what sort of journey this will be.

The change in Vassa, though, is apparent even to his half-gaze. The sudden tension in her muscles, a readiness that isn’t training but sheer terror. Her golden-brown face, a shade or two darker than his own, goes pale.

“You said your people could free me,” she says, and though she tries to make her voice commanding, Lucien has politicked in every court in Prythian and cannot miss the terror laced into every word.

Against all his better instincts, he tells her: “We’ll free you.”

She turns his head so he can’t see it, but still Lucien can vividly imagine her smile, brilliant and sparkling in the night.

&

&

&

At first, Vassa thinks she will hate Lucien, the way he smirks and teases and generally makes it clear to everyone that he’s full of the arrogance of the High Fae. Then she realizes that, as much as she hates to admit it, Lucien is the most intelligent creature she’s ever met. His mind simply spins faster than any of her court advisors. He sees a thousand possible futures so clearly that her astrologers, famed on the continent for the accuracy of their predictions, would gnash their teeth in jealousy at his seeming clairvoyance.

It’s when Vassa begins considering his gaze with respect instead of annoyance that she knows her feelings have well and truly changed. Because Lucien’s gaze is unnerving in its omniscience: his russet eye sees everything visible, and his gold eye seems to pierce into an unseen world.

Sometimes, in the little sleep she snatches every night, Vassa dreams that Lucien Vanserra, emissary of the High Fae, can see straight into her heart. And though she begins these dreams afraid of what he’ll see, her weakness and fear and failure, at some point his lips quirk into the smallest smile, and Vassa wakes up feeling rested for the first time in months.

By day, it’s all Vassa can do to force the firebird to follow Lucien and Gabriel on the journey toward the coast and her army. The firebird’s mind is so different from her own, easily distracted and unable to parse experience into human comprehension. But the firebird’s eyes turn the world into a jewel box, and the firebird spends too much time staring at the glint of Lucien’s hair in the sunlight, sparkling every shade of red and orange and gold.

In the evenings, by the fire, Lucien’s gaze is not so piercing as it is in her dreams, and though she can admit to his masculine beauty, to her human eyes it is not as overwhelming as what the firebird sees by day.

By the fire, he makes sarcastic remarks that punctuate Gabriel’s stories, insisting that his daughter Feyre is even more brave and kind and stupid than her father lets on, that Nesta is a holy terror. Lucien does not say anything when Gabriel mentions the other daughter, Elain, only clutches his cup or fork a little tighter, makes his breathing too steady.

At a thousand endless state dinners, Vassa has learned to observe the tells of royals and ambassadors. She’s barely had a chance to use this skill outside of card games with her ladies-in-waiting, but now she’s sure that Lucien has met and desired this Elain.

It’s better this way, she tells herself. They are wartime allies. He will likely end up married to Elain Archeron and Vassa will get her curse broken by someone among the High Fae and she’ll reclaim Scythia and her rightful throne. Eventually, she’ll find a politically advantageous consort. Perhaps, once her rule is secure, she will take a lover.

Still, as they draw near to the coast, she finds herself laughing at Lucien’s remarks. He ducks his head towards her in little asides, explaining Prythian politics or making jokes so dry that her laughter nearly startles her. She realizes that, as much as she will always love Gabriel Archeron for finding her, for leading her away from Koschei, her eyes will always go first to Lucien.

Vassa tries not to think about what it means. A young queen cannot afford an ill-considered love affair. Still, when Lucien’s eyes, russet and gold, land on hers, she cannot force herself to look away.

&

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For their first three days at sea, Lucien worries that Vassa will fall into the ocean when she transforms from firebird to woman. The minute the sun begins to kiss the horizon, he watches her flame-bright wings and braces himself to winnow if she cannot position herself safely over the boat.

Always, Vassa manages to land safely on the deck, and Lucien swallows his anxiety. In spite of all his good intentions, the fact that she’s surrounded by the Scythian generals who adore her, Lucien can’t help seeking her gaze, can’t help scanning the length of her body for any hint of harm. All he finds is Koschei’s curse wrapped tight around her, and then Vassa’s sapphire gaze on him, the flash of her bright smile.

He thinks of Elain and he does not think of Elain. Elain, the mate who does not want him.

One day soon, before they’re reunited, Lucien will have to tell Gabriel that his middle daughter is mated to the male he’s crossed the continent with. But instead he listens to the stories the Prince of Merchants weaves about his adventures, basks in the glow of his regard. Gabriel Archeron was born when Lucien was already centuries old and tired of this world, and still Lucien catches himself basking in his fatherly countenance.

He thinks, maybe even a miserable life with Elain would be better if he had such a father-in-law.

Then Vassa catches his eye, ducks her chin to whisper that Gabriel is certainly exaggerating, she’s been to the town he speaks of and the river is not nearly as terrifying as he’s making it out to be. In fact, she says, her voice low and lilting in his ear, she and her ladies-in-waiting crossed it with skirts in hand. Then, her whisper going so soft it’s barely audible, she makes a vulgar speculation about Gabriel’s virility, the kind of phrase that would make her generals shout with laughter.

Lucien can almost feel her full, soft lips against his ear, so that he has to force himself to let out a quiet laugh. The skin of his body feels too tight. His blood thrums inside him. Somehow he makes himself turn back to the meal, laugh again when she repeats her aside to Gabriel, now at full volume, her speculation now even more elaborate and ribald. As Lucien predicted, the generals roar their approval at their queen, and Gabriel flashes her an approving smile.

For just a second, Lucien finds himself wishing that Vassa had told him a different story, which would belong only two of the two of them, not a mere rehearsal of what she’d say to everyone dining with them. He pushes the thought away quickly, focuses on the plate in front of him, lifting the spoon to his lips.

Later, when Gabriel and the generals have retreated to their rooms, Lucien finds Vassa on deck, her head thrown back as she stares at the stars.

He should go to his room, cramped and dank as it is, but instead he stays watching Vassa. Despite the dark, he can see her bright eyes considering each constellation. He can hear the beat of her heart, louder than the waves.

He considers approaching her, asking her what she sees in the stars, if it’s beauty or some vision of the future that draws her. But Lucien is a mated male now, and although he’s sure the conversation would be innocent, increasingly, closer proximity to Vassa feels like a betrayal.

Finally, he forces himself to turn away, to walk to his room and bolt the door.

Elain could take a hundred years to want him. It doesn’t mean he can be in bed with another female (another woman) for that century of purgatory.

Still, maybe it’s the distance from Elain, maybe the sea itself has bewitched him, but even as he falls into sleep, he can’t stop seeing Vassa, luminous and sarcastic and brilliant, behind his eyelids. Imagining how she might feel if she were tangled up in this narrow bed with him.

&

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They arrive in Prythian just in time, Vassa realizes later, once the sun has dipped below the horizon and she’s human again. She can only vaguely recall the sound of screaming, the iron scent of blood, the feeling of flesh under her talons. She had not known the firebird could attack.

Gabriel died at the hands of the King of Hybern, her generals tell her, and though she still walks through the ranks of her soldiers as she’d planned, she hardly registers the faces of the men and women who have guarded this world. She does not remember what she says to the wounded or to those who came out unscatched.

Afterwards, her hands are covered in blood.

She finds herself walking in the forest, not caring if she could be attacked. Surely any monsters have enough sense to fear the magic she witnessed on the battlefield.

Still, she startles when she hears the footsteps behind her. She whips around and there is Lucien, scratched but whole, golden even in the night, no matter the dark leather armor that covers his body like scales.

“You’re all right,” Lucien says, the relief in his voice so deep it’s practically a sob.

Vassa forgets all her reasons for keeping her distance as she launches herself into his arms, presses herself so tight against him that she can smell his citrus and sandalwood scent, hear the beating of his heart. So that the armor he wears digs into her cheek, her ear.

“There’s blood on your hands,” he says, reaching for her fingers, running his thumb over each digit. She tries not to shiver at the contact.

“I needed to visit the wounded. It’s a custom among Scythian queens, to thank their warriors personally. To grieve with them. But I have no idea what I told them. My people have not been at war since well before my reign.” Still, she was trained for this moment. She should have known.

He releases her fingers, his hands working up her arms, until he’s pulling her against him, his cheek resting on her head, the place where her crown belongs.

“No wonder your people love you,” he says.

A dozen sarcastic comments rise in her mind, but they are all wrong for this moment, when all she wants is to stay this close to him, held so tight that death and despair cannot come between them.

Eventually he says, “Your people will think that you were kidnapped by faeries.”

“If only they knew,” she tells him. “Do you think that I could speak with Feyre Cursebreaker tonight?”

Instantly he looks guarded, and then she remembers Elain, the faerie female who Lucien loves. She pulls herself away from him, just enough that she could step away if anybody found them in the woods.

“I think Feyre has been asleep for hours. Nobody is awake but the wounded and the healers and the guards.”

“Which one are you, then?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he says, and when he smirks at her, that flash of the teeth that mark him as High Fae, a thrill runs through her entire body.

Elain, she thinks, then says primly, “It is a queen’s prerogative to be wherever she likes, is it not?”

“There have been no queens in Prythian for thousands of years.” His hands are still on her back. His fingers are tangled in her hair, and if he wanted, Lucien could tug it, angle her mouth so as to be easily kissed. Instead he looks at her as if it’s the last time he’ll ever see her face. Maybe it is.

“You are quite a new thing, Vassa,” he says, after a moment or an eternity. She’s not sure.

It would be so easy to kiss him, she thinks, and Lucien is clearly honorable, more than even he realizes. He would never harm her, never leave her to be ashamed. If he accepted her kiss, surely something wonderful would begin between them.

But then she thinks of Gabriel Archeron, his warm gaze like a benediction on her, the kindness and bravery he showed when he rescued her from Koschei. The way he spoke of his daughter, Elain, the love that filled his voice when he spoke of her, the daughter he would never see again.

She finds that although it is easy to imagine kissing Lucien, his lips on hers, the opening of their mouths and her fingers searching for a gap in his armor, she cannot ask her body to make any of the required motions. Once, not so very long ago, she was well-schooled in honor.

“We should go back to camp. I’m tired.” It is the first lie that Vassa has ever told to Lucien. It will not be the last.

&

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At political functions, much is made of conversations, tone and gesture. Even a too-long look can be made fodder for months of court gossip.

Even knowing this, even knowing he needs to make inroads with Tamlin, that at minimum all his emissary posts require him to converse with the members of the assembled courts, knowing the Night Court watches him, wondering when he will finally try and speak with Elain, Lucien cannot stop looking at Vassa.

Someone has provided her with a dress of sapphire silk and a diadem of gold and sapphire, has brushed her hair until it is practically a living flame falling riotous down her back. He has never seen anyone more radiant. No matter the ruined estate, the tense conversations, even if the whole world goes to hell in this meeting, it will have been worth it to see Vassa every inch a queen in this moment.

When he spots her talking with Jurian, Lucien can hardly contain his fury. He does not trust the man, no matter that he saved Feyre. Sometimes he barely trusts Feyre.

And when Jurian bends to press a kiss to the back of Vassa’s hand, Lucien has to acknowledge the feeling that’s hot inside him: jealousy.

It’s wrong, he knows, when his whole body shouts whenever Elain is near, his heart practically thumping out her name. Far from her, he was able to forget the effects of the mating bond, only the coldness inside him whenever she would not meet his eye.

Still, no matter how close Elain lets him get, he has never felt himself alight the way he did last night, when Vassa stood in his arms and let him pull her close. He has never scanned the horizon with worry that she will fall into the sea, never laughed at a single thing she’s said.

So although Lucien forces himself to let the conversation between Vassa and Jurian play out, tells himself over and over he might be good for her as if repetition will make him believe the sentiment, the moment Jurian steps away, Lucien strides directly to her side.

“I spoke with Feyre,” Vassa says, by way of hello. “She does not know how to break my curse.”

“Feyre has barely learned her powers.”

“Oh? Are you saying you can do better, One True Faerie?” She swats at him, fingers barely grazing his jacket. Still, he warms at the contact.

Smiling in spite of himself, he taps his temple, indicating his golden eye, the scars surrounding it. “I’ve been told I can see what others can’t, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t tell me that line has worked on a single woman.”

“Lucky for me that the females of my species are much more credulous than human queens.” He allows himself to bask in Vassa’s laughter, too loud to be dignified. “But now that we are in Prythian, there are others with the necessary skills. There are whole libraries that might be of assistance.”

He thinks, but does not speak of Helion as he summons his powers and takes another look at the curse, which is fashioned like a harness on her shoulders, crossing her clavicle and looping around her shoulderblades, Vassa’s heart surrounded by the trip of Koschei’s magic. The magical signature is foreign to him, a long and complicated sentence in a language not spoken in a thousand lifetimes.

“Jurian said there was a place for me in the human realms, if I wanted to take it,” she is saying, snapping him back to the present, the physics of the known world. “Do you think those faerie experts will remember me across the wall?”

“There is no wall anymore,” he says, rewards her with a low laugh when she rolls her eyes at him.

“You’re full of fairytales today, but I suppose that’s appropriate,” she shoots back.

“They won’t forget about you because I will constantly be reminding them that the human queen who saved their sorry selves is still bound by an enchantment.”

“For a moment I forgot how self-important you were.” In spite of her words, Vassa’s smile is sweet and hopeful, the kind of expression only humans wear. In all his long and miserable life, Lucien has never seen such a lovely smile. He hates himself for thinking it but cannot bring himself to turn away from her the way he should.

“There’s more I can do,” he says, breathing deep, letting the imminent mistake wash over him, like dangling his foot off a cliff. “I could stay with you and Jurian, if you wanted. If I wouldn’t be interrupting the two of you.”

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it, a squeal muffled between bitten lips.

“Jurian is a terrific ass and you’ll have to keep me from slicing him to ribbons.”

He’s so dazzled by the feeling of her fingers on his that he doesn’t even bother to look and see if anyone’s watching. For the first time he can remember, every thought leaves his mind.

&

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&

Jurian would be the perfect man to marry, Vassa realizes within the first three days of their living together. An ancient warrior would not be a strange consort to a firebird queen. True, their arguments shake the walls, and his ideas are old-fashioned to an idiotic extent, and of course there’s the fact that Vassa cannot imagine herself ever falling in love with him. Still, he would be the right choice.

Far better, to be certain, than Greyson, Lord Nolan’s son, who at Vassa’s arrival is paraded with the pomp that would befit a king, not a minor aristocrat. She can tell that there was a sweetness to him once, but that it’s curdled, and what’s left to the boy seems now beneath her regard. She does not know how Elain Archeron once loved him. This fact alone makes her think less of the girl.

Then again, Vassa knows that she is inclined to judge Elain more harshly than she deserves. She tells herself that this is because of the dejected expression on Lucien’s face when he first returned from Velaris after the war, the way he goes quiet when she’s mentioned.

But in her secret heart, when she’s the only one awake in the Nolan manor, Vassa can admit that she’s jealous of Elain Archeron. She hates this emotion. It is not fair, it is not honorable, and yet Vassa feels jealousy wrapping its tendrils around her.

So when Lucien appears in the manor in between visits to the courts of Prythian, she is cordial. She is friendly. Sometimes she even allows her smile to break free, but only if he is telling her about progress towards the breaking of her curse. Only if the implication is that she could be free, and therefore far away from him.

More and more when she’s around him, Vassa feels as if her human self has merged with the firebird: unable to speak freely, bound by invisible chains.

If her arguments with Jurian grow a bit sharper and she smiles more wickedly when she bests him, well, between the curse that makes her a firebird and the heart that longs so furiously for what it cannot have, she cannot possibly be expected to have perfect forbearance.

&

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Finally, there is an evening where Jurian goes to bed early and it’s only Lucien and Vassa in Nolan’s shockingly ample library, the last of the wine between them. Vassa’s cheeks are flushed from another argument with Jurian. Lucien had tried to read through it, but the history he’d selected was inaccurate and every time he looked up, Vassa and Jurian seemed to be grinning in spite of the heat and clamor of their words. They argue like lovers now, he kept thinking, the words spinning before him, turning nonsensical.

“Do you still think that Jurian is a terrific ass?” he asks, before he can stop himself, the wine stretching his words into a drawl. As if the question is unimportant. As if it is not dangerous.

“He’s exactly the kind of man my advisors would tell me to marry. Even my mother would have approved.” Her fingers, on the glass, have gone yellow-white from the strength of her grip. He cannot tell what she’s nervous about.

“I suppose he is miraculous, in his own way. As long as you enjoy going to battle every night.” A hint of the old smirk. Maybe it will unsettle her into revealing the truth.

For a few seconds, the room is still, so quiet he can hear the quickening thump of Vassa’s heartbeat. Weeks or months ago, maybe, Lucien would have been smug over his ability to rile her. Now he only waits to see what she will say.

“At least he’s not in love with someone else.” Vassa does not look at him, and for the first time since he’s known her, her blue eyes do not sparkle.

“I’m not--that is--” Already he has revealed too much. He can feel the heat of her gaze on him and now it’s he who cannot meet her eyes.

“I know about Elain. And I cannot...her father rescued me from Koschei. I will not dishonor his memory by stealing you away from her. No matter what I want.”

He thinks about saying, you have a high opinion of yourself, Queen of Scythia, the kind of thing he’d usually say to her, which would rob the moment of its tension, send them off to their separate beds. Likely, the usual jibe would set everything right. But Lucien has tried to play the dutiful suitor to his mate, has found her thoughtful gifts and has waited until her (their) heart warms, and still she cannot wait until he leaves her behind. Still his thoughts stray to Vassa. And the very thought of her with Jurian is worse than the guilt of leaving his mate for another. Let Elain take a thousand years to come around to the idea of him, let her break the mating bond itself, Lucien thinks, gulping down the last of his wine. She is not the problem. Probably she never was.

“I’m not in love with her,” he says, finally, the words like tumbling off a cliff. “She’s my mate. Chosen for me by the Cauldron. And if I could choose, Queen of Scythia, believe me that I would choose a woman who can win any argument, whose beauty is only eclipsed by her fierce intelligence, and who still has not told me how her hands, the hands of a queen, came to be so calloused.”

“In Scythia, women can be warriors. I’ve trained with a sword since I was seven.” The words are hardly a breath.

He rises from his chair. The book falls from his lap, lands on the carpet with a muffled thump, but he does not turn. He only looks at Vassa’s eyes, the blue deep and sparkling as the middle of the ocean, lit by the noonday sun. Vast and lovely and alive.

He waits for her to look away, but instead she stands up so that she’s right in front of him, the silk of her dress sighing against the toes of hits boots. He always forgets, until they stand close, that she’s nearly as tall as he is. How hard it has been to keep from kissing her, when her lips, the color of ripe berries, have been right in front of him for all these months.

Now, finally, his mouth is on hers, hot and sweet, her lips opening to his tongue, a groan escaping him because Vassa, lithe and lovely, is in his arms, so quick and urgent that he can’t remember whether he reached for her or if she embraced him first. Her calloused fingertips are on his wrists, his neck, working the buttons of his jacket until it falls to the ground.

“I do not want to ruin you,” he says, too far gone with need to blunt the words, trying not to think about the way his cock strains at the seams of his pants. Only the woman in his arms, flushed and disheveled and smiling as she rolls her eyes at him.

“I am the Queen of Scythia by birth and by my own desire. I cannot be ruined by anyone.”

He wants to believe her, and so he kisses her, stops only long enough to undo each button that fastens her gown, take a long look at her lean body, her small breasts that fit so perfectly in his palm, her muscles visible with each movement. Her golden brown skin is scattered with freckles, and he presses a kiss to each one until she tugs at his hair, hissing her frustration.

Between her legs, she’s molten velvet. He strokes her until her little sighs become moans, until her fingers scrabble to reach him, pull him even closer.

“Get inside me, Vanserra.” He nearly laughs at her approximation of a fierce growl, unraveled by the keening sound of desire, a mirror of his own. Still he holds himself apart from her, quirks a brow.

“Need I remind you how bastards are made, Your Majesty?”

“I’ve heard the tales about your contraceptive potions. If you want me tonight, stop stalling.” She crosses her arms over her breasts, and Lucien dearly wants to kiss the smug look off her face.

“I’m glad you’ve been studying our customs,” he says instead, pulling her down to the thick rug that covers the library floor.

At first, he tries to be gentle, but she pulls him closer, her eyes set on his, so that when he enters her with that first desperate stroke, he can see the moment of pain. He cups his hand around her chin, kisses her as he moves in and out, until she begins to pant against his mouth, saying please and yes until she goes stiff and ecstatic, and he follows her, need giving way to a roaring pleasure.

Later, she’s curled up next to him, weaving braids into his hair, and she says, “I know this is only for a little while.”

Before she can continue, Lucien scoops her up so that her body covers his, until he can’t see anything but Vassa’s face, the pensive look she can nearly hide behind her drooping eyelids, a languid smile.

“This is for as long as you’ll have me,” he says, pressing a kiss to her lips. “You are the one I choose, Vassa.”

They do not sleep for a moment of the night, and when she goes to meet the dawn, to become the firebird, Lucien holds tight to her hand.

&

&

&

In her dream, Vassa has fallen into the ocean and she cannot breathe. She tries to inhale the ocean water, she’s become that desperate, but her throat is closed, as if her drowning body has been filled with stones.

When she opens her eyes, the ocean is gone but she cannot breathe, and Lucien works frantically over her body, his eyes moving in every direction, his fingers moving through the air as if guiding a miniscule orchestra.

There’s a burning, raging and deep, where Koschei’s spell binds her. She feels the burning in her blood, as if the nature of her curse has changed and now she will remain a human queen, with the firebird doing battle inside her.

And the world is full of air she cannot breathe.

She thinks, looking up at Lucien, his face now revealing a bit more terror but his hands as sure as ever, that this was always going to be the way that she died: curled up in her bed, looking up at Lucien. Only, she’d always thought that she would be old and wheezing, perhaps a little bored of even their great love, ready for a new adventure.

Now all she can think is that she should have kissed him the first day they met. That she’ll die so far away from Scythia. That she’d never thought her lungs, deprived of air, could burn quite like this, as if she’d inhaled fire instead of air.

She reaches for Lucien just as whatever binds her falls away, and despite the relief that overwhelms her, the air that floods her, Vassa realizes with horror that it was her own hair that coiled around her neck, long and thick enough to form a rope.

“It took so long to find the right unbinding spell,” Lucien says, holding her hand tight in his own. His voice is small, the voice of a lost child. “I thought--”

“I need you to cut my hair short,” Vassa says, her voice rough. Each word burns her throat. “Or Koschei will kill me with it eventually.”

There are others who want to kill her, of course. There are always rivals and assassins and foreign rulers who worry that she will conquer the world with her will alone. But no one other than Koschei could activate the curse, could transform her blood into fire. The rope of hair was only the visible manifestation of his powers.

“I know the unbinding spell now.” He dips to kiss her cheek, her temple, and she’s grateful he knows that he cannot kiss her mouth, rest his body on hers, nothing that impedes her breathing. “I can keep you safe.”

“One day you will have court business that keeps you away overnight.”

“And what if Koschei uses a blanket?” His voice is rough over the question and she realizes that he’s imagining the scene.

“If you’re away, I will sleep on an empty bed and Jurian will watch over me all night long. Now go fetch your sword,” she says, trying to make her voice sound imperious, to make him sarcastic and smirking again, her own Lucien.

One flash and the mass of her hair falls to the floor. What remains hovers an inch over her shoulders, revealing her freckled clavicles, the half-wings of her shoulderblades.

“You are lovely,” Lucien says, laying the sword on the ground.

Normally she would take advantage of his position, guide his mouth to all the places that make her go wordless, but now she only catches his gaze, lets him see the fear on her face. It’s one of the expressions she never lets anybody see.

“This curse will kill me soon,” she tells him.

“I will go to every court in Prythian until we figure out how to unbind you from the death-lord. I swear it to you.”

“Every court in Prythian has forgotten me. And why should they remember? In their eyes, my life will go past in a blink.”

“I will never let them forget you,” he says, smoothing her newly shorn hair away from her face, pulling her close beside him, so that she can hear each breath and thump of his heart. “I will make sure that you are free.”

She does not tell him that it’s no longer freedom she craves, exactly. That she wants to be bound to him the way she is bound to her country, to her people, tied by blood and right and strength of will.

Instead she presses her mouth to his and allows herself to forget, just for a second, how to breathe.

&

&

&

Because humans do not celebrate the old Fae holidays, Vassa did not mind his spending the Solstice at the Night Court, but in spite of this, Lucien spent each minute calculating the earliest moment he could return to her.

She’s still awake, curled up on a sofa in the library, when he returns from Feyre and Rhysand’s estate, bearing a piece of cake he’d secreted away in a heavy cloth napkin.

“I didn’t think you would return before tomorrow,” she says, looking up from her book of history, thick with politics and deception and warring.

Always, he is surprised by the bright blue of her eyes, even in candlelight. Always, he knows, deep in his bones, this woman will enchant him.

“I wouldn’t miss a single night with you if it could be helped. And I have not given you your Solstice gift.”

“I thought we weren’t exchanging gifts,” she says, her mouth puckering into a frown.

“You should know better than to always take me at my word,” he says, raising a brow, watching the indignation rise on her face. He lets the napkin fall into her lap, and then a smaller package, which he’d wrapped carefully this morning, while she wheeled over the manor grounds, wings aflame.

She lets out a little gasp at the sapphire earrings which will turn each ear into a lattice of sparkling flowers, bright against the red-gold curls of her hair. He’d contracted a master jeweler months ago, measured Vassa’s ears when she lay sleeping, so that the fit is exact. It’s the kind of jewelry a queen would wear, he thought, when he gave the earrings their final inspection.

One day soon, Lucien knows, Vassa will be free of the curse that binds her. She’ll go back to Scythia and reclaim her rightful throne, earn and accept and enjoy the love of her people.

“I will follow you, ” he says, watching her smile grow as she studies each flawless sapphire, not a single one as brilliant as her eyes, “when you go back to Scythia.”

“You do not have to lie to me,” she says, and her voice catches in her throat with an emotion too complex to name. “These earrings are enough.”

“I will follow you,” he says again, and kisses her before she can argue, pulls her close.

In the morning, he wakes before the sunrise, walks hand in hand with her through the forest, the silence between them comfortable as their bodies move themselves from sleep.

The moment before the sun passes the horizon, Vassa lets go of Lucien’s hand, and turns toward him. An instant later, the firebird circles near his head, swooping around the trees. Lucien almost thinks there is a spark of recognition in those blue eyes, as if he’s managed to lodge inside that animal brain, wedge himself inside the curse, the first step to destroying it all together.

When the wing of the firebird passes over him, he is startled to realize he feels no pain at the heat of the flame.

“You’ve realized, of course, that I love you,” he says, feeling foolish at speaking into the snow-muffled silence, knowing that the animal before him cannot speak, likely does not understand.

But the firebird extends her wings and, with a great cry, shoots up into the air, keening over the forest, her own sun, before returning to the place where Lucien stands, beholding her glory.

For the rest of the day, she will not leave his side.

.

.

.

A/N 2: I've been a Vassien shipper ever since I watched Lucien light up while talking to Vassa in ACOWAR, and I love how this ship has everything: intelligence, beauty, mutual snark, and no problem standing up to the Night Court. Though I have no idea if this ship will sail in the next ACOTAR books, I can't help but root for these truly immaculate vibes.

Tag List: @vassiensupremacy @vassienweek @lucienvassa @lantsov-vanserra @bookstaninthesoul @fireborne6 @flowerbirdsblog (I tagged you if you previously reblogged my preview of this fic -- please let me know if you'd like to stay on or be removed from my Vassien tag list.)

[nesta-stan]

Acosf Theory: Nesta being kidnapped by the Mortal Queens will be a major plot point.

We all already know that the queens are going to play a major role from the synopsis. I think that specifically it will be the youngest Queen who will act as Nesta's main antagonist. She is the perfect character to act as a foil for Nesta.

Lets start with the younger queen herself.

"And the youngest two queens … One was perhaps a few years older than me, black-haired and black-eyed, careful cunning oozing from every pore as she surveyed us.

"The youngest queen, the dark-haired one, smiled slightly. Arrogant youth"

Here we see a few similarities between Nesta and that Queen. She is arrogant, "Cunning", proud, and about the same age as Nesta. They were both made into things they didn't want to be. To the Queen, Nesta has everything she wanted; she got the youth the power, and the money.

“The youngest one—that pinched-faced bitch—went into the Cauldron first. Practically trampled the others to get in after it saw what it did to you and your sister.”

Stone screamed beneath twin sets of talons. “But the Cauldron … Oh, it knew that something had been taken from it. Not sentient, but … it knew. It was furious. And when that young queen went in …”

The Ravens laughed. Laughed as the slope leveled out and we found ourselves at the bottom of the library.

“Oh, it gave her immortality. It made her Fae. But since something had been taken from it … the Cauldron took what she valued most. Her youth.” They sniggered again. “A young woman went in … but a withered crone came out.”

And from the catacombs of my memory, Elain’s voice sounded: I saw young hands

wither with age.

“The other queens won’t go into the Cauldron for terror of the same happening now. And the youngest one … Oh, you should hear how she talks, Nesta Archeron. The things she wants to do to you when Hybern is done …”

The Queen is angry at Nesta and Nesta is angry at the Queens. I'm going to be honest, when it comes to SJM's main villains like the king of hybern they seem to be one dimensional but this Queen's circumstances can be what forces Nesta to look further at her own. This Queen is what Nesta might have been. She might even be a deciding factor on who Nesta chooses to become.

Why this would make Nesta going to the Illyrian mountains make more sense

"She wasn’t stupid—she knew there had been unrest, both in Prythian and on the continent, since the war had ended. Knew some Fae territories were pushing their new limits on what they could get away with in terms of territory claims and how they treated humans."

These are Nesta's thoughts before going to see her sister in the sneak peak. I, and a lot of others, have never been able to wrap our heads around how the Illyrian mountains could ever be a good place for Nesta. Yes, a lot of people use the excuse "it's for her healing" but there is never any reasoning behind why illyria?

The mortal Queens know about Velaris. If Feyre and the inner circle have caught on to a plan to kidnap Nesta, than it makes sense that they would try to hide her away somewhere safe. Especially since she is basically helpless on her own. Cassian is the only character, besides Feyre, that cares about Nesta's well being and Illyria is filled with soldiers ready to fight at a moment's notice, while Velaris isn't. It is also where she can train. This threat has probably made Feyre realize how defenseless her sister is and to give her a fighting chance, she forces Nesta to train.

Now, let's talk about the "Ally" the synopsis mentioned. I think it's the Illyrians. That's how she still ends up captured. They betray Cassian and offer his mate to the mortal Queens. Though we all refer to this as Nesta's book, it's Cassian’s too. The Illyrians are closest to his heart. So it makes sense that they are included in his Arc. He has long been bad mouthed and treated as lowly for his status but he never stopped loving his people. Instead he internalized it, but what happens when the woman of his affections suffers because of that hatred? It would be the perfect tool to force Cassian to self-reflect on who he is and what he stands for. Can he choose between his people and his love?

This ties in with the snow queen theory

I actually first thought of this when reevaluating the theory that the story that will work as an inspiration for this book is the Snow Queen by Hans Christian Anderson. There are three versions of that story that all could potentially tie into to Acofas. The original, Frozen, and the 2002 movie remake.

Frozen because it is the tale of two sisters coming together after years of estrangement. (Feyre and Nesta obviously). 

I put the 2002 version in their because in that version of the story has "Lady's" portraying and ruling over each season. Their is a spring witch, summer princess (cresseida) , Autumn thief, and then the snow queen(Vivian?). Meaning more characters might play more roles in this story. I did see alot of wanting Nesta to travel to the other courts.

Now for the original, which probably looks like it has the most connection to Acosf. The story is short and easy to find online. In short, it's about a girl Named Gerda who goes on a quest to find Kay, her childhood friend. A magic mirror created by the devil , that I'm not going into detail much but it's basically the Ouroboros, is shattered and falls into the eyes and heart of young Kay. (Snow Queen also speculated to have a shard in her heart) This makes him cruel to his sister like friend over the next year till he is kidnapped by the snow queen.

This story ties in for multiple reasons. I think hear the mirror is replaced by the Cauldron. Both the Mortal Queen and Nesta were made and neither or happy about it. This being the "glass shard that froze their hearts." And the Mortal Queen being the Snow Queen who kidnapped Kay, or Nesta. Also, Kay is cruel to Gerda for a year before he is taken and it's been a year since the war.

Now let's look at this Quote.

“Little Kay was quite blue, yes nearly black with cold; but he did not observe it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from his body, and his heart was a lump of ice. He was dragging along some pointed flat pieces of ice, which he laid together in all possible ways, for he wanted to make something with them; just as we have little flat pieces of wood to make geometrical figures with, called the Chinese Puzzle. Kay made all sorts of figures, the most complicated, for it was an ice-puzzle for the understanding. In his eyes the figures were extraordinarily beautiful, and of the utmost importance; for the bit of glass which was in his eye caused this. He found whole figures which represented a written word; but he never could manage to represent just the word he wanted—that word was “eternity”; and the Snow Queen had said, “If you can discover that figure, you shall be your own master, and I will make you a present of the whole world and a pair of new skates.” But he could not find it out.”

I always interpreted that if this was going to inspire something in Acotar it would be Metaphorical. That the injuries Kay suffers would be how Nesta let herself fall apart and the puzzle that he needed to spell eternity for could be how Nesta still doesn't know what to do with her immortal life.

But what if it's literally? What if the Queen captures Nesta and tries to use her powers to fix her. The Queen was also granted immortality. What if Kay figuring out how to spell eternity is Nesta figuring out how to fix the young Queen. And the injuries are of being black and blue are from the queens torchering her?

Sjm's habits.

Sjm always has a habit of making her characters go through even deeper shit, once they finally healed. It would make sense that she would throw us another curve ball like this. She did something similar with Aelin in Koa, and she has reused some points before. Like Aedion and Lysandra taking Nessian's "till the next life".

Also, alot of people don't like Nesta and having even worse charecters be introduced to make the others look better is so in Sjm style. Just in the way that Tamlin and Eris make Rhysand look like a Saint, having the mortal Queen be the "bad" version of Nesta would help people see her in a better light.

I tried to look at this in the way of, What will make these Charecters question themselves and their motives the most. This was my conclusion.

This is just what I came up with, if you have any differing thoughts or ideas I would love to hear them. 

@heylittlemissy @sjm-things 

[alectology-archive]

SJ/M’s plagiarism from fiction/media

I’m hoping to make a comprehensive list of all the sources SJ/M has outright ripped off from in the past. Feel free to comment down below or send an ask if you can think of anything.

SJ/M has very clearly ripped off of GRRM and JRR Tolkien’s works. Same goes for a lot of Anne Bishop’s works, too, and a lot of her favourite authors - so if anyone’s read books SJ/M has stated that she likes please let me know.

Note that this post will keep getting updated as I discover more evidences of plagiarism. Also note that there is every possibility that some resemblances are purely accidental and/or unintentional. So take it with a grain of salt.

(?) indicates a questionable addition to the post.

T/HRONE OF GLASS

- “The Queen Who Was Promised” comes from GRRM’s “The Prince who was Promised” prophecy in ASOIAF, who also goes by Azor Ahai, who wields Lightbringer, and is also known as the Son of Fire. 

- “Aelin” is probably derived from “Aelin-uial” in the Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien. Additionally, it may have been derived from Aerin Dragon-Killer/Aerin Firehair from Robin McKinley's The Hero and the Crown, as SJ/M stated it was one of her favourite novels.

- “Fireheart” is the name of Corlath’s horse in The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley, an author SJ/M admires.

- Empire of Storms, 2016, contains the infamous line ‘velvet-wrapped steel.’ And… so does Fifty Shades of Grey, in 2011: ‘Steel encased in velvet.’ 

- “Valg” comes from Terry Brooke’s The Sword of Shannara, another author SJ/M admires.

- “Hope. You cannot steal it, and you cannot break it." is awfully similar to the line from The Princess Bride about love "you cannot track that, not with a thousand bloodhounds, and you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords". SJ/M has said that she loved the movie.

- The infamous “You could rattle the stars” is a ripoff of Treasure Planet’s “You’re gonna rattle the stars.”

- “To Whatever End” comes from The Two Towers where King Theoden says it just before the battle of Helm’s deep begins.

- “You bow to no one” is said by Aragorn at the end of the Return of the King after his coronation.

- Orynth has white walls and is surrounded by snow capped peaks. It has large white walls and bears an unusually striking resemblance to Minas Tirith in The Lord of the Rings.

- Aelin’s journey mirrors that of Aragorn. The lost heir to a powerful throne, spends years in the wilderness denying their claim, joins forces with the elf/faes to reclaim it and has an immortal elf/fae as consort.

- Nehemia names Aelin ‘Elentiya’, saying, “I give you this name to use with honour, to use when other names grow too heavy. I name you Elentiya, ‘Spirit That Could Not Be Broken’.” It sounds similar in tone and cadence to the way Galadriel describes the light of Earendil to Frodo. The name Elentiya even sounds Elvish, and sits discordant with the other naming conventions in Eyllwe.

- Manon gathers the witches to go to war by starting a series of beacons, lit all across Erilea, from snow-capped mountains to the woodlands - directly from the Return of the King when Pippin helps Gondor call for aid. 

- The wall defences of Orynth are completely sound, except there’s one more way in, through a grate in the water canal - another striking resemblance to a place in Lord of the Rings known as Helm’s Deep. There is even a scene where someone asks if there’s a secret passage the women and children can escape through.

- In EoS and ToD, Chaol is referred to as “Hand of the King”. In GoT the “Hand of the King” is a title given to the King’s advisor.

- The speech that Haldir gave when he arrived in Helm’s Deep, uniting the elven and human forces, is paraphrased at least three times in this book. Most notably when Manon brings the Crochan witches to fight alongside the humans. She actually says “Long ago, Crochans and humans fought side by side…”

- Kingsflame blossoms bloom only when a kingdom is at peace and the rightful monarch is on the throne. Also a very similar plot point to the White Tree of Gondor in The Lord of the Rings.

- The dam breaking in Anielle and flooding is based on the Isengard dam breaking in The Two Towers. 

- Chaol crosses the Narrow Sea to get to the southern continent. In GoT the Narrow Sea is the body of water between Westeros and Essos.

- The “Wyrdkeys” are the Silmarils. There are 3 Wyrdkeys and 3 Silmarils. They’re ancient and powerful stones forged by a being of great power (Feanor, who made the Silmarils, was the most powerful elf of all time). Everyone is fighting over them. And just like one Wyrdkey eventually ends up in the Terrasen Amulet, one of the Silmarils ends up in a necklace called the Nauglamir. They’re also all destroyed/lost at the end.

- Kingdom of Ash, page 543: “It was not arrows alone that had been fired, and now peppered the snow.But heads. Human heads, many still in their helmets.” In Return of the King, the orcs catapult severed heads (still in their helmets) over the walls of Minas Tirith.

- “What say you, Queen of Witches?”…….“I shall answer Terrasen’s call.” is a blatant rip-off of the scene where Aragorn approaches Theoden after the beacons are lit in the Return of the King.

- Rowan is referred to as, “My friend through many dangers.” which is exactly what Gandalf says about Shadowfax, his horse, in Lord of the Rings.

- The Land before Time, 1988: ‘Some things you see with your eyes. Other things you see with your heart.’

Crown of Midnight, SJM, 2011: ‘Some things you hear with your eyes. Other things you hear with your heart.’

- ‘Spirit that could not be broken’ is seen in Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron (2002) and Throne of Glass (2011).

- It’s possible that SJ/M may have plagiarised Maria V Snyder’s Poison Study(?) (published 2005). Both books begin with the heroine being released from prison and being offered the choice to be freed by working for the very rulers who’d imprisoned them. Also, Valek - Yelena’s love interest - is the greatest and most feared assassin in the country and also acts as a mentor to Yelena much like Rowan does in Heir of Fire. However, I think this is a questionable addition despite similarities because SJ/M began writing Queen of Glass in 2003 and all the aforementioned aspects that are similar were already present in the version she published online.

- S/JM has saved a pin of Connor Kenway from the Assassin's Creed series (AC3) as Rowan and Lorcan on Pinterest. Towards the end of the series they started using hatchets as weapons, which is Connor's choice of weapon, outside of swords, and is used heavily in art which features him. Aelin's assassin suit from the earlier books also had a blade built into it, which was very similar to the hidden blade the assassins in Assassin's Creed use.

Further reading: Why not everyone liked Connor’s characteristic traits being ripped off: https://dragonidk.tumblr.com/post/614614548495859712/i-went-through-sjms-tog-pinterest-board-the-other

Further reading: An article comparing EoS’s ending to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: https://thebookfinch.wordpress.com/2016/09/08/review-empire-of-storms-by-sarah-j-maas-in-which-we-discuss-plagiarism/

A/COTAR

- “Prythian”, the A/COTAR world, is taken directly from Anne Bishop’s Daughter of the Blood.

- The Archeron sisters could be based off the painting “The Acheson Sisters” by John Singer Sargent which features three women.

- The Illyrians could have been based off of the Eyriens from Anne’s Bishop’s Black Jewels series. Both are warrior races with bat wings that use a war blade to fight with. They also both completely refuse their women any right to fight and consider losing their wings to be the absolute worst thing that could happen to them. 

- Feyre tells Tamlin, “The sun was shining when I left you.” which is basically Paris saying, “The sun was shining when your wife left you.” in the movie Troy (2004)

- Rhys proclaims, “Light can be found even in the darkest of hells,” Which is really close to Dumbledore saying (in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban), “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”

- Daenerys: “We’re going to leave the world better than we found it.” 

ACOWAR: “Leave this world… a better place than how you found it.”

- “Pity those who don’t feel anything at all.” is a variation of “Pity the living and above all, those who live without love,” said by Dumbledore in the Deathly Hallows.

- A Dance of Dragons, George R.R. Martin, 2011: ‘He is fire made flesh, she thought, and so am I.’

ACOMAF, 2016: ‘Fire - he reminded her of fire made flesh.’

- SJ/M may have also plagiarised The Chronicles of Prydain for ACOTAR wherein Prythian is altered to Prydain and The Cauldron is derived from The Black Cauldron. This may be especially true considering the fact that SJ/M has expressed her love for the books and stated it on Twitter. She also went on to mention that she got the name for Prythian from those books. Similarities to the cauldron can also be seen in the fact that SJ/M’s Cauldron can transform humans into fae while Alexander's Black Cauldron is able to resurrect the dead.

!!!! Further Reading: Noticeable similarities between ACOTAR and The Chronicles of Prydain series: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Chronicles_of_Prydain

- Possible plagiarism(?) of Titanic: Rose is Feyre, Cal is Tamlin, Jack is Rhys. The story is similar - the girl is involved with a guy who seems nice enough, but turns out to be abusive etc. There are similar incidents of the table being chucked across the room/and the study being destroyed. Then you also have the girl being told the other guy isn't nice and she should stay away from him, but then it ends up being the other way round. The guy bosses her about, making her decisions for her and ends up dying for her later on.

- Rhapsody by Laura Thalassa and A/COTAR have awfully similar tropes. Both involve faeries, in both the main female lead leaves her barbaric boyfriend to go with the dark, elegant Fae boyfriend who came to collect a debt.

Further reading: A conversation in comparing The Vampire Diaries(?) to ACOTAR:  https://crescentcitysux.tumblr.com/post/618622356795064320/iolanthepeverells-pokeyfaes

Further reading: Similarities between Shatter Me and the ACOTAR trilogy: https://discountalien-pancake.tumblr.com/post/174823303683/dont-take-this-as-an-attack-im-just

C/RESCENT CITY

- Similarities between the plot of Darkfever by Karen Marie Morning (an author S/JM likes) and Crescent City’s plot: https://polysorscha.tumblr.com/post/183661492639/funny-thing-i-came-across-the-crescent-city

- The Princes of Hel might be from the Seven Princes of Hell demonology (some ancient writings trying to classify demons in christianity). [MINOR INFRACTION]

Sources:

- @sjm-exposed 

- @soartfullydone 

- @falstaffing for “My friend through many dangers.”

- https://readatmidnight.com/2018/10/27/book-rant-kingdom-of-ash/

- strangestoryteller.com

- https://camryndaytona.com/2019/08/sarah-j-maas-and-jrr-tolkien

- @rougeam for “fire made flesh”

- @sylphene for Aerin firehair 

- @sylphene and @paperbacktrash  for The Chronicles of Prydain.

- An anon for the Laura Thalassa comparison

- @hireath24 for the Crown of Midnight quote and “spirit that could not be broken.”

- @pokeyfaes and @iolanthepeverells for The Vampire Diaries comparison

- A reddit thread for the Titanic comparison 

- An anon for the Eyrians

- An anon and @dragonidk for the Assassin’s Creed addition

- @longsightmyth for Fireheart

[starseternelle]

" half her face is a tragedy !! "

an edit of human au!feyre's scars

[ non-mutuals and personal blogs do not interact ]

[thebluemartini]

Far From the Shallow - Chapter 12 [Nessian Fic]

TITLE: Far From the Shallow SYNOPSIS: Post-ACOFAS. As part of a deal with Feyre, Nesta has agreed to live with Cassian in the Illyrian Mountains. However, shortly after her arrival, she receives the startling news that she’s pregnant from one of her one-night stands. While she tries to quickly get a grip on her life, Cassian’s determined to make her see that she’s not facing this alone.

FIC LENGTH: Multi-chapter (Total Chapter Estimate: 14)

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11

TAGGING: @bohemiandreams27 @queenofillea1 @trash-for-nessian @nestaarcheronwillkillme @my-fan-side @strangeenemy @maastrash @cageddovepoetry @bybooksanddreams @lilbat90 @ritamordio19 @mastercommandercaptain @feysand-dot-acotar @archeron-queen @welcometothespeaknowworldtour @empress-ofbloodshed @there-is-warmth-in-winter @mybbyfeyre @saltydreamcollector @justlikethecheshirecat @mis-lil-red @supebowlere @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @everything-that-i-love @sezkins79 @hashtolanashoba @lord-douglas-the-third @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @hikari274 @acotar-and-tog-for-life @ellenoftroy @ink-nibs @highlordofthenightcourttrash @sesquipedalian-aficionado @tintinnabulary

*This chapter is also posted on AO3 and FF.

A/N: Eeep! I’m so nervous posting this chapter since it’s the moment we’ve been waiting for!

(Please note, I definitely do not get into all the crazy details about childbirth. Also, this is a fae birth, so that’s my excuse if there’s anything that does/doesn’t happen that usually doesn’t/does happen during a human birth! Haha 😉)

________________________________________________________________ CHAPTER 12: May

As the days went by, Cassian woke up each morning, hoping he would hear from Nesta again.

He hadn’t heard from her since she sent him a message about the baby’s gender. The day after that, he had gone ahead and wrote her a simple question: How are you doing?

But a week went by, and he still hadn’t received a reply.

The lack of response saddened and frustrated him, but he still had the hope she would eventually contact him, considering she initiated the last conversation.

But now it was the first day of May. The month she was going to have her baby.

There was no way he was going to miss the birth of her baby. He wanted to give Nesta the space she desired, but at what point would he have to stop waiting for her and just go ahead and make his own move?

He needed to be there for her. No matter how much she may try to push him away, he would prove to her that he would still be there and that he loved her.

Just as he was about to leave the kitchen, a piece of parchment appeared on the table. As soon as Cassian saw it, he instantaneously reached for it as his heart hammered in his chest.

Bat boy,

Be at my apartment at midday.

-Amren

Cassian’s heart sank upon seeing it wasn’t Nesta’s handwriting.

Instead, it was a demanding note from Amren without an explanation for why he needed to visit.

Typical.

He wasn’t sure what this could be about. Visiting Amren wasn’t a usual part of his duties for the Inner Circle. She wasn’t usually involved with Illyrian matters.

He wondered if Nesta had listened to him when he told her to visit Amren about the siphon. Could it possibly be about that? He wasn’t sure what he would really need to do with the siphon. It had been unlinked. There was nothing more needed from him.

He picked up a pen to write back. Any special reason?

The response came quickly.

You’ll find out when you get here.

Cassian huffed at the vague reply. If he was going to be there at midday, he’d have to start flying out there now. But at least this gave him a reason to go to Velaris. Maybe afterwards, he would stop at Rhys and Feyre’s estate and attempt to talk to Nesta again.

Gods, it felt like it’d been ages since he last saw her.

As he left the kitchen and exited the cabin, he couldn’t help but feel slightly thrilled by the prospect of seeing her again later that day.

He just prayed she would be more receptive to what he had to say.

________________________________________________________________

Nesta sighed out of frustration as she made her way to Amren’s house. The message she received from her had been last minute and unexpected, demanding she come over to test something about her powers and to come right away.

Didn’t she realize that her baby could be born any day now? Her stomach was so large, making it hard to move about and slowing her down, elongating the journey to Amren’s. She couldn’t handle short notice, but when Nesta tried to protest in her message back to her, Amren got feisty right back at her, claiming that she must not care about potentially hurting her daughter with her powers.

Such a comment irritated her but also spurred her to get dressed and start making her way to Amren’s home. At least it was only the first day of May. Better to try out whatever crazy idea Amren had now instead of later on, when she was closer to Madja’s estimated due date of mid-May.

Soon, she’d be able to meet her baby girl. The thought always caused Nesta to bring her hand up to her stomach to feel her kicks, which were pretty constant now.

At least she had somewhere to live and her sisters would be around to help take care of the baby. Her relationship with them was still far from perfect, but they were slowly working through it.

But was she ready for the birth of her baby? She had no idea if anything could truly prepare her for it. She kept reading about it since she didn’t even know a single fae who’d had a fae child. Rhys, Azriel, and Amren had told her what they knew, but they didn’t fully know how it would go or what it would feel like or what the best ways to raise the baby would be.

She just wished...Cassian was here to handle the unknown with her. She moved her hand up to touch the red siphon that she now wore around her neck.

But he didn’t deserve to be saddled down with someone like her and taking care of a child that wasn’t his. He deserves someone better.

It was a moment of weakness when she decided to send him a message about finding out the baby was a girl. She’d been too wrapped up in the excitement of it to think straight. When he sent her a message the next day, asking how she was doing, she’d been in a clearer state of mind and was able to realize it would be better for her to not respond. To detach and distance herself.

And it would be healthier for her to stop thinking of him...

Soon, she reached the front door of Amren’s apartment and knocked.

“Get inside, girl!” she heard Amren shout through the door.

Nesta rolled her eyes at her impropriety before turning the knob and strolling inside.

She’d found Amren lounging around in the living room, eating some chicken and vegetables. “Come eat with me, girl,” she demanded as she gestured to the plate of food sitting on the end of the small table in the middle of the room.

Nesta gave her a peculiar look as Amren lifted the plate to her, and Nesta took a seat in the chair across from her.

Amren’s message had made it sound like this was an urgent meeting, and here she was, casually eating in the living room.

“I thought we were going to do something with my powers,” Nesta grumpily stated.

“In a moment,” Amren replied. “But first, we must eat.”

Nesta rolled her eyes at Amren’s eccentricities but figured she might as well feed herself and the baby, so she started eating.

A little while later, Amren stood up and started walking out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Nesta asked.

“To use the damned bathroom,” Amren muttered irritably.

Nesta continued to sit and eat, all while trying not to explode on Amren for ordering her to get here immediately when they weren’t even doing anything.

Suddenly, she heard a knock upon the front door, sparking Nesta’s curiosity. She wasn’t aware of anyone possibly joining them. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone else either. Not that she ever really was.

“Answer that,” Amren dictated loudly from inside the bathroom.

Nesta groaned in annoyance as she carefully put down her plate, then slowly made her way over to the door, wondering why Amren didn’t bother answering the door when she arrived, but now, someone actually needed the door opened for them.

Upon swinging the door open, her eyes widened in surprise when she found Cassian standing before her.

He looked equally shocked to see her, with his mouth opening to speak, but no words came out.

“What are you...what are you doing here?” Nesta managed to ask. She’d intended for her words to have more bite, but instead they just came out slowly and calmly.

“What am I doing here? I think the better question is why are you here instead of in bed at the estate, waiting for the baby’s arrival?” he asked rather seriously, with his eyes filled with concern.

Nesta’s fiery nature kicked in. “I am perfectly able -” she began to defend herself, but suddenly an arrow came soaring over her shoulder and went straight for Cassian’s neck, piercing the skin.

Cassian plucked the arrow from the small wound as he grunted with pain before closing his eyes and instantly crumpling to the ground.

“CASSIAN!” Nesta exclaimed and tried to reach for him as he fell, but with her pregnant stomach, she couldn’t move fast enough to catch him. Nesta whirled around and found Varian standing in the room.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Nesta yelled, and the burning in her hands ignited and she could feel power shoot out of her and hit Varian’s body. Instantly, she heard Varian’s heartbeat slow down. She didn’t even need to touch him for him to feel the effects, which may have been a result of the siphon that hung around her neck.

“PULL BACK, NESTA! CASSIAN IS FINE!” Amren exclaimed when she appeared in front of Varian. Immediately, when she stood in front of him, the blast of power had stopped.

Hyperventilating, Nesta glared at her as Amren turned around and inspected Varian’s body. He appeared to be breathing slowly.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO CASSIAN?” Nesta demanded to know as she carefully kneeled down beside Cassian’s unconscious body and ran her hand across his cheek to push hair away from his face. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the rise and fall of his chest.

“He’ll only be knocked out for a half hour,” Amren calmly stated, still tending to Varian. “And it appears I was right. Your powers to harm come alive when you’re protecting someone you love.”

Love...

“THAT’S WHAT THIS WAS ALL ABOUT?” she shouted.

“Yes, now calm down already,” Amren ordered.

Nesta kept her eyes on Cassian and continued to stroke his cheek. She hated seeing him like this. Motionless and seeming lifeless. She hated that she’d already seen Cassian like this twice before, which still haunted her: at the hands of the king of Hybern and at the Dunclare camp in Illyria.

And while she knew she needed to detach herself from him, she still needed to make sure Amren spoke truthfully and make sure Cassian awoke.

So she waited. 

________________________________________________________________

Cassian opened his eyes.

He was lying on a couch. Amren’s couch, he had realized.

With a grunt, he sat up as he tried to recall how he got there. Thinking through the day, he remembered getting a note from Amren, flying to Velaris, knocking on her door, and then...and then he saw Nesta.

Nesta.

His heart started pumping fast.

And then some arrow had come flying out of nowhere and hit him.

When Amren walked in the room, he perked his head up. “Finally,” she remarked.

Cassian let out a huff. “What was that arrow all about?” he asked groggily.

“I had Varian shoot a drugged arrow at you to see if it would trigger Nesta’s powers, and I was right,” Amren bragged as she gave him a smug smile.

“You did what?”

“You heard me, boy.”

Cassian shook his head at Amren’s insane antics. But...but Nesta’s powers had been triggered. He started turning his head, looking to see if she was still around somewhere.

“She’s outside on the balcony,” Amren stated.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Amren remarked before turning and walking out of the room.

Cassian started rubbing his head over the spot where he he had fallen on it. That had been an extreme ploy to get Nesta’s powers to work. But what did this mean for her powers?

Getting up off the couch, he walked across the room, looking out the window as he headed to the door to the balony.  Outside, Nesta was sitting in a chair with one leg stretched out and propped up on another chair.

He could see how big her stomach had gotten, and how beautiful she still looked. She was still glowing. Just like the day they’d hosted the Illyrian camp leaders at his cabin.

At least she didn’t run away. She knew he was here and didn’t bolt. Perhaps, she was willing to talk to him. Carefully, he turned the knob to open the door to the balcony.

________________________________________________________________

When she heard the creak of the door behind her, she knew it was Cassian.

But she didn’t dare look back up at him, knowing it would send her heart thundering in her chest. Instead, she focused her gaze on her swollen foot that was propped on the chair.

He appeared in her peripheral vision and soon began to speak. “Your foot is swollen,” he observed.

“I’m aware,” she said casually.

“Do you want me to - ”

“No,” she interrupted him. From the way he leaned down and motioned to touch her lower leg, she knew he was about to offer to massage her foot. She wouldn’t be able to stand him touching her because she knew it risked making her want him all the more.

Plus, he’d already done so much for her. It wasn’t right for him to do any more for her.

Cassian then went over to the other side of her and sat down in the seat next to her.

“Amren said she figured out how to trigger your powers,” he said.

“It appears that they activate when I’m trying to protect someone,” she answered, neglecting to mention the other qualifier that Amren had said.

“I see you’re wearing the siphon,” he commented. “Did it help?”

The damned siphon he shouldn’t have given her.

“Yes,” she replied with a bit of an edge to her tone. Finally, she turned her gaze away from her foot and looked up at him. She regretted it as soon as she looked at him.

He was giving her the look, and she nearly stumbled over her words when she spoke again.

“Why...why would you give me this?” she asked, raising her voice out of frustration.

“Because that was our agreement for me breaking a promise.”

“But I didn’t know the pain it would cause you!”

“It doesn’t matter. I would do anything for you,” he noted earnestly.

Nesta shook her head and tilted her face away from him, wondering what the heck was wrong with him for saying such a thing.

“What is it?” he asked. “Why are you shaking your head? Do you honestly not believe me?”

“I don’t deserve you,” she whispered as a tear slipped out of her eye.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t deserve you,” she said a bit louder and more forcefully.

“What is that supposed to mean? What makes you think that you don’t deserve me?”

Nesta continued shaking her head. “I’m a monster. Even your friends despise me for the way I act. The way I am. You should stay away.”

She thought of Mor’s feelings about her and her conversations with Rhysand. Neither of them liked her. Why would Cassian want someone who his friends despised?

“Would a monster sleep beside me to keep my nightmares away? Do everything she could to ease tensions with the Illyrians with me? Tend to my wounds when I’m injured? Not many people know the real you, Nesta, but I do. And I love you.”

“Stop saying that,” she stated with exasperation.

“I won’t stop speaking the truth,” he said firmly.

She couldn’t do this. She needed to get out of here. She’s seen him awake. She could go home now, knowing his was fine after being shot by the drugged arrow.

Bringing her foot down from the chair and standing up, she headed straight for the door to the apartment. Of course her movement wasn’t swift, giving Cassian ample time to get right behind her and raise his hand above her shoulder to hold the door closed as she tried to turn the knob and open it.

“Nesta,” he whispered, and she could feel his breath against the back of her neck. Having him so close sent her heart racing. “Talk to me,” he pleaded.

“About what?” she snapped.

“Did you read all my letters?”

“Yes,” she answered strongly.

“And did you talk to your sisters about the bond?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

He was still breathing on the back of her neck. It was driving her crazy, and yet she felt frozen in place.

“And what do you think of the bond?”

“And I don’t think…” she began before taking a deep breath. “I don’t think the bond determines how you feel.”

Cassian’s hand on the door slid down to encase her hand that rested on the knob. She could feel him get closer behind her, and he placed his hand against her shoulder blade. “Then what’s the problem?” he wondered quietly, with his lips close to the shell of her ear.

Nesta closed her eyes and resisted the urge to lean back into him.

“I told you,” she said forcefully, once she’d gathered her senses. “I don’t deserve you.”

Cassian sighed. “Stop being so ridiculous.”

“I am not being ridiculous,” she insisted as she released the door knob and turned around to face him, forcing Cassian to step back from her a little.

“Yes, you are!” he said loudly. “You’re just making up excuses because you’re afraid!”

Nesta narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head. “You’re delusional.”

“Sweetheart,” he said as he moved to grab hold of her hands, but she wouldn’t allow that. She quickly moved her hands out of his reach and whipped around her body to open the door. She stormed into the apartment, unable to shut the door behind her since Cassian was barging in right behind her.

“I’m done having this -” Nesta began to say before letting out a cry after feeling a burst of pain through his lower back and abdomen. The discomfort took her by surprise, causing her to lean her palm against the wall for support.

“Nesta, what is it?” Cassian asked in concern, immediately coming to her side and wrapping his arm around her. “Is the baby coming?”

The pains within her continued and she couldn’t help but keep letting out cries of anguish. This must be it. Her baby girl was coming. “Yes,” she said just before her knees buckled as she felt a raging contraction.

But Cassian was there and ready to catch her. With one arm at her back and the other beneath her thighs, he lifted her up in his arms. “AMREN!” he called out.

“WHAT!” Amren replied from another room.

“Contact Madja to meet us at Rhys and Feyre’s! The baby is coming!” he instructed.

Then he gazed down at Nesta as she clutched at her stomach. “I’ll fly you very carefully back to the estate,” he explained as he started walking at a quick pace toward the front door.

Once he stepped outside, they took flight.

________________________________________________________________

Nesta had a hard time focusing on what was going on around her. Her eyes were closed most of the time as pain wracked her body. The baby books had warned her that labor pains would be as bad as during menstruation, if not worse.

She vaguely remembered Cassian murmuring some things to her like “Hang in there, sweetheart,” as they flew back to the estate. Those words brought her no comfort as she still felt like she wanted to throttle someone.

Then when they reached the estate, there was a huge commotion, with her sisters, Rhys, Azriel, and Madja all gathered around. She remembered hearing Madja’s voice shouting over everyone to instruct Cassian to carry her upstairs to her room.

 All the noise was irritating.

When they reached her room, Cassian had gently laid her down on the bed as Madja rushed about to retrieve all that she needed. But based on all the chatter she heard, it sounded like many of the others had followed them upstairs, infuriating both her and Madja. She did not need to have her ears ringing from all this ridiculous noise on top of giving birth.

“EVERYONE NEEDS TO GET OUT,” Madja ordered loudly. “Cassian, are you staying in the room or not?”

This question caused her to shoot open her eyes. Looking up, she found Cassian standing over her, staring directly at her.

“It’s your call, sweetheart. Am I staying or am I going?” he asked.

Another contraction ripped through her body.

“IF YOU DARE TO ABANDON ME NOW, I WILL MURDER YOU,” she spat out fiercely without even thinking. Because, gods, she couldn’t even handle thinking right now. 

Despite the fact that she just yelled at him, Cassian beamed as he eagerly grabbed her hand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “Hang in there, sweetheart.”

________________________________________________________________

Watching Nesta be in labor for many hours was brutal.

Knowing how much pain she was in made it a horrifying experience because he couldn’t do anything except sit on a chair beside her bed, hold her hand, and wait. He couldn’t rid her of her pain.

Through the bond, he could feel a dull ache in his back and his stomach. He knew it was nothing compared to the torturous time she was having. She made sure he and Madja were well aware of that fact, with her shouts at them for not helping make the pain go away.

Which was another reason it was so brutal to watch her be in labor.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING WRONG? YOU KEEP FEELING MY STOMACH, YET THE BABY’S STILL NOT COMING. ARE YOU THAT INCOMPETENT?” Nesta shouted at one point when Madja felt around her bare stomach. 

“ARE YOU REALLY ABOUT TO ABANDON ME RIGHT NOW?” she screamed at another moment when he let go of her hand to get up to retrieve a cold, wet towel with the intention of placing it against her forehead.

She was constantly shouting about every little thing. She would reprimand him for gripping her hand too tightly then later say his grip was too loose. She would claim he was breathing too heavily on her, so he would turn his head slightly away from her, but then she’d wonder if she was too hideous for him to look at right now. 

But all throughout her outrageous complaints, Cassian reminded himself to remain calm and not engage in an argument with her. He’d always answer her sweetly and gently in an effort to please her as best as he could.

All while praying the baby would make her arrival very, very soon.

“Hang in there, sweetheart,” he stated for what was probably the hundredth time when she cried out in anguish.

She glared at him when she turned her face toward him. “THOSE STUPID WORDS AREN’T HELPING!”

Cassian fought the urge to sigh for fear of her complaining about that too. What else was he supposed to say in this moment?

 He decided to just say the next thing that came to mind.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“WELL DESPITE YOUR UNHELPFULNESS, I LOVE YOU TOO.”

It felt as if his heart stopped. His thumb that had been rubbing circles on the back of her hand froze.

“What did you say?” he whispered as he looked at her curiously.

“YOU HEARD ME.”

“But...did you mean it?” he wondered. She had been saying crazy things all day.

“WHY WOULD I HAVE SAID WORDS I DON’T MEAN?”

“Well, earlier at Amren’s, you were telling me that -” he began to say, but Nesta cut him off.

“WELL YOU WERE RIGHT. I WAS AFRAID, DAMMIT.”

Cassian couldn’t the stop the huge grin from spreading across his face.

“DON’T YOU DARE GET COCKY JUST BECAUSE I SAID YOU WERE RIGHT,” she added.

“Oh, Nesta…” he murmured as he stood up from his seat to lean over and plant a kiss on her cheek. “I love you.”

Nesta sighed in annoyance. “I ALREADY KNOW.”

It was then that Nesta let out her loudest cry of agony yet, which caused Madja to press along her stomach again. “The baby is coming now,” she announced. “Push! Push!”

“You’ve got this, sweetheart,” he remarked as he felt her squeeze his hand tighter than ever before. “Keep pushing.”

Within minutes, they could hear the baby’s cries. Cassian looked at Nesta and the widest smile came across her face. Tears flooded out of her eyes as she breathed heavily. Cassian lifted their intertwined hands and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. “You did it, sweetheart.”

Soon Madja presented her with her cleaned-off baby girl swaddled in a blanket. Nesta released Cassian’s hand and eagerly took her into her arms. “Welcome, little one,” she said quietly as she stared at her in adoration. The baby settled down once she noticed her mother’s eyes looking at her.

Feeling like he was infringing on Nesta’s moment with her daughter, he took a few steps back.

“Where are you going?” Nesta asked as she perked her head up and looked at him.

“I thought you would want -” he started to say, but Nesta interjected.

“Come over here,” she implored.

Cassian immediately went and sat beside Nesta on the mattress, wrapping his arm around Nesta’s back while gazing down at her baby.

She looked so peaceful and innocent. Her face looked a lot like Nesta’s, especially the shape of her nose. It was...so incredible to see. He couldn’t help but smile down at her. “She’s beautiful,” he commented.

Nesta nodded in agreement.

“And so are you,” he added before kissing Nesta’s cheek.

“I love her so much already,” Nesta said breathlessly.

“What are you going to name her?”

Nesta turned to look up at him. “Would it be all right...if I named her Dahlia?”

Cassian’s breath stilled.

His mother. Nesta wanted to name her daughter after his mother. But how did she even know his mother’s name? He had never told her...

“You want to name her...after my mother?” he asked, stumbling over his words. “How...how did you even know my mother’s name?”

Nesta nodded. “Rhys told me. It seemed like the perfect name, after all you’ve done for me and for the baby because of your mother.”

“It was because of you that I - ” Cassian gently insisted.

“It was at least partly because of her,” Nesta interrupted as she gave him look as if to say Don’t deny it. “You didn’t want me to feel alone like she did...and I certainly didn��t because of you.”

Cassian hugged her tighter to him. “I’d be honored if you named her after my mother,” he whispered, unable to prevent the tear that glistened in his eye.

Nesta gave him a peck on the lips - their first kiss since the day he started the Blood Rite - before bending her head down to kiss her baby’s head. “Hello, Dahlia.”

“Hi, Dahlia,” Cassian said as he gazed down at her.

With the woman he loved beside him - who loved him in return - and a child he’d considered his own sitting before them...Cassian was certain he’d never felt this content in his entire life. 

________________________________________________________________

Once Madja had cleaned up the room and Nesta looked a little more presentable, her sisters, Rhys, and Azriel were finally permitted to enter the room and meet the baby. While Feyre and Elain were busy taking turns holding her and cooing to her, the males retrieved the crib and brought it inside Nesta’s room.

After a short while, Nesta’s exhaustion really hit her. Luckily, Madja realized this, shooing everyone off while insisting Nesta and Dahlia needed rest. Madja placed Dahlia to sleep in her crib, and Cassian had laid down beside her as they fell asleep together.

It must have been a few hours later when she felt Cassian stir beside her and remove his hand from its place on her waist.

She had assumed he had gone to the bathroom or went to retrieve food or drink, but when he didn’t return within a few minutes, she opened her eyes to find Cassian standing beside the crib, holding Dahlia in his arms as she rested her head on his shoulder.

Cassian swayed a little back and forth with her, rubbing her back as he did so.

It was a beautiful sight to see. When she had grown closer to Cassian, this is what she had been picturing what their life could be like. Their own little family.

When she had gone into labor, she found that she could no longer deny her feelings for him. She was tired of fighting them and she wanted him to be at her side, figuring out how to be parents together.

But she needed to be sure that this life was what he wanted.

Nesta sat up in her bed as she observed him gently lay Dahlia down in her crib. When he turned around, he appeared startled to see her awake and watching him.

“Sorry if I woke you,” he whispered as he returned to his place beside her in the bed. “I could hear Dahlia getting a little fussy, and I didn’t want her to start crying.”

Nesta scooted her body so she could wrap her arm around Cassian’s waist and rest her head against his bare chest. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Cassian entwined his fingers within her hair and started undoing her braid. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly.

Nesta started tracing the Illyrian tattoos on his chest with her finger. “Will you be a father to Dahlia?”

“I want so much to be a father to her,” he remarked as he continued to play with her hair. “But if I’m going to be her father, then you need to understand that I am never going to abandon her or leave her. I will always be a part of her life, which means I will forever be a part of yours, and I need to know where I stand with you.”

Nesta paused her tracing as she looked up at him, with her chin resting on his chest. “What do you mean?”

“More than anything, I want to be with you,” he stated tenderly as his fingers stilled within her hair. “Only you. And I need to know if you feel the same way. Because earlier, you told me you were afraid.”

Nesta sat back up again and placed her hands on the sides of Cassian’s face. “I love you,” she said. “I only want you. I still don’t think I deserve you and I think part of me will always be afraid that I’ll mess it all up somehow. But I’ve realized that I don’t want to take the risk of not being with you either. I don’t think I’m ready to accept the bond yet, so -”

“The bond isn’t important to me,” he interrupted gently. “Your love is enough.”

“You have it,” she whispered. “And I always want you to be in my life and to be with me.”

Cassian smile spread from ear to ear as he put his hands on her cheeks and tugged her face closer to him. “I love you, Nesta Archeron.”

“I love you, Cassian,” she managed to hurriedly say before his lips came crashing against hers to give her a passionate kiss.

After a few more passionate kisses, Nesta fell back asleep in his arms, feeling safe and secure, and the happiest she’d ever been. 

________________________________________________________________

The next week and a half had been filled with lots of grogginess, lots of breastfeeding, and a great desire for sleep. Nesta hardly left her room, let alone her bed, as her sore body recovered from giving birth.

Cassian rarely left her alone. Unless he was using the bathroom or cooking food for her, he was always there to help calm the baby, to bring Dahlia over to her bed, to bring her meals and eat with her, and help make sure she got at least some rest.

Feeling well enough to stand at least for a little while, she had put Dahlia down in her crib to sleep. As soon as she hit the crib, she wailed.

But then Cassian appeared beside Nesta, and Dahlia became silent, suddenly entranced by the movement of his wings. When he saw her staring at them, he deliberately began to flap them around a bit, intriguing her even more. Cassian chuckled as he did so, and Nesta couldn’t help but laugh herself.

“Too bad she wasn’t born with wings,” Cassian commented. “She seems rather fond of them.”

Cassian had told her the day after Dahlia was born that if she were part Illyrian, the wings would’ve been present at birth. But there were none.

When Cassian made the comment, Nesta couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed. Would he have been jealous if she turned out to be the biological daughter of an Illyrian who wasn’t him?

But overall, he seemed so happy to be around both of them. And this easiness between them was so calming and pleasant.

But she knew that all good things must come to an end, including this fairytale-like lifestyle.

“When are you going back to Illyria?” she asked quietly once he settled down his wings as Dahlia finally closed her eyes to sleep, unable to keep them open any longer.

Cassian turned to her and gave her a peculiar look. “Sick of me already, sweetheart?” he questioned her back, but she could tell there was some hesitancy. His jesting wasn’t as smooth as it usually was. 

But she was determined to have fun with this.

“Well,” she said as she turned away from the crib and crossed the room to sit in front of her vanity. “Someone’s been taking apart my hair each day after I spend all this time braiding and styling it. It’s been quite inconvenient.”

“Is that so?” he growled with a smirk as he came up behind her. “It seems to me that you style it because you enjoy feeling my fingers run through your hair and take it apart.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she sternly said as she looked at his reflection in the mirror. “This cocky attitude of yours is also a problem.”

Cassian’s grin didn’t leave his face. “Any other complaints?”

As she eyed him in the mirror, she could see he was now giving her the infamous look. The look that sent her heart racing and made her feel anxious all at the same time.

“Well, the way you look at me sometimes…” she began confidently. “...makes me feel uneasy,” she finished in a whisper.

“I think you feel uneasy because you are having trouble resisting the urge to run your hands all over me.”

Nesta rolled her eyes at him. “There’s your irritating cocky attitude again.”

Cassian crouched down so the edge of his face was nearly touching her cheek.  “I can think of so many better uses for your mouth than spreading all these lies, sweetheart,” he stated huskily.

A slight blush crept up her face as she looked down at the vanity and thought of all the spots she’d love to kiss him on his body...

But she had to get back to the topic at hand. She leaned her head away from him.

“I can only handle your delusions for so long,” she said with a glint of amusement in her eyes. Then she shifted into a more serious tone. “When are you going back to Illyria?”

Cassian took a deep breath. “Well I would want to go back once you and Dahlia can go with me.”

Nesta took a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s safe for us to go back anytime soon,” she sadly pointed out. The Illyrians had already attacked them before and nearly succeeded because they thought her baby was his child. There was no way she would put Dahlia at risk. Especially when she’s just a baby.

“I know,” he expressed woefully as he sat on the edge of her bed behind her. “So until then, I’ll live here in Velaris - “”

“You can’t do that!” Nesta interrupted, slamming her hands on the vanity out of impassioned frustration. “You need to help the Illyrians change, not give them more reason to hate you for ruling over them from afar. They won’t accept that. They won’t change. They’ll just turn further against you!”

“Then...I won’t-”

“You better not be saying you’ll give up being the General Commander!” she interjected as she whipped around in her seat to face him.

“Well, technically I’m not because you’re not letting me get a word in, sweetheart!” he joked. But Nesta was no longer in the mood for jokes right now. This was serious. He had already done so much for her. She wouldn’t let him give up his status of General Commander.

Standing up in front of him, she put her hands on his shoulders as she spoke to him.

“You are going to go back to the camps and you are going to make them change their ways for your mother. And then you’re going to make it safe for me and Dahlia to come live there with you one day. You will not give up anything more for me. Is that understood?” she ordered him sternly.

“But I would give up everything for you,” he stated softly as he grabbed her arms and gently pulled her onto his lap.

“I know,” she replied softly. “But you don’t need to.”

Cassian let out a frustrated groan. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

“You wouldn’t be without us,” she noted as she wrapped her hands around his neck. “We’ll make this work. You could still visit us every week...Rhys and Feyre could perhaps help with winnowing you here often.”

“But they can’t do that for us forever.”

“I could learn how to winnow,” she suggested.

“Maybe in time, but you should focus on taking care of Dahlia for now.”

“Well, the faster you get the camps in order, the faster we can come home to Illyria,” she whispered and she could see the warmth in Cassian’s eyes when she said the word home.

Illyria was where she truly got to know Cassian. It was where shared secrets, experiences, and feelings had bounded them together. It was where she had fallen for him, and now...now home was wherever Cassian was.

As well as where Dahlia was. It hurt to say that she couldn’t go back with him to Illyria. But Dahlia’s safety came first.

Cassian hugged her to him, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t like this,” he noted sourly.

“I don’t either,” she whispered. “But you owe it to your mother to put an end to their abuse and their injustice. If you gave up being General Commander, then...you wouldn’t be the man I love.” 

He heaved a sigh.

Nesta started rubbing the back of his neck. She knew he was feeling as sad as she was...but what else could they do? Illyria needed change. Dahlia needed safety. Her and Cassian still could be together...just not as often as they would like.

“Undo my hair as you love to do everyday,” she instructed.

Finally, the glint of wicked amusement returned to his eyes as he gave her a sly smile. “I think you mean it’s what you love me to do everyday. Actually, I think all your supposed complaints tonight were reasons you love me.”

“Mmm,” she moaned as she planted a kiss against his neck. “I don’t know about that,” she said with amusement.

“Cruel woman,” he remarked as he slowly weaved his hand within her hair. “I think you may be the one who’s delusional.”

“Maybe you should knock some sense into me,” she breathed.

“Gladly,” he answered before further twirling his fingers in her hair to destroy her braid and planting a fierce kiss on her lips.

Suddenly, they heard a loud wail coming from the crib. Cassian leaned his forehead against Nesta’s. “Well, I guess I’ll have to knock some sense into you later,” he said and Nesta laughed before they both got up from the bed to tend to Dahlia.

________________________________________________________________

A/N: Eeeee! The baby is here! Feelings have been revealed! Unfortunately, things aren’t perfect for Nessian…but hey, that’s life and they’re at least together!

There’s still 2 chapters left of this story to go! Next chapter is slated to be about both June and July and then the final chapter will be an epilogue.

Let me know all your feelings about this chapter! 😊 Thank you as always for your support! Everyone’s comments have been SOO sweet! I love you all!

---> CHAPTER 13

[faircourts]

𑁍 *⠀ཾ ͙ ࿐ྃ ࿏   𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇  𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒.

it’s  so  hard  to  breathe  from  where  FEYRE  stands   ,   dagger  clutched  tightly  in  the  palm  of  her  hand  as  if  it’s  her  lifeline.   in  a  sense   ,   it  is.   it’s  the  only  thing  grounding  her  to  this  plane  as  faerie  chant  around  her   -   prodding  at  her  with  their  words   ,   laughing  at  her.   they  laugh  at  her  as  she  stares  down  at  the  man  on  his  knees  before  her   -   some  nights  it’s  tamlin   ,   as  if  her  mind  considers  it  a  joke  to  make  her  relive  such  a  terrible  moment   -   as  if  it  wants  to  remember  the  utter  terror  she  felt  when  he  was  revealed  to  her   ,   warm   ichor  already  dripping  from  the  tip  of  the  blade  in  hand.   ;   others  times   ,   it’s  rhysand  before  her.   no  matter  who  it  is  staring  up  at  her   ,   the  dream  nightmare  stays  the  same.   the  bloodied  dagger  in  hand  finds  its  way  in  to  one  of  their  hearts   .  .  .   the  only  difference  is  that  tonight   ,   it’s  in  her  own.   tonight   ,   she  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  yet  another  person  dying  at  her  hands.   tonight   ,   she  is  her  own  worst  enemy   ,   or  at  least   ,   she  believes  herself  to  be.   in  this  world  of  cruel  games  and  twisted  jokes   ,   it  is  her  heart  that  is  pierced  with  the  tip  of  her  blade   ,   as  amarantha  belts  out  a  sick  laugh  from  behind  her   ,   but  that’s  not  what  she’s  paying  attention  to.   no   ,   her  attention  is  on  tamlin  as  she  watches  him  rise  before  her   ,   reaching  out  to  take  hold  of  the  dagger   -   screaming  out  as  he  pulls  the  blade  free  from  her   .  .   and  plunges  it  right  back  into  her  flesh.   it’s  his  green  eyes  that  feyre  stares  into  as  death  claims  her   ,   it’s  his  arms  she  is  cradled  in  as  the  world  begins  to  slip  away  from  her  grasp   ;   it’s  him  that  she  mutters  her  love  to   ,   even  despite  the  blade  in  her  heart  by  his  hand.   -   because  amarantha  is  right   ,   she  is  just  a  human  girl   ,   unworthy  of  the  love  she  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  be  given  in  the  first  place.   she  is  flesh  &.  bone   ,   a  mere  mortal   ;   just  another  one  to  die  at  the  hands  of  the  fae   ,   because  she  deserves  this.

𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘  𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒  as  she  bolts  up  from  her  bed   ,   dried  tears  running  down  her  skin  mingled  with  the  beads  of  sweat  covering  her  body   ,   barely  managing  to  make  it  to  the  bathroom  before  she’s  hurling  up  the  contents  of  last  night’s  dinner   ,   fighting  back  the  tears  she  oh - so  desperately  needs  to  get  out   ;   the  burning  in  the  back  of  her  throat  almost  comforting.  today   ,   she  is  not  feyre  archeron  of  the  mortal  lands   ,   a  human  whose  heart  has  no  value   , nor is she high lady of the night court -   but  she  has  no  idea  who  she  is   --   because  feyre  archeron  had  died  for  this   ,   for  love   ;   she  had  killed  for  this   ,   unable  to  rid  herself  of  the  blood  on  her  hands  even  after  days  spent  scrubbing  at  the  callouses  on  her  hands  until  her  skin  was  raw  and  bleeding.   while  she  had  saved  tamlin   ,   and  lucien   ,   and  the  entirety  of  the  spring  court   .  .  .   she  had  lost  herself  along  the  way   ,   had  been  torn  down  by  the  weeks  spent  starving  and  barely  managing  to  cling  to  life.   at  the  end  of  a  dark  tunnel   ,   there  was  no  light   ,   for  she  was  unworthy  of  it   ,   always  had  been.

staring  in  to  the  mirror   ,   she  didn’t  recognize  the  woman  who  met  her  gaze   -   for  FEYRE  ARCHERON  had  died  under  the  mountain   ,   and  the  girl  who  had  risen  in  her  body  was  someone  else  entirely.

[pages-of-spilled-ink]

Under the Mountain

During your first years under Amarantha’s reign, you’d discovered that there were passageways deep within the tunnels Under the Mountain. Some of them were so close to collapse that not even her creatures would dare travel them.

If you followed the oldest, darkest tunnel, it would lead to a cave the size of a cottage.

There, the walls and ceiling were inlaid with gems the color of sapphire, amethyst, emerald, and so many other colors in between that you had no name for them. They were all the colors of the night sky on Starfall, and the cave glowed with their inward light. It felt as if some ancient creature had scraped at the deepest hues of night and then embedded them across the walls of this sanctuary.

It was here that you first met him.

You’d panicked, at first, to open your eyes to a tall, shadowy figure in the entrance to the cave. But when you leapt to your feet, you realized that the scent was familiar. You’d often scented it lingering around here. And so you looked closer- and stuttered an embarrassed greeting to the High Lord of Summer.

“Apologies for interrupting you, my lady, but then again, what are you doing in my hiding spot?” He crossed his muscular arms, the muscles flexing under his mahogany skin, as he leaned on the nearest wall.

“This is my hiding spot, Lord, but you are welcome to share,” you retorted as you sat back down and gestured for him to sit as well.

And sit down he did, but not without starting a fight about who had discovered the cave first. You won, and claimed your dominion.

You spent precious hours talking to him about what you missed most: the stars, the moon, the sky. And he spent hours describing Adriata to you, drawing pictures in the air of the shape of the palace and describing the seas. After finding out that you missed the sound of the ocean, he pressed his palm to the floor, and suddenly the cave came alive with the sounds of the ocean. The effort caused sweat to appear on his brow, but he shrugged it off and said it was worth it. For you.

From then on, the two of you would sit in the cave- sometimes in silence, sometimes in laughter- and listen to the sounds of the ocean underneath the night sky. You’d stroke your fingers through his silver hair when he put his head in your lap, quietly marveling at how it felt as if you were combing through strands of pure, soft moonlight. He would look up at you from time to time, and you’d stare back and note how it seemed like flickering blue lightning was trapped within his crystal blue eyes.

And then Feyre Archeron won her first task.

You all knew that Amarantha would rather die than release her hold on the High Lords. No- maybe not die. She would kill all of you before relinquishing our powers to a human girl. Her beasts watched the High Lords with suspicious eyes, and Tarquin was unable to slip away.

He came the night before her second task, and words of panic tumbled from his mouth.

“We need to get you out. You can leave now- one of my court has to distract Amarantha, even give his life, to give you time. A tumor in his head gives him days left to live. But you have to go now, as far as you can. Find a part of the mortal realms where no one can reach you.”

A life without his mischievous grin flashing at you, without his endless conversation about the ocean and the lesser Fae of Summer? A life without him? No. No. But then he held you by the shoulders, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

“I don’t care if Amarantha tortures me for the entirety of my existence from here on out- I will be happy knowing you are safe. My time with you was a gift, and I’ll treasure it with every second of my life. Give me another gift by extending your own life. Please.”

You cried as you kissed him for the first and last time, saltwater tears streaming from both of your faces. Your heart ached as the golden light seemed to leech from his body, and pain- real pain- shone through his eyes.

You felt strangely empty when you slipped from an escape tunnel Under the Mountain. As if your body had shut down. But when you crossed the wall, all of that pain came rushing back into you, as if every inch of your body were being stabbed with flaming knives that attempted to drag you back to him. You had to pull over in the forests of the mortals, sobbing endlessly for days until a hunting party frightened you into moving again.

You’ve settled down now in a corner of the human realms so far that the Fae are simply thought to be bedtime stories. No one here in this small village in the mountains even knows that there was a war.

No one knows that far across the world, there is a High Lord of Summer who is free from Amarantha, searching for his mate. A High Lord of Summer who would tear open the sky and watch the fiery stars fall to the earth if it meant that he could find you among the ashes. A High Lord who hates himself for letting himself give away greatest gift he’s ever received.

Chapter 39, ACOTAR:

“Amarantha flicked a hand at the High Lord of the Summer Court. ‘You may do what you want with the body afterward.’

The High Lord of the Summer Court bowed- as if he’d been given a gift...”

[ponyjockey]

Girl Talk (Archeron Sisters Fic)

Please read my other fic, Nessian - The Shower Has Been Installed. This one follows chronologically, but they can also be read as stand alones. Girl Talk is also from Nesta’s POV. Please like, comment, reblog. Hope you enjoy! I promise more Nessian alone time in my next one.

Description: The Archeron sisters find a moment to themselves in the town house.

Nesta Archeron lounged in her bed basking in the scent of Cassian that still cling to her sheets. It had been a few weeks since that afternoon shower and Cassian had taken to slipping into Nesta’s room when the stars were at their brightest and sneaking away before dawn. They still hadn’t taken that last step of intimacy, but they had done plenty of other things in those stolen midnight hours. The shower had definitely seen its fair share of use. 

Nesta wasn’t sure why she was bothering to hide him away, except that she riled at the thought of the unending “I told you so” they would have to endure when the came out as a couple to Cassian’s friends. Nesta still wasn’t sure she wanted to claim these people as her friends, well except for Amren maybe. Although they had been incredibly discreet, in her opinion, there was one person who definitely had caught on to her and Cassian’s late night rendezvous, Elain.

There was no way that Elain hadn’t heard them from across the hall with her fae ears or sensed the change in her and Cassian’s relationship with her seer’s eye. Elain knew Nesta better than anyone though and Nesta knew her sister wouldn’t push her to talk until she was ready. Since their father’s death the Archeron sisters did little talking when they were together, opting instead for reading or eating in companionable silence. They’d never been a touchy feely talk about your feelings family. Even with Elain, Nesta rarely shared the intimate details of her life, although she supposed until now there hadn’t been much to tell.

Nesta started at a knock on her door, but quickly relaxed when she heard Elain’s voice. “Nesta, Can I come in?” Nesta quickly sprayed her favorite perfume over the sheets to mask Cassian’s scent.  She had rapidly become one of the most respected clients of the top parfumerie in Velaris. As the Night Court’s emissary to the human lands, Nesta had been given a generous salary, though she would never let Rhys know how generous she thought it was, and had been putting it to good use. 

Velaris had more shops than Nesta could ever have imagined. Last night she and Cassian had even ventured out to a small lingerie store full of frilly delights, where she’d paid heavily for the shopkeeper’s discretion as she tried on lacy thing after lacy thing to his delight. Shaking her head out of the memory she called, “Come in.” Nesta smiled broadly as the person she loved more than anything else in the world came in and sat down next to her.

“You look rather flushed this morning”, Elain said with laughter in her eyes. Nesta huffed and threw her pillow at her sister. “I wanted to tell you something” Elain continued. Last night Azriel and I were walking by the Sidre and well, we kissed”. 

“What?” Nesta screeched, all thoughts of her night with Cassian immediately left her mind. “What do you mean you kissed? Who kissed who? If he came on to you unwarranted I will rip out his Illyrian heart with my bare hands.” Nesta’s eyes shone with the truth of the threat.

“No Nesta, I kissed him.” Elain said with more conviction than Nesta had heard in her sister’s voice for a good long while. Before Nesta could respond there was a knock on the door and her youngest sister and High Lady of the Night Court stormed into her room. 

Feyre flopped onto Nesta’s bed and sighed “Rhys is driving me up the wall today” she said exasperatedly like it was the most normal thing in the world for her to be lying on her sister’s bed. Nesta just stared at her incredulously.

“This might be your house Feyre, but this is my room and I would prefer if you waited for me to let you in” Nesta retorted with ire. Elain frowned at her, “Nesta, play nice or we’ll start asking you why the perfume you bought yesterday is half gone already and why there is a distinct essence of male lingering in this room.”

Feyre laughed and gave Elain a satisfied grin as Nesta’s face went beet red. Nesta huffed but turned her attention back to Elain. “Very well” she said. “Elain, continue your story. That is if you’re all right with Feyre staying. If not I will gladly throw her out the window and see how her flying lessons are coming along.”

“No” Elain said, some of her shyness returning “Feyre has known him longer than me. I could use her thoughts”.

“Him? Him who?” Feyre asked, her attention now solely on Elain. Nesta’s youngest sister had always been a busy body, but if Elain wanted her here then Nesta would have to accept it.

Elain lowered her head and said in a whisper, the complete opposite of how she had relayed this information to Nesta, “I kissed Azriel last night”.

“Wow” Feyre said incredulously. “How was it? I’ve always wondered what he does with those shadows of his when he’s…intimate”.

Elain finally looked up and giggled, relieved at the lightness of Feyre’s reaction. Nesta didn’t blame Elain for her apprehension. Feyre’s loyalties were unclear, to say the least. With her ridiculous mating bond with Rhysand and her loyalty to the Night Court, Nesta was now always unsure what information she could tell Feyre without it finding its way to that mate of hers. She had to hope that Feyre’s busy body nature would take a back seat to her loyalty to Elain in this instance.

“What should I do now?” Elain asked. “I don’t know if I want something more from him; it’s just that in that moment I needed to kiss him. He’s been so kind to me always, and since father’s death he’s been a great comfort. I never thought that I would pursue something romantic with Azriel, but he makes me feel so safe and warm. And what about Lucien? I don’t fully understand the whole mate thing, but from the look on Lucien’s face every time he sees me it seems he already thinks that we’re married. I just can’t take that right now. I was engaged. I don’t want that again. I just want to be free”.

Nesta broke her sister’s babbling with a tight embrace. “It’s going to be ok” Nesta whispered into Elain’s neck. “Don’t worry about Lucien; what do you want Elain?” Nesta asked with the tenderness she reserved just for her.

“I want” Elain said and then stopped, considering her words carefully. “I want to kiss Azriel again.”

“Well” said Feyre, “then that’s what you should do. Lucien is a good male. He won’t hold you back from what you want. He may not want to see it though. I’ll think of an assignment to send him back out of the city for a time. As long as Azriel is otherwise occupied” she continued with a wink to Elain. “We’ll need more help in the other courts anyway. Lucien will understand. The mating bond is not the be-all-end-all and you should choose who you wish to spend your time with, Elain”.

“Feyre’s right”, Nesta said almost entirely without the bite that usually came with agreeing with her youngest sister. “You need to do what’s best for you, Elain. If Azriel is who makes you happy, then I’m so glad that you’ve found him”.

“Right” Feyre said turning to face Nesta, “Now that’s settled, would you like to explain the Illyrian leathers in the corner that you forgot to shove in the closet or that welt on the side of your neck?”

Nesta raised a hand to her neck immediately. Shit. “Out” she bellowed at her sisters and they scurried away giggling, arm in arm. She would kill Cassian for that mark. She had warned him a million times not to leave a mark as his tongue and teeth expertly explored her neck. She would kill him. But at the thought of his teeth at her neck and the relief she felt at Elain finally starting to live again, Nesta couldn’t help but smile.

As she heard her sisters starting to make breakfast downstairs, her smile grew. This life was not what Nesta had wanted for herself or for her sisters, but back at their old cottage or even at the manor when they were young, the three Archeron sisters had never talked with such ease. Maybe, Nesta had to admit; this life in Prythian wasn’t all that bad. Nesta threw on her dressing gown and went downstairs to help with breakfast.