#Anti Azriel

[shadowqueenjude]

What a stupid ass take to claim Azriel gets treated badly by the fandom compared to Lucien when Azriel gets praised for doing the bare minimum with Nesta and wanting to fuck Elain

[hrizantemy]

Nesta didn’t remember leaving Amren’s apartment. One moment, Feyre’s face—ashen, broken—was twisted in something close to betrayal, and the next she was on the street, running. Her boots hit the cobblestone like war drums, her lungs burning as if the Mother herself had cursed her, and perhaps she had. Nesta didn’t care where she was going. She didn’t see the street signs or the fae who jumped out of her way; didn’t hear the distant cries of market vendors or the clang of bells from the Sidra’s docks. All she heard was Feyre’s voice—quiet, crumbling: “If I die…” And then her eyes. Bright with tears. Too bright. Feyre never cried like that.

The wind slapped Nesta’s face, clawed at her skin, as if trying to peel away the truth embedded in her bones. The boy’s Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labor, and it will kill you both.She had said it. She had spoken it out loud. She had hurled it into existence. Nesta had wanted to hurt Rhysand, yes—crack that perfect Night Court mask, pierce the smugness—but not like that. Never like that. Feyre’s baby. Her nephew. Her sister. Her stupid, hopeful, glowing sister, who had looked so proud when she said she was going to be a mother. Nesta had watched that joy crumble to dust under the weight of her words. Words she couldn’t take back. Words that had torn through that apartment like a blade.

And now they tore through her.

She stumbled down an alleyway, the scent of garbage and old rain thick in the air. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tight, and still she couldn’t stop running. As if she could outrun the truth, as if she could tear herself away from the moment when Feyre turned to Amren—not her, never her—and whispered, “You… all of you knew this?” Nesta had seen it then. The crack in Feyre’s heart. The way it shattered beneath her feet. And she had caused it.

Because she was a monster.

She collapsed behind a stone wall, her knees scraping the gravel. Her body shook. She curled in on herself like a child, forehead pressed to her hands, her breath hitching in wild sobs she couldn’t swallow down. She wanted to claw the words from her throat, rip them from her memory. But they were lodged there. Fixed. Permanent. Etched into her soul like the iron-tinged smell of death.

She should go back.

The thought pierced through the screaming chaos in her head like a shard of ice, sudden and sharp. She should go back, should face what she’d done, should fall to her knees in front of Feyre and beg. Beg for forgiveness, not just from her sister, but from the child who hadn’t even been born yet. From the boy whose wings she had named as his death sentence. Nesta didn’t know if groveling would fix anything—gods, it wouldn’t, it couldn’t—but maybe it would be something. Maybe if she crawled back to the apartment and pressed her forehead to the floor like a penitent priestess, Feyre would see that she hadn’t meant to unravel her like that. That she hadn’t meant to become every horrible thing they’d ever feared she could be. Maybe—maybe—she’d still be allowed to love the child she had cursed with her words.

But before she could move—before her legs could obey that first fractured thought of go back—she heard it. The rhythmic beat of wings slicing through the air. Not thunder. Not some beast come to devour her. Worse.

Cassian.

She looked up and saw him, his massive form descending from the clouds like a storm incarnate, those Illyrian wings that had once been her shield and shelter now nothing but a harbinger of everything she couldn’t face. His hair was tousled from the wind, his eyes already locked on hers with a look she couldn’t read from here, but didn’t want to try. He was coming for her. Coming to find her. Coming to drag her back, maybe—to yell, or to say nothing at all. And Nesta could not bear to see his face. Could not bear to see his disappointment. His disgust. His pity.

No.

The word slammed through her like lightning. No, no, no, no. Her breath hitched as terror seized her again, but it was a different kind of fear this time—not the kind that made her freeze, but the kind that made her flee. She surged to her feet before he could land, before he could touch the earth and close the distance. Her feet pounded the stones, slipping on wet leaves, nearly falling—but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not when she knew what he’d see if he looked too closely. Not when she knew the weight of the truth she’d poured into the room like poison.

She was a coward.

A coward who ran from the wreckage she caused, who couldn’t even stay to see the ruin in her sister’s face or the grief in her brother-in-law’s silence. A coward who left Amren holding a room full of broken hearts because she couldn’t stand in the ashes of her own making. And now she ran from Cassian, too—from the only person who might have still held some sliver of belief in her. She knew how fast he could fly. Knew he could catch her in a heartbeat if he really wanted to. But still she ran, stumbling down the side street, clawing her way into shadows like some feral, cornered thing.

Because it was easier to keep running than to stop and let him see the monstrous thing she had become.

Nesta didn’t know where she was going.

Her feet carried her through the twisting, uneven streets of Velaris like they belonged to someone else, darting down alleys slick with mist and crumbling with ivy, past shuttered windows and glowing streetlamps that blurred into smudges in her vision. The city was a labyrinth and she welcomed its confusion, its darkness, anything that might keep her hidden for another moment. The harbor’s salt breeze burned her throat as she sucked in air too fast, chest heaving like a hunted animal’s. She didn’t have a destination. She only knew that she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t face him.

Cassian.

She could still see his face in her mind—hovering, unreadable, his wings poised like the war general he was, like a man who knew how to face the worst. And she… she couldn’t. She had faced monsters before, horrors beneath mountains, death and power and gods. But nothing terrified her like the look she knew she’d see in his eyes when he landed. Nothing chilled her so deeply as the idea of Cassianlooking at her like she was no better than the father who had abandoned them all, like she was the kind of person who could shatter her sister’s joy and leave her bleeding in the ruins of it.

So she ran blindly, half-blinded by tears she wouldn’t allow to fall, half-aware of the ache in her legs and the sting in her lungs. She rounded another corner, stumbled through a narrow passage behind a row of bakeries, and nearly tripped over a pile of broken crates. Still, she ran—until she felt it.

Talons.

A pressure. A clawing. Not on her skin, not physical, but far more invasive. A scraping at the edges of her mind, at the crumbling, splintered shields she had barely remembered to keep in place. Not Cassian—no, he had never dared touch her like this. These talons were colder, sharper, deeper. The presence that loomed at her mental door was not just a High Lord, but a mate. And not just any mate—her sister’s mate. Rhysand.

Nesta’s body jerked mid-step, stumbling to a halt as her head throbbed with the contact, as if her very soul recoiled. He was trying to get in. Trying to see. And gods, she had given him reason now, hadn’t she? She had done what even he had not dared to do—she had told Feyre the truth. Had thrown it like a dagger into her heart. And now, Rhysand was clawing at her mental walls like the wrathful, protective beast he was, trying to rip through her silence and find the monster who had wounded his mate.

She gasped and pressed her back against a cold stone wall, slamming her shields up tighter, jagged and uneven but impenetrable in her panic. Stay out. Her mind screamed it, snarled it, Stay out, stay out,but still she felt him scratching, testing the seams, waiting for weakness.

Nesta turned her face to the night sky and squeezed her eyes shut. She had to keep running. Because if Rhys got in—if Cassian found her—if she saw what her sister’s mate wanted to do to her…

Cassian was getting closer.

She could feel it—his presence like a storm bearing down on her, a thunderhead chasing her through the alleys of Velaris. The steady beat of his wings behind her was growing louder, more defined. She knew his flight pattern, knew the way he flew with terrifying precision when he was hunting something down. And right now, she was the prey. A part of her—a broken, fractured sliver of herself—wanted to be found. Wanted to be held, maybe. Wanted him to say it was okay, that she wasn’t the monster she knew she was. But the rest of her, the part that had been made of knives since girlhood, that part knew the truth.

There was no forgiveness for what she’d done.

Nesta didn’t think. She ducked down another crooked alley, her boots slipping on the wet stone, almost going down hard before she caught herself on the wall. Her heart pounded like a war drum in her ears, drowning out the city around her—until she heard laughter. Loud, lilting. Feminine. And the smell of heavy perfume curling through the air like incense. She stumbled toward the sound, toward the warmth and the noise like a moth toward flame. There was a door, half-open. A place. Somewhere—anywhere—to hide. She didn’t look at the sign. Didn’t stop to think. She shoved the door open, staggered inside, and gasped as the door clicked shut behind her.

The laughter stopped. Silence dropped over the room like a veil. All Nesta could hear was the rasping of her own breath, the blood rushing in her ears as her knees buckled and she collapsed, crumpling onto the floor like a broken marionette. Her palms hit the hardwood, and she tasted salt and copper and shame on her tongue. The scent of perfume was thicker inside—opulent, cloying. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t care. Her body shook, her mind splintered, and she pressed her forehead to the ground as if it might make her vanish.

Then, a hand touched her shoulder.

She flinched back so hard she nearly screamed, scrambling like a cornered animal. Her voice cracked as she choked out a single word, “Please,” over and over, like a prayer. Like she could summon mercy if she said it enough. Her throat burned with the force of it. “Please—please—please.” She couldn’t look up. Couldn’t form a sentence. Couldn’t breathe past the crushing weight in her chest. Her vision blurred, and she couldn’t make out the face of whoever touched her. She just kept her eyes locked on the floor, on the worn wood panels, as her body betrayed her—trembling, sobbing, shrinking inward like a child.

And then she heard it. The beat of wings overhead—louder now. Closer.

Terror slammed into her chest like a tidal wave. He was here. He would find her, he would see her like this, see what was left of her, and she couldn’t bear it. Not now. Not like this.

But then, a voice. Feminine. Cool. Commanding. Older. Not afraid of Cassian. Not even fazed. “Get her to the back room. Now.”

Nesta didn’t look up. She felt arms—two pairs—wrap around her, gently but firmly, lifting her to her feet. She didn’t fight. She couldn’t. Her legs dangled uselessly beneath her, her head hanging low as they pulled her along. She stared at the floor, unblinking, too numb to register where they were taking her. Her body shook so violently she thought her bones might splinter from it. She couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t register if they were fae or something in between.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind them cracked in the stillness, and Nesta flinched again, her head jerking toward the noise though her eyes were still glazed with panic. The two figures who had pulled her in—faceless, shapeless to her trembling mind—moved with swift, practiced efficiency. One reached for a tall brass bottle on a side table and began spraying a fine mist into the air, thick with roses and musk and spice, while the other was pulling down rich velvet curtains, snatching up trailing silks and shawls from nearby chairs. Before Nesta could even think to speak, to ask what are you doing,she felt hands on her again—rubbing down her arms and back with oil, dabbing scent onto her pulse points, dragging cloth across her body like they were draping her in costume.

Her panic twisted into something else—confusion, alarm. Her breath hitched as one of the women, her voice surprisingly gentle, leaned in and murmured, “I know it’s uncomfortable. Please bear with it. Your scent is… strong. He’ll track it in seconds if we don’t mask it.”

Nesta blinked at her, still barely standing, still unable to find solid footing in this world that kept tilting under her feet. But the words broke through. Her scent. That was what they were doing. That was why the silks were being rubbed against her skin, why their bodies pressed lightly into hers, transferring perfume and sweat and whatever glamour they wore like armor. The other woman’s hands were in her hair now, tousling it, adding a spray of something sharper—biting and citrusy—to drown out the smell of salt and fear. Everything reeked of heat and desperation and survival.

She wanted to protest, wanted to say stop, but she couldn’t even get the word past her lips. She just stood there, half-draped in strangers, as they worked with military focus to scrub her scent off the wind. And all the while, in the back of her mind, she could still feel the echo of wings in the sky. Cassian. Rhysand. The Night Court.

They were looking for her.

And she was here, hidden behind curtains of smoke and silk and strangers’ sweat, while someone else fought to erase her like a stain from the air.

The scent was suffocating now—jasmine and rosewater and something musky beneath it, clinging to her skin like a second, foreign body. Nesta tried to breathe through her mouth, to keep from choking on the haze that curled through the room like a veil. But then—voices. Just beyond the walls. Muffled by the velvet curtains and the perfume-clouded air, but clear enough to pierce through the static in her mind.

Cassian.

His voice hit her like a slap, even before she could make out the words. That low, rough edge—the one that always carried heat and steel and loyalty. He was close. Too close. Her blood turned to ice in her veins as she realized he was just on the other side of the wall. Her legs nearly gave out again, and she gripped the edge of the table beside her as if it could anchor her in place.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Cassian’s voice said, his tone hard, clipped—his commander’s voice, the one he used on the battlefield. “She ran through here not long ago. Young. Pale. Brown-gold hair. She would’ve looked—” He paused. “—she would’ve looked like she was falling apart.”

Nesta bit down on a sob that tried to claw its way up her throat. Gods, she was falling apart. And he was still trying to find her. Even after everything. Even after what she’d done. She pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from making a sound, her whole body trembling with the effort.

In the parlor beyond the curtain, the music started up again—lute strings plucked softly, a lazy melody that curled around the conversation like smoke. The laughter followed soon after, high and light and utterly false. It was the kind of laughter meant to distract, to deflect. And then, she heard her—the older woman from before. Her voice was bone-dry, coated in centuries of disdain and apathy, and it slid into the air like a knife hidden in velvet.

“What woman?” the madam asked, her tone bored, amused even, as if Cassian had just asked after a ghost. “We see many girls, Commander. You’ll need to be more specific.”

There was a pause. A long, charged silence. Nesta could picture it—Cassian standing just beyond the door, wings half-flared, jaw tight, gaze scanning every corner of the brothel like he could will her out of hiding. He had always been relentless. Always searched until he bled for it. But now, now she didn’t want to be found. She didn’t deserve to be.

“Are you certain?” he asked, low now. Dangerous. “She would’ve looked scared.”

Another pause, then a tinkling laugh—not Nesta’s, but someone else’s, a courtesan perhaps. “Oh, Commander,” the woman said, flippant, honey-sweet. “All the girls here look scared their first time.”

The air left Nesta’s lungs in a ragged gasp. Her knees buckled, and she sank back to the floor, curling into herself behind the curtain. She wasn’t sure what broke more—her pride, or the echo of hope that had dared to flicker when she first heard his voice.

The music swelled again, a lazy lull of strings and rhythm meant to drown out truths, to glaze over danger with a veil of sensual indifference—but even that could not muffle his voice. Not now. Not when it rang so clearly, just beyond the veil of perfume and velvet, as if the walls themselves bent to let him in. Nesta didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. She clung to silence like it was armor, but her ears betrayed her—desperate to drink in every word.

“I’m not asking again,” Cassian said. His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. It was low, slow, full of barely leashed fury that cracked along the edges like lightning in a summer storm. “If you saw her—if you so much as heard her—now’s the time to speak. Because whether you like it or not, she’ll have to answer to the High Lord of the Night Court. And if she’s hiding here, if anyone is hiding her…” He paused then, and the silence was thunderous. “It would be in their best interest to come forward.”

Nesta’s stomach twisted. The words turned to rot inside her. Answer to the High Lord. Not her sister’s mate. Not Rhys. No—the High Lord. The mask was off now. There was no warmth, no family, no forgiveness in that name. Just power. Authority. Judgment. It reminded her—she hadn’t simply said something cruel. She’d committed a crime of a different kind. She had broken something sacred. Shattered it. And now she was a threat. A liability. Something that needed to be dealt with.

Footsteps echoed faintly across the floorboards. She could hear Cassian shifting, feel the weight of his gaze scanning the room again like a spotlight. Her hands dug into the floor, nails curling against the wood. She didn’t dare lift her eyes. Didn’t dare make a sound. She didn’t know if it was cowardice or shame or self-preservation anymore—maybe it was all of it, tangled up inside her like thorns.

Then, finally, a voice answered him.

It was the madam again. Bored still, but no longer amused. “You can tell your High Lord,” she said, her tone clipped like a blade being sheathed, “that we don’t take kindly to threats here. We obey the laws of this city, and no more.” The silence that followed was heavy and coiled tight, like the air before a killing blow. Nesta could feel him hesitate. Could imagine the twitch of his jaw, the flick of his wings as he weighed whether to push further or retreat. She could picture it all in vivid, horrible detail—the disbelief, the fury, the helplessness masked behind duty.

A long, ragged exhale.

Then his voice again, cold and clear and final: “If she’s here… you’ve done her no kindness by hiding her.”

A beat. Then footsteps retreating. The front door opened, and for a moment, the wind howled through the brothel like a wounded beast.

And then it slammed shut.

Nesta didn’t move. Didn’t cry. She just stared at the floor, her whole body shaking—not from fear, but from something deeper. The knowledge that this was only the beginning. That her sister’s mate—the High Lord—would not forget what she’d done. And neither would she.

As the echo of the door slamming shut faded, silence took hold again—but it didn’t last long. The tension in the air unraveled not with reverence or fear, but with breathy snickers. The two girls beside her—those who had bathed her in perfume and dressed her scent in disguise—exhaled in synchronized amusement, their laughter soft, intimate, like they were sharing a secret joke. One of them leaned against the velvet curtain, watching the now-closed door with a smirk curling her painted lips, her perfume still heavy in the air, mingling with Nesta’s breathless shame.

“He thinks he’s terrifying,” one of them murmured, low and conspiratorial, as she adjusted her bodice. “Walking in here like some god, all leather and wings and scowls. Honestly.” She gave a dramatic little shiver, grinning. “I’ve seen worse tempers from a drunk countess with a broken heel.”

The other girl snorted, draping a silk scarf over a nearby hook as though this were just another night in their endless parade of encounters. “And that line—‘she’ll answer to the High Lord of the Night Court.’” She dropped her voice to mimic his low, commanding growl, but twisted it with mocking exaggeration. “Oh no, not the High Lord,” she whispered, clutching her chest in pretend terror. “Whatever will we do?”

They laughed again, unbothered, unafraid—like the words spoken in the other room hadn’t been sharpened by fury and consequence. Like the man they mocked wasn’t capable of leveling mountains or ripping open the sky if he chose. To them, he was just another male throwing around a title, another fool with too much muscle and not enough tact. And perhaps they had seen too many like him—blustering males full of threat and pride and polished armor. Cassian, to them, was a role to be played, not a danger to be feared.

Nesta sat trembling on the floor, still unable to lift her head, still pressing her hands into the wooden slats as if they were the only things tethering her to this realm. Their laughter rattled inside her like bones, like something broken that wouldn’t stop clattering. She didn’t speak, didn’t react—she couldn’t. Because to her, Cassian wasn’t a joke. He was pain. He was love. He was the face she couldn’t bear to see when she was drowning in her own ruin. And these girls—these strangers who had shielded her out of habit or pity—were laughing at him like none of it mattered.

And maybe to them, it didn’t.

Because to them, nothing had happened at all. No life had been cracked open and spilled. No sister had been betrayed. No child had been sentenced by careless, bitter words. They didn’t know what she had done. Didn’t see the wreckage of Feyre’s face. Didn’t feel the weight of the world she had broken.

The door opened.

Light, warm and golden, filtered in through the hazy air like dawn piercing a storm. It spilled across the floorboards in a soft cascade, stretching toward her in slow, deliberate inches. And in its glow, the fog lifted. Nesta blinked hard—once, twice—her lashes wet, her breath still uneven, but her vision finally began to clear. The veil of perfume and panic receded, and the world sharpened into focus.

The first thing she saw were them—the two women who had brought her here. No longer just hands dragging her into hiding or voices dulled by her fear, they now stood bathed in light, fully revealed, as if the curtain of the world had been pulled back to show the gods who lived behind it.

They were devastatingly beautiful.

Twins. So alike it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Tall and lithe, their bodies draped in silks that clung to them like water, every movement fluid, deliberate. Hair the color of jet ink poured down their backs in perfect waves, thick and gleaming under the shifting light. Their skin was like polished moonstone—cool and luminous, kissed with a hint of gold, as though the sun itself had once touched them and decided to linger. And their eyes—gods, their eyes—were nearly inhuman. One’s irises glinted like molten copper, the other’s like pale opals, shimmering faintly with every tilt of her head. They did not look mortal. They did not even look fully fae. They looked like something older, something shaped in smoke and ritual and divine indulgence.

One of them leaned against the frame of the door now, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, expression unreadable but not unkind. Her mouth curved slightly at the corners, a cat watching a mouse that had chosen to curl rather than run. The other had moved to the center of the room, gathering the discarded scarves and shawls with the grace of someone born to be watched. Nesta’s gaze drifted over the gentle slope of her collarbone, the way her fingers moved like dancers.

They didn’t speak. Not yet. They simply watched her, unhurried, as if giving her permission to breathe, to adjust, to come back to herself at whatever pace she could endure. The laughter was gone now. The mocking. All that remained was them, standing sentinel in that soft light—like statues in a temple made of perfume and silk, unbothered by the chaos they’d drawn her from.

Nesta’s gaze drifted from the twins, from their impossible symmetry and quiet grace, and found the third figure in the room—the one she hadn’t truly looked at before. The older woman stood in the doorway like a storm that had settled into stillness, arms crossed over her chest, one brow arched with restrained impatience. She was older, yes—her age written in the fine lines around her mouth, in the steel-gray streaks woven through her ink-black hair, in the weight of her presence that filled the room more completely than the perfume or the silk or the candlelight. And yet there was no mistaking it: she was beautiful. Terrifyingly so. But her beauty was not the soft, romantic sort that faded with time. Hers was sharp-edged, sculpted from stone and ash and years of survival. A beauty that did not beg to be admired—it demanded respect.

Her eyes were the color of old smoke, fathomless and unflinching, and they locked onto Nesta with a precision that left her breathless. There was nothing soft in that gaze. Nothing pitying. Only assessment. Judgment. Perhaps even recognition of the storm trembling beneath Nesta’s skin. The woman had the bearing of someone who had ruled something once—someone who had lost everything and clawed her way back to the top without asking for permission. There was no crown on her brow, but Nesta felt like she was kneeling before a queen.

“You’d better have a very good reason,” the woman said, her voice low, calm, but humming with danger, “for making me lie to the commander of the Night Court.”

[theangryhistoriananna]

Them: Just admit you hate Azriel and-

Me: Oh yeah. Absolutely. I hate that asshole almost as much as yall seem to hate Elain and Lucien. But unlike yall I'm not about to call you racist or misogynist for something as inconsequential as a fucking character preference or ship preference. That's clown behavior.

[extremely-judgemental]

Long Post (From the Drafts)

Let’s talk about the female leads and their fancy titles. I once asked these two questions in the game we played a while back, if any of you still remember.

Who should be deposed from their position in Night Court? Morrigan: Third-in-Command or Feyre: High Lady

Who is more useless in Night court? Amren: Second-in-Command or Morrigan: Third-in-Command

These were my favourite rounds and there were some great responses which covered most of the issues with these characters and roles in length. But there are certain aspects about this topic that always bugged me and I was hoping them to be brought up. Since I’ve rarely come across any conversation regarding that, we’re gonna talk about it here.

First, let’s get the basics right. Titles alone don’t mean good leadership. Readers generally ignore the distinction between the titles and the responsibilities attached to them and so they don’t understand why these women are terrible choices to run a court.

High Lord is the absolute power in any court as magic chooses them.

Next in line is High Lady although she is treated as an equivalent to the prior in the narrative. For the sake of argument, let’s assume the same in terms of law-making and minus the magical powers.

A Second-in-Command is a title given to someone who has the skills and authority to represent the High Lord (or Lady) in their absence.

And finally, a Third-in-Command is the one to take on these responsibilities when all the above are incapacitated.

The following analysis is in the order of the level of threat each women pose to Night Court with the power they wield.

Morrigan

Morrigan holds three separate roles: Overseer of Velaris, Overseer of Hewn City, Third-in-Command to High Lord. Though the first two could be folded under the latter, these are the responsibilities explicitly stated in the books.

Besides Rhysand, Morrigan is the only one known to be skilled in diplomacy considering she is sent to Vallahan as an emissary and the first choice for negotiations with the Band of Exiles.

Since Rhysand doesn’t care for the low level maintenance of either city and Velaris survived for fifty years without him, it can be inferred Morrigan is equipped to handle these duties well. But that’s how far it goes.

As mentioned above, she has an obligation to the entire court including Illyria, not just the two cities. Instead, she uses her prejudice as an excuse to not care about that race in the slightest.

This applies to her apathy towards Hewn City as well. This makes her emotionally inept to be in this position. It’s also worth considering if her intentions will change if Keir were to be replaced lessening Morrigan’s chances of encountering him.

Her lack of interest to improve the situation in Hewn City needs to be addressed, however, her inactivity is rather preferred. When the High Lord himself ignores two thirds of his court, when he is inadequate himself, why would he appoint someone more capable in his stead?

Also, if Morrigan ever acts on her own accord and it threatens Rhysand’s control over the Darkbringers, he will put an end to it all. Which proves, despite her skills or the title, she doesn’t hold any power to make any reforms.

What Morrigan in truth is a glorified clerk for Rhysand, though she has been given the illusion of much greater power. Even her potential to make a change in Hewn City is an illusion.

In spite of all this, the worst possible outcome under her care is an uprising (which is actually a positive outcome imo). Morrigan is merely following in the footsteps of her ancestors. The court has neither improved nor imploded on itself because of her rule alone as it’s how it has been run for centuries. Night is stuck in a perpetual stagnancy which has nothing to do with her.

Amren

Going back to the basics, one of the important duties of a Second-in-Command is governing. Time and time again, Amren proves she doesn’t do well with rules or responsibilities herself. The Inner Circle is even afraid to talk about matters that doesn’t interest her.

While Morrigan doesn’t care about Hewn City, Amren doesn’t care about anybody. She is self-serving and needs to be bribed most of the times to follow through some commands. The times she does willingly is when she gains something out of it.

Though she is left behind to secure Velaris while the others attend the High Lords meeting, it’s also a tell-tale sign of her incompetence in diplomacy. The Third-in-Command, the War General, even the Spymaster attends this meeting, when Amren alone could have replaced all of them. Most of her political advice revolves around accumulating power and bloodshed.

Unlike Rhysand and Feyre, she treats the blood rubies from Summer like a rare thrill in her long, boring life. Not to mention the secret relationship with the prince of that court, who they made an enemy out of.

Amren is the worst candidate to be a Second-in-Command when she has no concern for the welfare of the people. She is prejudiced against high fae, lesser fae, mortals, all alike. It’s why her alliance during the War is strange as well. She can’t emotionally relate or emote like the others. She doesn’t care whether people live or die, least of all to care about slavery.

In the fifty years of Amarantha’s reign, I’m pretty convinced it wasn’t because of Amren that Velaris survives. Given her track record, she was probably doing her puzzles and being her bitchy self. Morrigan, Cassian, and Azriel at least have the decency to feel indebted to Rhysand to care for the city.

Amren’s loyalty doesn’t lie with a ‘home’ or even Rhysand but his current status as her protector. If he wasn’t the ‘most powerful High Lord to exist’, she wouldn’t serve him. If Rhysand had died in the War and she had survived, Amren would have pledged to the next powerful person who can offer protection to the ancient creature that escaped the Prison.

So, does she possess invaluable knowledge of rise and fall of courts for millennia? Yes.

Does she have the maturity or intelligence for politics? No.

Amren will make a good counsel or scholar for Rhysand, which she proves to be sometimes. She can even be his secret weapon.

But Second-in-Command? No.

Feyre

Where do we begin? It isn’t a secret that Feyre has no knowledge about the internal matters of the court. She never learnt how the different cities operate, what systems they are built on, or even their history except the watered down, fairy-tale version narrated by Rhysand. In his absence, Feyre would have to blindly rely on others to run the court and hope they are doing it well. And similar to Morrigan, her authority only exists as long as it doesn’t interfere with the IC’s or Rhysand’s plans.

However, being a ruler is more than maintaining internal affairs. It involves fostering external relations and Feyre has a poor track record of it. Destroys an entire court on a personal vendetta against one man with a war looming over their heads. Fantasises of taking over the said court with Illyrian army after she compromised their defences.

On top of her ability to use innocents as fodder. Exploits the trauma of civilians (Nesta and Elain) to buy favour from the courts she betrayed. Puts two untrained, defenceless women, who are clearly a liability, in the heart of a war after dragging them to a battlefield where one of them was kidnapped under their ‘care’.

All this in less than a year.

Now, here is where the title is tricky. Destroying Spring, exposing Summer (and Autumn) to an attack, desecrating Summer’s temple and stealing their sacred relic/weapon, hurting Lady of Autumn is enough to declare Night untrustworthy and Feyre an enemy.

If Feyre is just Lady of Night, she becomes a subject first and an authority figure next. For the aforementioned crimes, she can be tried and tested as an individual without incriminating the entire court.

Even though Rhysand dissociates himself from her choices every time making her the sole perpetrator, the title of High Lady insinuates Feyre is on par with the High Lords, and so every act of hers, though they are on a personal agenda, becomes a crime of Night. And if any of her victims choose to oppose her, entire court will face the consequences, mostly Hewn City and Illyria.

Feyre’s general motto is if I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. Instead of ever admitting her mistakes or even acknowledging them, Feyre returns to Velaris where she never has to witness the damage she caused to the innocent lives. While Hewn City, Illyria, the other courts in ruin are left to suffer for years to come, Feyre and the IC get to go home with their silent remorse, which again is short-lived as they have the luxury to choose to ‘celebrate life over death’.

As long as Velaris exists, the IC won’t stop Feyre. As long as Feyre has the title, she won’t care who is a collateral in her schemes. That title shields her from owning up to her mistakes as she can pacify her guilt, if she genuinely has any, with ‘it was necessary’. But without it, she will be forced to consider the consequences of her actions if she truly wants to protect herself or her own.

Simply put, all three suck, only on a different level, and they marginally supersede each other. The worst part of this analysis is I’m forced to say this: Cassian and Azriel are more valuable to the court than these three. And, their titles resonate with their work and no one else can compensate for them. Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel have some honour those years of warrior training instilled in them. However much they hate their court or reluctant to do any significant reforms, they are bound to it.

Also, Cassian has a twisted sense of pride about his heritage and Rhysand exhibits some loyalty with his act of casting wards around Velaris.

Meanwhile, these women don’t have any necessary skill set or qualifications or intentions and yet, they get to flaunt their power without ever lifting their finger to get anything done.

They hold these high ranks so Rhysand can gloat about his feminism and progressiveness. These titles are the prizes for these women for having suffered in life when none of them earned it or are worthy of it.

Moreover, Morrigan, Amren, and Feyre are self-serving through and through, not to mention their irrational rebellious streak. None of them have loyalty to anything or anyone other than their survival. The ones who are the most unreliable, the most dangerous, and most likely to betray or destroy the court inside out hold the highest power and position. It’s just plain stupidity wrapped in pretty packaging of female empowerment to fool the readers.

PS Don’t comment about how Nesta will be a better High Lady. I don’t hate her but this is a SJM character in a SJM book. If Nesta becomes a ruler, it will be based on how destructive she can be with her powers, and it will have nothing to do with people other than a generic ‘I can’t let them die’ arc. Make your own post about all that, I don't want it to be associated with this one. Istg I will crash out.

[viajandopelomar]

I'm reviewing my notes from the ACOSF PDF and Feyre really wanted Nesta to be the first to know that the baby was a boy, didn't she? "I wanted to tell you before anyone else" (my text is in Brazilian Portuguese). And Rhysand... he just told Azriel and Cassian before Feyre said he could. Her eyes didn't unfocus so she didn't tell them, and she didn't hear them talking until they laughed out loud, so they weren't listening to them either. He overrode the mother's decision as if he didn't think Nesta, as Feyre's blood sister, shouldn't know first? He overrode the baby's MOTHER's decision? Suspicious, very suspicious. That he didn't even respect Feyre in that detail. And she was already two months old, so they should have already known about the wings, so it was just another of the countless disrespects she suffered and... she doesn't care, because "it was just a little thing", right?

but a little thing here and there turns into an avalanche, and Rhsyand thought it would be okay not to tell her about the wings and the birth.

🇧🇷 Estou revisando minhas notas do PDF de ACOSF e Feyre realmente queria que Nesta fosse a primeira a saber que o bebê era um menino, não é? "Queria te contar antes de qualquer outra pessoa". E Rhysand... simplesmente contou a Azriel e Cassian antes que Feyre dissesse que ele podia. os olhos dela não desfocaram então ela não contou, e ela não ouviu eles conversarem até eles rirem alto, então eles também não estavam ouvindo elas. ele passou por cima da decisão da mãe como se ele não achasse que Nesta, como irmã de sangue de Feyre, não deveria saber primeiro? Ele passou por cima da decisão da MÃE do bebê? Suspeito, muito suspeito. Que ele nem ao menos tenha respeitado Feyre nesse detalhe. E ela já estava com dois meses, então já deveriam saber das asas, então foi só mais um dos inúmeros desrespeitos que ela sofreu e... ela não se importa, porque "foi só uma coisinha de nada" não é?

mas uma coisinha aqui e outra ali vira uma avalanche, e Rhsyand achou que estaria tudo bem não contar a ela sobre as asas e o parto.

[extremely-judgemental]

“A band of emotionally incestuous sycophants for friends?”

I know this came from the depths of your soul😂

When the Snake Eats Its Tail, an ACOTAR Oneshot

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66001180

Summary:

Feyre awakens from a nightmare, and upon checking her son's room, finds a dark and ancient relic she had one thought forgotten has returned, now keen to bestow its maddening curses upon her. The Ouroboros stands, reflecting the insidiousness that she has kept locked away back at her, and forcing her to realize just what she has become, as well as the terrible things she has done. Warning: Extremely Critical of Feyre, IC, Rhysand and NC.

Notes:

Synopsis: Feyre encounters the Ouroboros and the Bone Carver's spirit within it, who proceeds to break Feyre down and confront her about the terrible things she has done to the people of Prythian. WARNING: This is a Feyre, Night Court, Rhysand, and Inner Circle CRITICAL fanfic. DO NOT read if you are not interested in critique of these characters.

--

Chains heavy on her ankles. 

Hands pressing on her painted body, and nails tight at her throat. 

Her neck snapping like a dry twig. 

Blood and refuse coating her skin as the worm slithered about blindly.

Her life had been nothing but a dream, a soft refuge her mind had conjured up in the twisted mixture of starvation and faerie wine. She was back Under the Mountain, trapped in the dark cell with shadows swirling and whispering around her. Even her bone was still sticking out of the flesh of her arm, unhealed and unspent in the bargain that scourged her, then freed her.

Feyre screamed as loud as she could, until her lungs wilted and her throat bled. But not a single sound could be heard in the darkness, save for Amarantha’s maniacal, endless laughing.

--

Feyre shot up from her bed, night gown pasted to her back as the feminine laughter echoed in her ears. Her hands roved over her shoulders and neck, feeling for the paints or the sheer dress, and finding nothing but the moist folds of her shift.

She sighed. It had been months since she had a nightmare, but it seemed all the time she had put between then and now hadn’t banished them completely. Horrors like she had endured cut deep, it seemed.

“Feyre?”

Her ear twitched up at the sound, a hollow, raspy whisper that came from the room neighboring hers.

Nyx’s Room.

She didn’t bother with the door, winnowing inside with her hands lengthening to talons, ready to shred whatever was inside her baby’s room to pieces.

There was nothing—nobody, save for the boy quietly sleeping in his crib, his mobile of ivory stars gently spinning above him. Feyre cast her stare across the room, flickering back and forth between it and the reflection in the large mirror of the armoire at the room’s side. Nothing seemed out of place, and there were no tracks, scents, or other tells of somebody infesting into his room, but Feyre Archeron knew better than to go by initial sight alone.

She quietly searched through the room, checking every nook and cranny she could conceive as a hiding spot: behind the door, in the closet, under the crib itself. She even pulled the larger drawers open, just in case a small, clever fae decided to nestle in there thinking she wouldn’t look.

But they were all empty, not a single thing out of place save for what she moved during her hunt. Nyx stirred in his sleep, and she glanced over to watch him over the crib, the demi-Illyrian grasping at his blanket to nestle in.

Feyre sighed, reaching down and brushing the boy’s hair out of his face before laying a small kiss on his forehead.

“Feyre?”

The High Lady of Night wheeled back to face the source of the voice, her back having been to the armoire. Only, it was no longer made of the sleek umber-wood that it had originally been. Its surface was now gilded, made of an rustic, ancient metal that mimicked the ripple of scales, its tree-stump-like legs now replaced with coiling messes of serpent tails. And at its head, the mirror had become bold and circular, ordained in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail.

The Ouroboros.

Feyre’s breathing grew harried, pausing only as her eyes slowly hovered to the space at her side, at the reflection of Nyx standing up right in his crib, pale-blue eyes wide open.

He was smiling.

“Hello, Feyre.” The false Nyx said, his voice too old for his body, and vaguely familiar. She kept her eyes on the creature, but let her peripherals turn slightly to the real Nyx; he was still sleeping, breaths slow and measured. Utterly undisturbed.

“Who are you?” She demanded, turning back to the vision before her. The false Nyx took a deep breath, vestigial wings stretching wide as he did so. “Is this another dream?”

“Not exactly, Feyre Cursebreaker.”

“Bone Carver?”

“I’m glad you remember the sound of my voice.” Feyre shook her head at his words, wiping the sweat beginning to dot her head.

“Is this a trick? Tamlin or Beron or Hybern casting some spell on me?”

The false Nyx laughed, his voice changing to that of the Bone Carver’s adult form, “The High Lord of Spring lacks the time, skill, or motivation. And I’m sure the High Lord of Autumn would just see you burned to a crisp. He lacks imagination after all.”

“So Hybern then? Out for revenge?” She stepped back towards her son, but kept her eyes locked on the vision in the mirror. “I swear to the Mother, if you did anything to Nyx, I’ll—”

“No need for threats, High Lady of the Night. The powers of the dreaming world are largely harmless…to the physical body at least. As for the mind, well…” The Bone Carver sucked on his teeth. “Your son is safe, for now. No. I’m here for you.”

“For me?” Feyre repeated, eyes narrowing at the growing, unnatural smile on her son’s reflection. “But…you’re dead.”

The Carver shrugged. “In a way. Dying as a death god can have some interesting consequences.” He gestured up and around to the Ouroboros’ rim, “Especially when this vessel is the last thing to grace my presence before the Cauldron swallowed me whole.”

Feyre swallowed. “Why are you here then?”

“Oh, I’ll always be here Feyre, forever tasked with reminding you of what you saw in my reflection.” The image shimmered, as if the great, eldritch mirror were laughing at her. “An eternity of adding context and introspection, even if you are incapable or unwilling to do it yourself.” Feyre snorted at that.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The Madness, Feyre, darling.” Rhys’ voice slithered into the last two words, and she watched as the false Nyx molded into a mass of black, writhing shadow, an echo of her husband emerging from the formlessness. “The picking apart of what you are, who you are, and the many terrible things you’ve done, all without any of your self-serving justifications or foolish excuses to hide behind.”

Feyre’s hands balled into fists, marching until she was less than a foot away from the mirror. “This is ridiculous. I saved Prythian, twice! I’m the High Lady of the Night Court, I finally have my happiness, and I will not let you ruin this.” The false Rhys chuckled at her imperiousness, his violet eyes caught in a sea of black sclera. “Rhys will find you in here, and even if you’re in my mind or some curse or whatever else, he will shred you right out if I can’t do it myself.” The Carver laughed so loudly, she worried it might awaken Nyx.

“If only your dear High Lord had a modicum of his original power.” 

Feyre felt an icy knife slip into her heart at that. “What?”

“Did you really believe that his life was the only price he paid for sealing the Cauldron’s break?” The false Rhys marched towards her in the reflection, and leaned right against her ear to whisper. Even with no one really there, she felt the heat of his breath tickle her neck, “There are so many things dear Rhys haven’t told you, Feyre Darling. But Rhys’ problems are far from my purview.”

Feyre felt a clawed hand grab her chin and spin her around, the whole room vanishing to reveal an expanse of forest. She knew it instantly, not just from the fresh air of spring or the veils of greenery, but from the vision of two familiar fey before her.

Lucien chained down to a pair of trees—Ianthe skating her hands over his exposed chest and navel, inches from cupping him before Feyre had interrupted her attempt to assault him.

“Oof, remember this?” The Carver drawled, “A freshly mated male? A priestess hungry for power and purpose? Don’t they make a cute couple.” Feyre’s lip curled at the sight, eyes plastered to the hand that Ianthe was reaching for Lucien’s length with, and how she had made her smash it to bits just seconds after.

“Why are you showing me this?” she asked, “I stopped it. I saved him.”

“Indeed you did, but only because of how it reminded you of…hmm, what was it?” The vision washed away like water on paint, revealing a dark bed chamber and yet another pair of fey engaged in a salacious, horrid entanglement. “Ah yes, that, but stretched along fifty years of torment.”

Feyre glanced back to see Amarantha, mounting and riding Rhysand—her Rhysand, with a feral vigor. Her nails were clawing into his chest, and while his face bore the mask of pleasure, his smile didn’t reach his eyes, and she knew the truth.

“I wonder,” she heard the Carver muse in her mind, “If Rhys hadn’t told you of his own suffering, would you have even given it a second thought? Would you have left the first friend you made in these lands to be ravaged and used by her?”

“But I didn’t,” she argued, “It doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters is what I did.”

“I couldn’t agree more! Let’s see what else it is that you have done?” The bedchamber peeled back, revealing high castles, a blue sky, and the warm, steady breve of summer over her skin.

“Ah, Summer—lovely at all times of the year, especially with a fresh-faced forward-thinking High Lord to push it further into prosperity.” Feyre watched herself walking and speaking with Tarquin, heart cringing at the joy on the High Lord’s face, beaming at her false genuineness. “Your seduction worked so well, almost to the point that you believed it yourself. A budding friendship—maybe even a possible lifeline that wasn’t tied to your precious mate—squandered because you and your court refuse to trust anyone with the responsibility of…’safeguarding’ Prythian.”

“I did what I had too,” Feyre countered. “If Tarquin said no, we would have risked losing the Book to Hybern.”

“You did what the Night Court told you to do.” The Carver replied, now back in Rhys’s shadowy form and pacing a circle around her, “Acted as the perfect little spy, when you could have built a true trust, maybe some allies. And it seems you completely ignored the fact that Hybern never would have sniffed out the book had it not left Summer’s lands. Also didn’t your puppy dog general destroy an entire building? How charming. How lovable.”

Feyre’s glance darted from Rhys to Tarquin then back to Rhys, only to find that Cassian now stood in his place.

“He’s in love with you, you know,” The false Cassian offered, pointing to himself, “And Rhysand as well. I wonder how long that’s going to go unaddressed, and how long your poor sister is going to have to deal with the fallout?” “I imagine that when he squints, he can imagine it's you that he’s with. Should have taken his offer for the steam room when you had the chance. Maybe you could have had all three bats at once.” Feyre hated that she blushed at his words, as if doing so was admitting truth to them. She hadn’t been blind to how the narrative of ‘three sisters and three brothers’ was unfolding before her, and she knew that while Cassian and Nesta were mates, she wasn’t Mor, and she wasn’t Feyre.

“It’s complicated.” It was all she could say, the Carver nodding in agreement.

“Oh I bet. Between that blonde using him as a meat shield against dear Azriel, and Rhys refusing to let your sister be courted by him, I imagine it can get very…sticky.” Feyre blinked, cocking her head to the side as the Carver smirked. “Remember what I said, about there being things Rhys hasn’t told you? I suppose he wants to avoid that same political fallout that ended with a nail and sign driven through Morrigan’s navel? In this case, I foresee it ending with either Lucien or Azriel losing their heads, when Lucien calls for the Blood Duel, of course.”

“Blood Duel?” Feyre asked, the Carver practically snorting as he shifted from Cassian’s shape to Azriel’s, the jovialness of his face twisted and unnatural.

“It baffles me how much the High Lady of the Night Court doesn’t know about what the Night Court is actually doing. The Autumn Court has a tradition known as the Blood Duel, where if their mate is being courted by another, they can call for ritual combat to press their claim. The two fight, and one walks away.” Feyre shook her head.

“Elain would never forgive Lucien for that, and even if they fought, Azriel—”

“Would what? Chain him up and gut him like he does with all of Rhys’ prisoners?” The false Azriel tsked at that. “Azriel is a spy—a shadow—more used to taking knives to bound, defenseless prisoners than he is in the field. Lucien survived the trek to the Night Court from Spring right alongside you, and he went out to rescue the queen and bring your father’s armada.” The Carver shook his head, “Your nepotism is showing, High Lady. As for your sister’s forgiveness, I suppose then maybe she should choose to accept or reject the bond, sooner rather than later.”

“I’ve had enough.” Feyre demanded, standing inches from the false Azriel, “End this and send me back, now.”

“Oh, but we’re just getting to the good part—” Feyre’s hand shifted to talons and slashed across the false Azriel’s face, eyes focused on the blood dripping onto the floor as the world around her changed once again. The Carver rose back up, dropping Azriel’s visage in favor of an older one, one with auburn skin formed of bark and bushels of green hair, a black dress covered in muck and dirt.

“How very apt,” the vision of Alis said, Feyre’s claws cutting three lines across the face of her wooden skin. Just then, screams ripped into Feyre’s ears, and she turned to see a forest in flames, soldiers marching through with spears, fey scattering off with the forces in pursuit to capture, oppress, or kill them.

“What is this?” Feyre asked, her other hand shifting to complete the pair of claws she bore.

“Don’t you recognize it, Feyre?” The false Alis said, “It’s the Spring Court, just as you left it.” Feyre shot a finger at the Carver.

“No. No! You do not pin this on me. This is...”

“The fallout of your petty revenge. Thousands of lives, all to hurt one male who loved you oh so dearly. And you hurt him very much, I will say that. Broken beyond repair I should say.” Feyre ground her teeth, straining under every second of this spectral, posthumous, discernment

“I…I didn’t know Tamlin was aligning with Hybern to be a spy. He never told me. He never told me anything.” 

“Ah yes, thousands of dead fae all because of a little miscommunication, which by the way, could have easily been solved by some of those dear Daemati powers your mate gifted you.” The Carver snickered. “Have you ever been there to see your handiwork?” Feyre remained silent. “Of course not, you’ve seem to have adopted Rhysand’s penchant for ignoring the fallout of his incompetence. But in your case, it was malignance rather than incompetence.”

“I wrote Tamlin to not come after me. I warned him.” The Carver’s smile died instantly, genuine annoyance slithering onto his brow.

“Yes, you did write a stupid little letter, and loyal sentries and little spring children burned because of it. You were so swept up in your little affair, that you forgot to tell Tamlin you learned to read and write.” The Carver practically spat out his words. “Perhaps if he knew, your letter would have been taken more seriously. Or perhaps he couldn’t get over the fact that your mate has a tendency to play with minds like clay. You really didn’t think of that, did you? Just thought the fae who loved you and watched you die would let you freely fall into her jaws of the night.”

“It was my choice! Tamlin should have respected it!” Alis’ form was ripped in two by a pair of ivory claws, the visage of Tamlin bursting through her fading halves and marching towards Feyre.

“Ah yes, a choice to run to where it was safe! To where little Feyre Cursebreaker could do no wrong, and let me spiral further into madness!” Feyre felt a tree pound against her back, the false Tamlin an inch away from her. Fear sent her heart aflutter, but she ground her talons into the bark’s surface.

“His trauma was not my responsibility,” she hissed.

“By that logic, yours wasn’t his burden to bear either, yet you hung it on him like a noose and burned his home down for failing you.” Feyre felt her nerve waver at the sight of those green eyes on her, rueful and full of disdain. “And yet even after all that, the High Lord of Spring was decent enough to give you your mate back, to allow you to even have the hopes of bearing your previous son in the first place. Even then, your dear husband torments him endlessly.” The false Tamlin turned away from her. “All the happiness in the world, and dear Rhysand just can’t let his past with Tamlin go.”

Feyre hissed out breath, claws shrinking back. “What is the point of all this? To make me feel bad for what happened? I gave my life to save Prythian, as did Rhys.” Tamlin’s form melted, and the Carver’s adult form shifted into place.

“No, no. You gave your life to save Tamlin and the Spring Court. Amarantha was the one who threw in the rest out of arrogance, and everything beyond that just fell onto your lap. What about your sisters’ sacrifice—having their humanity flayed off of them like skin? Or my sister’s sacrifice? Or my sacrifice!?”

Silence hung in the air as the two stared at each other, Feyre only breaking away when she noticed herself seated across from her sister, Rhys at her side along with the rest of the Inner Circle. Nesta bore dark circles and was unhealthily thin, and Feyre knew she was staring at the day of the intervention.

“I guess we should bring up your own sisters while we’re at it, like dear Nesta. You all harped on her for a little drinking, a little gambling, a little sex.” That dark humor returned to the Carver’s voice, his form shifting back to Cassian, “Aren’t those your Court’s normal recreational activities?”

“She was spending—”

“Oh spare me the expense talk, Feyre,” the Carver cut off, “We both know you’re better than that flimsy excuse Rhys crammed into your head. Besides I seem to recall him promising a little compensation for her efforts in the war. It was the least he could do, given the lost fortune dear old daddy left behind after he got his neck broken.”

“You shut your mouth,” Feyre growled, “Don’t you talk about my father.”

“Let’s stay on topic then.” The false Cassian pointed a finger at her, “You locked her up in a tower with a fae she wanted nothing to do with, and remind me, who destroyed an entire court because someone tried to do the same thing to them?”

“That was not the same! Tamlin wanted to lock me up and keep me a prisoner! She could leave any time she wanted.” The Carver laughed, his hand raking over his face.

“Yes, after climbing 10,000 steps. As easy as walking right out the door. Between that, the grueling training, the hike, and everything else, you all battered her down until she bent and broke to your Court’s demands. The training, the scrying—”

“She volunteered for that!” The false Cassian faded, shrinking into the small, doe-eyed form of Elain.

“Because you threw me in her face, and you all know she would do anything to avoid putting me at risk.” A muscle ticked in Feyre’s jaw at that, especially with her sister’s voice being the one to speak it. “I bet that burned you up even more, how hard Nesta fights for her while letting you twist in the wind.” Feyre went to speak, but the false Elain shot a hand up to stop her, “And before you go on about how the Training aided her in finding the Trove and surviving the Blood Rite, do not insult the Trove by implying that a few Illyrian drills was what gave her the strength to wield them. Her dip in the cauldron is what made her capable of commanding the Trove, that and her…illustrious willpower.” Elain’s hand gestured to a still image of Nesta and Cassian arguing—a frequent occurrence in the Night Court in recent months. “But, I suppose there’s nothing like thrusting a sword in her hands to make her relate to that oaf.”

“They’re mates,” Feyre countered, the Carver scoffing as if what she had said meant anything.

“So are Elain and dear old Lucien, and yet there she stands, unbothered by you to tug on that chain. So many choices for Elain, and so little for Nesta.” Feyre’s false sister shook her head. “Why not just admit it, that this was punishment? For all those unchopped logs of wood, all the barbs and spats, the constant draining of what little money you bought in from your hunts.” The Carver rolled its eyes, “I thought you had embraced your dark, feral side. Your spite burned the Spring Court to the ground, I suppose Nesta is lucky you didn’t do worse to her, as High Lady of the Night Court.”

Rhys’ voice slithered back into the Carver’s tone, as did his shape, hands behind his back as he gazed down at the baby in its crib. They were back in Nyx’s room, and Feyre felt her hands shaking at the storm of thoughts he had rained down upon her.

“There’s so much more I can get into, but the great thing about the curse of the Ouroboros, is that it lasts an eternity, and it never likes giving everything away in the first round.” The false Rhys covered the stirring Nyx with a blanket, clawed hand drumming over the edge of the crib. “You should expect more nights like this, Feyre, and maybe in time you’ll come to be thankful.” He turned to face her, “Your experience with the Ouroboros might be the only reason why you still have the capability of having an original thought, instead of all those guided by your mate’s hand.”

“Shut. Up.” She felt a monster skulking underneath her skin, the same one she had seen when she first looked into the Ouroboros—a feral, unearthly beast of scales, teeth, and claws. It took everything within her not to change, not to become monstrous in front of her son and awaken him. But the false Rhysand just kept right on.

“A band of emotionally incestuous sycophants for friends? Spitting on all clipped Illyrian females every time you don their wings you didn’t earn? Burdened never to travel and see the world now that you’ve saddled yourself with the responsibility of a son?” Feyre glanced down to herself, and saw her shift had been snatched away and replaced with that old, gauzy dress from her days Under the Mountain. She even felt a twinge of pain in her arm where it had been broken, and where her pact had inked itself upon her skin. “Truthfully,” the Carver continued, “Is this the life you wanted? Or is it that of your High Lord? A little play thing to show off to his friends, dance for him when he wants to play villain. I can’t wait to crack all those little pieces of you wide open so you can remember that they’re there.”

Feyre didn’t know when the tears stung their way out, but they were cooling the skin of her cheeks as she replied, “Please. Stop.”

“I can’t stop, Feyre. This is what the Ouroboros does. I tell you truths you don’t want to hear, show you the ugliness beneath the pathetic veneer of mating bonds and false brotherhoods and broken little families. You chose to look into the mirror, but your looking doesn’t end when you turn away. It’ll remain every time you close your eyes, everytime you fear for your son’s life, imagine him in the dangers you had thrust upon others.” The Carver’s finger lifted her chin, forcing her glistening eyes to meet his. “The magic of Prythian did not choose you, High Lady. The title is a consolation prize at best. You’re nothing more than a crowned, docile little broodmare,” he turned into Tamlin, “Something you once said you would never be. I guess Amarantha was right about your inconstant heart.”

Feyre scrambled away, but a harsh grip and a thundering pain drew her back. She glanced at her arm, and saw Rhys’ hand clamped around the bone that stuck out of it, feeling the oily smears of paint caking the length of her body. His eyes were slitted, a poisonous, dark violet that crept into her soul.

“Bonded to a daemati male who is unable to distinguish between what’s real and what’s a mask, all while being unwilling to deal with the consequences of both.” He scoffed. “I really am pathetic aren’t I? You know, I didn’t feel an ounce of remorse for this until I found out you were my mate. Content to just keep on tormenting you for as long as he could, just to hurt dear old Tamlin.” The Carver dragged her close, his other hand pressing into Feyre’s now swollen, pregnant belly. “He didn’t even tell you of the danger to your life, of how your own son would kill you. Didn’t even give you a chance to take the risk of shifting. And you forgave him so quickly. Are you that afraid of defying him, or having any semblance of discomfort in your marriage?”

“No…” she whispered, her will to fight and push past his words wilting more and more by the second.

“I suppose it’s understandable. He can hear your every thought, control your every whim, bend you in any way he wants, and you would never know.”

“He taught me how to shield…”

“And thus he knows exactly how to get past them. Don’t be fucking naive, Feyre. You didn’t carry your family on your back by being such.” The Carver shook his head, melancholy filled into his eyes, “Your affection for him runs so deep. You forgave him for making a spectacle of you Under the Mountain, for nearly feeding you to my sister to prove yourself worthy of being his mate. You even forgave him for keeping the secret of Nyx’s strenuous birth quite quickly, and even then, it was your sister who righted that wrong, and saved your life when he couldn’t.” The Carver took her hand and traced the lines of her tattoo, “The Night Court is the only destiny he will let you have. Otherwise, you have no friends, you have no allies, and you have no future.”

A sob broke from her, and the Carver let the false images fade in full, returning to Nyx’s bedroom as Feyre’s silent crying echoed within it.

“I know my tone may suggest otherwise, but you aren’t weak, Feyre Cursebreaker. What you are, is blind and shackled—fallen so deep in the quicksand of the Night Court, even I don’t know if you can find a way out. Your struggle caused you to clamp down on the first semblance of comfort and protection you could find, and you’ve been bouncing from one to the next ever since.” The Carver guided her slowly to Nyx’s crib, a clawed hand pressing softly against her back. “If you want a chance at any form of autonomy, then you fight for it, before your sisters are drawn into the same pit. Nesta’s already drowning. How soon before Elain follows behind?”

“They can be happy here,” she managed to get out, “I know they can. They just…they have to find it like I did.”

“They’ll never find it. Not if you don���t let them search for it like you did for yourself.” Feyre turned, looking down at her son with an agony gripping her heart. The Carver joined her, eyes over her shoulder as he resumed dawning his adult form. “Until you face these things, Feyre—your wrongs, your hatred, your resentment, the Ouroboros will keep on tormenting you with it. Its curse is to be shown your truest, ugliest self, and it is only by laying yourself bare—by choosing to acknowledge and better the ugliness, that you’ll have any hope of surviving its curse long enough to see him grow up.”

Feyre learned down and picked Nyx up, the boy stirring in her arms as she held him close. Silent tears continued to fall as she nuzzled into him, his soft breathing the only comfort she could hope to find under the scrutiny of the Bone Carver’s specter.

“Even then, for his sake, I hope he’s nothing like this father, nor is he as gullible or desperate for peace as you.”

Feyre felt the presence leave the room, glancing back to see the visage of the Ouroboros gone, rocking her son back and forth as the Carver’s many words settled like a sheet of ice over her heart.

--

NOTES:

Thank you so much for reading! I made this because I hated how overstated and underwhelming the curse and encounter with the Ouroboros was in ACOWAR, and wanted to show how it had a lasting, encroaching effect on Feyre via a slow introduction of insanity and madness. Instead of just showing her some monstrous form one time, it'll show it to her the rest of her life. I also wanted to use it as a vehicle to force Feyre to have some form of reflection on her actions and how it cost the lives and livelihoods of other people, in a way that ACOTAR's narrative refuses too.

Please give it a like on AO3 as well :)

[vanserras4u]

Hello! We - me,eluciensversion,_lady_autumn__- are happy to show you our commission with the most amazing and heartbreaking family! Firstly, we want to thank @lucychanart for creating this amazing piece with Helion,Lucien,and Eris as a fun family portrait, I couldn't have imagined it any better, like I said . There are very few fanarts with Eris and Lucien,and none with Helion and them together, so we had this idea where all them 3 are together 🙏🏻🤎🤎 And of course I want to thank my girls Madeline and Bria for the cooperation ,I can't express how happy I am working with you two 🥹🥹!! HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY to you,Madeline. I wish you the best!!! 🥰✨️

Bria: Happy Birthday to one of my favorite people. @eluciensversion!!!!

We love you!!!

If Helion, Eris, and Lucien had a fourth in their circle, it’d be you Madeline you are charming, fiery, and loyal in all the best ways. Hope your day is as magical as this art @cupofkaveh drew for us 😌

Thank you again, @lucychanart, for making this gorgeous piece for us 💛 always so talented!!!

~

DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION ⚠️

Artist: @lucychanart

COMMISIONERS: @vanserras4u @eluciensversion @_lady__autumn_

Characters belong to Sarah J Maas and Bloomsburypublishing

[ladydeath-vanserra]

ALSO THE SAME GUYS WHO LET WOMEN IN ILLYRIA AND THE HEWN CITY ROT?????

[lady-selenee]

Why are so many people hating on Jurian? What did he do that was so bad?

He killed a woman who owned slaves? Given that Rhysand and the inner circle also fought in that war, I'd say they've done the same. AND THAT WOMAN OWNED (AND PROBABLY KILLED AND TORTURED) HUMANS.

He tortured her? Guess what? Azriel's job is to torture people, and most of the readers don't hate him.

He pretended to work with Hybern? Didn't Rhysand pretend to be loyal to Amarantha?

Jurian fought (and died) to free humans from slavery. He probably has statues built around the mortal kingdoms! So why so many people don't also hate the inner circle for doing the same things, but only Jurian?

[roxan1930]

Kinda tempted to writ a what-if fic where in Silver Flames, when Nesta is given the "choice" to either get locked up in the HoW or being send to the human lands with the expectation to die there, she actually chooses the human lands, saying death would be better than surrounded by obnoxious hypocritical narcisists.

Feyre and Cassian would right away try to backtrack and just want to forced her to the HoW, only for Rhysand to be, "done" and just winnow her to the border and leave.

Back at the NC Feyre and Cassian would be pissed but Rhys just tells them he'll have eyes (not Azriel(he doesn't and hopes she'll just die and plans to pretend the pragnancy made him forget, even while also lying to Feyre about that)) on Nesta, along with some more manipulation and gaslighting till they just give in.

Nesta meanwhile tries to avoid being seen, but soon get's discovered and has to run from a mob, only to get saved by Lucien and Jurian.

They take her back to their manor where she's just in time to see Vassa transform from bird to woman.

She explains what happened and the BoE is disgusted with Feysand and their groupies and offer Nesta to stay with them and she accepts.

Slowly she gets better as she's treated by respect by the BoE and becomes friends with every member in some way (meeting sassy Lucien, mocking spoiled human lordling sons and daughters they grew up surrounded by with Vassa and talking about SMUT books, training with Jurian on her OWN CHOICE after watching him a few times and being offered to join, and all of them just being sarcastic and teasing each other.

They'd also discuss and ask her opinion on political matters( since, like many say, she was right away more suited and courtier than warrior)

When The IC finds out, first Cassian tries to get her back, only to be denied by Nesta and when he doesn't listen to her, get's send away by BoE.

He keeps coming around but keeps getting send away and Azriel starts spying and constantly reports moments where Nesta's happy and Cassian feels jealous of Lucien and Jurian, Feyre of Vassa for being sister-like with Nesta, and Elain of Vassa and also Nesta for being close to her mate.

Maybe have Eris coming over more often too and flirt with Nesta who flirts back, making Cassian worse.

At some point, Cassian get's told by Lucien he's a worthless matee who doesn't care about Nesta and will always easily put the IC over her, and Nesta confirms that while she likes (or liked?) him, he's not what she needs until he actually changes

She also, since she doesn't need to rely on the NC for protection, tears into Feyre for her I-always-did-everything-while-my-sisters-did-nothing attitude, mentioning all kinds of things she did that Feyre ignored and how she's become a selfish obnoxious hypocrite that flaunts money and laughs at those less fortunate.

Also at Elain for always sitting on her ass and being useless and trying to act like the victim after always having Nesta take care of her and protect her, yet turning her back on her as soon as she needed Elain to take care of her for once. Maybe also tear into her for being a bitch to Lucien and saying he deserves better than her.

In the end ereryone does get better but I don't know how yet.

[lainalit]

Azriel calling Elain beautiful once he has his cock in her

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Lucien calling Elain beautiful for just standing before him

[witheverynesta]

Feyre "I came back from the SC and instead of checking on my recently turned fae sisters, I went to fuck my husband" Archeron.

Feyre "I forgive my sister but if my family was talking shit about her I wouldn't do anything (except halfheartedly tell them to stop)" Archeron.

Feyre "I lock my depressed sister up in a house with open windows where she can potentially kill herself instead of trying to help properly" Archeron.

Feyre "I lock my sister in said house with a creepy guy despite my sister saying multiple times she didn't want to be near him" Archeron.

Feyre "I'm so nice to everyone until I became High Lady and let the power get to my thick head and started looking down on everyone including my first ever friend" Archeron.

Feyre "I think of myself so highly that I can't help but meddle in other people's business and spend my free time matching people up depending on the aesthetic" Archeron.

[hrizantemy]

https://www.tumblr.com/hrizantemy/781951347201392640/i-said-to-tamlin-my-back-ramrod-straight-you

Hi! Excellent new chapters! About this post, after revisiting the passage, we need to examine the language Feyre used with Tamlin’s. The words language was not only abusive but TRIGGERING. We don’t know what happened under the mountain but we are not obtuse enough to think that Tamlin was not abused in some way. The physical reaction to the words that she used lets me know that at some part of her mind she registered that these words: “whored” “ on my knees” etc, all sexual in nature, was the right words to use to trigger Tamlin because she picked up on the fact that Tamlin was SA’d by Amarantha. The response at these in my mind wasn’t an anger response but a Trauma response. Feyre weaponized a trauma response from Tamlin, in the same way someone who would hurt Rhysand, who we know from canon is a SA’d survivor as well. There is something chilling about this that DJM needs to answer to.

Nads

This is chilling not just because of what it says about Feyre in that moment, but because the narrative frames her as justified. The fandom celebrates her for standing up to Tamlin, while glossing over the language used as though it was righteous and empowering. But survivors don’t get to weaponize someone else’s survival. That’s not power. That’s abuse.

You don’t even have to imagine if the roles were reversed because they were when Beron was speaking at the High Lords meeting. And the fandom was rightfully horrified. There was posts, essays, think-pieces, fanart, and fanfic parsing that scene for years. Because we accept Rhys as a survivor. We accept his pain as real, valid, and untouchable. But Tamlin? The moment he became the “villain,” that empathy was revoked. And that tells us a lot about who fandom thinks is allowed to be traumatized.

There is a glaring hypocrisy here—and it’s a dangerous one. Tamlin is a victim. Maybe not one we like. Maybe not one who reacted “well.” But victimhood doesn’t come with a moral test. Trauma doesn’t only belong to the redeemed. And survivors don’t stop being survivors just because they made mistakes or hurt others. What Feyre did wasn’t just a low blow. It was an act of psychological violence, and it was directed violence—made all the more terrifying by the fact that no one in canon or fandom seems to want to acknowledge it.

This moment demands accountability—not just from Feyre as a character, but from SJM as a writer. There is no commentary, no reflection, no consequence. The narrative turns away from the discomfort it creates and focuses instead on Feyre’s pain. But we are not obtuse. So yes, SJM has something to answer to. If ACOTAR wants to explore themes of trauma, healing, and agency—if it wants to be a story about broken people finding new ways to survive—it can’t do so while erasing one survivor’s story to uplift another’s. It can’t selectively assign empathy.

It can’t allow sexual violence to become a tool of empowerment for one woman and a joke or character flaw for another man.

[theangryhistoriananna]

For Azriel, Elain is just something to soothe his bruised ego. Part of the thrill of having her is that he sees her as a prize he should have been handed.

And his negative thoughts about their interactions are born out of jealousy and bitterness over another male (Lucien) and not out of legitimate adoration and affection for her.

For Lucien, Elain isn’t a prize. She isn’t someone he should have been given. Lucien thinks first and foremost of her well being, and does everything in accordance to what she needs, fighting his natural instincts, respecting boundaries and doing what he can to do right by her.

[extremely-judgemental]

Feyre: What's going on with Azriel, Cassian, and Mor? Rhysand: We don't meddle 🙂

Feyre: Can we break up Lucien and Elain? Cauldron could be wrong. Rhysand: We don't meddle 🙂

Feyre: But Azriel and Elain would be so good for aesthetics! Rhysand: We don't meddle 🙂

Feyre: Lucien is Helion's son! Rhysand: We don't meddle 🙂

Nesta: *lives alone, drinks, fucks around* Feyre: Maybe we should leave her alone. Rhysand: EVERYBODY LINE UP. Here's your token.

[wingsdippedingold]

I’m gonna need y’all to stop putting so much slander on this man’s name 😭

We can argue about him being a bad partner or potentially abusive due to his lack of control, that’s fine. But this man was never creepy? 😭

He was never made to be offputting, he was supposed to be the fairytale prince that actually has his own issues and isn’t perfect for the fmc. Feyre felt panicked and overwhelmed in the SC, yes, but it wasn’t a product of Tamlin being a creep.

His defining traits are loving his people and playing the fiddle. This man is severely depressed, but he’s not creepy??? Like you can say you wouldn’t want to be in a room with him, but I don’t think he’d ever prey on women or push himself onto them when they don’t reciprocate? (We have Cassian for that)

Like you know who was creepy? Rhysand when he forced a young girl to get drunk and dance nearly naked, or when he fondled her in public. Cassian when he forced himself into Nesta’s life despite her not wanting anything to do with him, and having sec with her despite their inherent power dynamic of “trainer” and “patient”. Azriel when he doesn’t think about a woman beyond jerking it and feels like he deserves her just to fulfill some weird symmetric couple thing.

Idk why people love shoving every bad trait onto Tamlin, but he is a pretty established character, so you can like him or not, but some of these opinions just don’t make sense.